Slippery slopes

At work, I've been dealing a lot with the concept of a slippery slope. 

Here is what I've decided:

One sure way to keep from starting down a slippery slope is to never take a step forward.

Some of my favorite slippery slope images.......


                       


                       



                                                                               

Ordinary Time

Driving home last night I passed a church sign announcing the coming week's events.  At the top of the LED display was the line, "4th Sunday in Ordinary Time."

The Christian calendar has two main events, Easter and Christmas. Each is preceded by a period of preparation, Lent for Easter and Advent for Christmas.  Pretty much the rest of the year is "ordinary time."  (There are a few minor things like Pentecost and such, but they don't get whole seasons.)

It seems very appropriate that the first religious period in the new year is ordinary time.  It is