Progress report

 I've never considered myself a perfectionist.  To me, a perfectionist would be neat and orderly, be reluctant to turn in a report until it was "perfect," and not procrastinate.  None of those are characteristics I possess. I am not very neat, I am happy to say something is "good enough," and I love to avoid doing things.  So when I'm told that I have a tendency to be a little hard on myself, I find it hard to believe. But, what those critics are pointing out is my tendency to hold myself to high standards and high expectations. I often feel like I'm not doing my job very well, or that, at least, I should be doing it better.  It is in the realm of emotions and expectations that I expect perfection--I shouldn't feel discouraged (or mad or frustrated or overwhelmed.)  I shouldn't make mistakes.  It is a tendency I've worked years to moderate, and, trust me, I'm much better than I was.

I was very lucky this week to have lunch with my old graduate school advisor.  I finished my degree nearly 30 years ago, but we continue to stay in touch and try to meet up once a year at our professional society meeting.  Our conversation was wide ranging, but much time was spent on my experiences as a dean and the problems I've faced.  He asked if I got any feedback from others and I said, yes, people seemed happy with my performance, but I wasn't.  He, astutely, noted that perhaps I should consider others to be more objective in their evaluations than I could be. Somehow, coming from him, it rang more true.  I should trust the opinions of those I respect.

Even more importantly, though, was his observation that sometimes not losing ground is actually progress.  Such a concept is a cornerstone of 12 step programs--one day at a time. A day of sobriety is a success.  In times of struggle, maintaining a foothold is a success.  It is a reassuring message, that progress won't always be forward.  Some days just standing still is worthy of praise.

Yet, a quick search of "standing still" on Google will find admonitions that standing still is going backwards (Lauren Bacall), that "when you stop moving, you're done." (Georges St. Pierre),  "be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still" (Chinese proverb).

Maybe, every now and then, we need to stand still in order to grow.  Maybe, now and then, being able to hold your ground is an accomplishment.  Today, I'm glad to accept that not moving backwards means I've made progress.

Palimpsest

I discovered a new word this weekend, "palimpsest."  The Merriam-Webster dictionary meaning is "a writing material (as a parchment or tablet) used one or more times after earlier writing has been erased."  But, according to my Kindle dictionary, it has a special, figurative meaning  "something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form." (I've found that I am so much more likely to look up an unfamiliar word with the ease of the online dictionary.)

I ran across the word while reading the novel, "The Vegetarian" by Han Kang.  Set in Korea it tells the story of a woman who becomes a vegetarian. (Okay, that is not all the book is about, or even close to what it is about, but while I was entranced and couldn't stop reading, I remain puzzled about all of its meaning.)

The sentence where I noticed palimpsest was this: "The kiss was a palimpsest of memories, of all the countless kisses they'd shared in the past."  When I went back later, though, to find the passage again, I realized the word had occurred earlier in the story in this line, "Dreams overlaid with dreams, a palimpsest of horror."

Before finding the double occurrence, I was struck by the beauty of the word.  How useful to have a word describe the notion that an individual thing or act includes multiple layers of meaning drawn from the past. It seems like a useful word to have. I want to find an application in my own life, because I feel there are many things that are often more than they seem--exchanges or gestures that aren't just in the present, but include memories and past feelings.  It feels like a good word for therapy--everything experienced today holds meanings attached to the past

But, the other sentence, while closer to the dictionary definition, a layering of dreams, a layering of writing, seems less beautiful and scarier.  Here are horrors piled one on top of the other until any one single one can't be distinguished from the other.

How curious is it that this word occurs twice in one book?  How curious is it that the book was translated from Korean to English?  What is the Korean equivalent to palimpsest?  Is it a common word or expression?  Did the translator already know this word and find it a good substitute for the Korean or did she have to hunt it down?

Gore Vidal's memoir is titled, "Palimpsest."  There is a book on the history of writing called, "Palimpsest."  And, a few novels.  I feel now that I have to read them all....

Security questions

Lately I've had to register on a few new websites and each required answers to three security questions.  I suppose with greater attention to the threat of hacking, site owners are being more careful.  Unfortunately, this means they have created lists of security questions with ever more obscure and ambiguous answers.  I do fine with mother's maiden name, father's middle name, even paternal grandmother's maiden name.  I can use the street where I grew up, the hospital where I was born, or the name of my elementary school.

Where I fall down is "Name of your best friend in high school." I had many friends in my circle in school, but I don't know if I had a best friend in high school.  I keep in touch with two very close friends still, how can I pick one over the other?  Would my high school boyfriend count?  Would I remember in a year that his name would be the one I chose?

or "Name of your first pet."   Our family had a few dogs when I was growing up, but I was never particularly attached to any of them.  In fact, one dog used to growl menacingly at me when I passed him guarding my sisters' bedroom.  My husband had a dog when we got married, was that my first pet?  But I get that dog's name confused with the second dog we had.  Which one was Abby and which was Molly?

Even "Make of your first car." is difficult.  The blue car I drove to high school for two years?  Or the car I totaled driving to a friend's wedding?  Or the van I drove in college?  Or the first car I bought with my own money?

My life seems too uncertain to use security questions not based on facts.

Getting my gray on...

I thought it was a good day to review the power of gray-haired women.....


  Jill Stein


Christine Lagarde


  Janet Yellen

Dear Hillary

Dear Hillary,
I'm so sorry.  I never wanted to be writing this letter.  But, I wanted you to know how much you have meant to me. Ten years younger than you, I grew up looking up to you, watching you.

In 1992 I took my not quite 1-year-old son to see you and Bill as you traveled across Pennsylvania following the convention.  I drove a couple of hours on a hot August day because I wanted my son to be a part of something I believed in.  It was exciting to see the crowds turn out for the Clinton Gore bus tour.  You even gave my son a little pat.

I admired you as you fought hard for health care reform, fought to find a voice as First Lady.  I admired you even more as you struggled to work through marital problems in the public spotlight.  Now that I have faced similar struggles, I can imagine the pain and loneliness you felt as your decisions and choices were second guessed by people who had no idea.

I voted for you to be my senator in New York state. I heard about your vacations down the road in  Skanaeteles. I enjoyed the New York State Fair, just as you did. I shook Bill's hand when he was the commencement speaker at Syracuse University where I was teaching.

As Secretary of State you traveled the world representing the United States, but, more importantly, representing women.  You fought for the rights of girls and women around the world--rights to education, to health care, to contraception, to independence.  You spoke eloquently at Syracuse University in 2012 about your passion for women's rights.

Your bid for the presidency was the culmination of a life spent caring about the concerns of others, often, I'm sure, at the expense of your own needs. I'm sorry you lost. I'm sorry for you, for myself, and for my country.

I am fortunate to have many strong, passionate, caring women in my life.  These women will not forget what you have done, will not forget the lessons you taught.  I will work even harder to show those younger than me that women's voices matter, that their voices matter.

You have left an enduring legacy, and I'm forever grateful to have had you in my life.

Chris

Learning to Read

Wow, where has the summer gone?  Just in time for the new school year I have a new post.

Growing up, I wanted to be like my older sisters and do whatever they were doing.  I wanted to ride a bike, go down the big slide, ice skate.  But, mostly, I wanted to read.  

I come from a family of readers.  My father reads 3 or 4 books at a time. My mother wasn’t much for books, but she read 4 daily newspapers front to back.  She knew everything that was happening in and around our little Indiana town.  Books were everywhere and bedtime stories were a ritual. Reading seemed like a magical skill, something that only grownups could do, and I so wanted to be grownup.

I went to kindergarten before kids were expected to be able to read at age 5. As I recall, our days were filled with the smell of paste, the taste Salerno butter cookies on our fingers, and the thrills of "Duck, Duck, Goose." But, In my kindergarten classroom, the teacher had put labels on everything--desk, chair, table, door, clock. One day we were talking and I told her I wanted to read.  

She said, "But Chris, you already know how to read!"  She pointed to the sign on the desk, "what does that say?"  

"Desk."

She pointed to the sign on the chair, "what does that say?"  

"Chair."  

"That, is reading!"  

Wait, THAT is reading, that's all there is?  I was expecting to learn some secret language, to have to learn to unlock some complicated code. For me, at least, reading was easy.

In first grade I encountered my first basal reader, My Little Red Storybook.  The first story starred Tom and his wagon. (We were not a Dick and Jane school, but a Tom and Susan school. Of course, Tom got top billing over Susan, but that's another post....)

See Tom.

See Tom ride.  

Ride, Tom, ride.

Ride, ride, ride.  

WOW, with that introduction to the wonders of stories I was off and running.  I sailed through My Little Red Storybook, my blue Storybook, my green and yellow storybooks. Until, one day, I received my first HARDCOVER reader, The Little White House.  I was in Heaven. I was also always in trouble because I couldn’t stop myself from reading ahead. I couldn't get enough and read and read until the teacher threatened to take my book away.

Not everyone caught on so quickly.  Sally Pugh was not a reader.  She didn’t seem to be able to make heads or tails of the printed words.  Sally  lived on the wrong side of the tracks, literally, in our little town.  She had old clothes, her nose was always runny, and she smelled.  We called her Sally P-U. One thing Sally did have was blond hair in short little pigtails, they really looked like pigtails.

Our teacher, thinking to solve two problems at once, sent Sally and me into the hall.  I would listen to Sally read, help her figure out the code.  We sat side by side in the hall and she stumbled through a story.  When she made a mistake, I reached over and pulled her pigtail. Hard.  I don’t know how many times that happened, at least once, maybe 2 or 3.  At some point the teacher came out and saw Sally in tears and sent us back to our seats without a word.  Sally lived in our town for a few more years, she never excelled in school, and then moved away.

What possessed me to do that?  Was I mean? Was I guarding the secret of reading from someone I felt didn’t deserve it, wasn’t worthy? Was I just being a stupid kid?  I still wish I could go back and tell Sally I’m sorry, to show her the magic of reading and let her feel the same joy I had when I learned to read.

Mistakes are Made

I don't like making mistakes.  Does anyone?  Mistakes--from burning the garlic bread under the broiler to offering someone a job that doesn't exist--upset me, pretty much equally it seems.  I used to pride myself on my organizational abilities.  I could keep track of the obligations and belongings of multiple people in and out of my household.  Now, I find myself making little errors.  I forgot to renew the registration on my car. I forgot to check my passport's expiration until 10 days before an international trip. I forgot to mail a birthday card. For a few years, I blamed such mistakes on the distractions created by personal turmoil, moving to a new city, starting a new job.  What's my excuse now....age?

What bothers me is that these failures, these mistakes, challenge what I view as a fundamental aspects of my being--I am competent, I am capable, I am organized, I can be depended upon. Mistakes call into question those key understandings. What am I if I'm not those things?  Who am I if I'm not competent and capable?

I'm a human.  That's what and who I am. Like any real person, there are gaps in my competence. I make mistakes.

Today I was reading through the recently released textbook authored by one of my colleagues, "Principles and Practice of Psychiatric Rehabilitation."  Early on are these words, "Failure, however, is a part of life. Everyone better understands the bounds of existence through the experience of falling short."  My bounds are feeling pretty tight today....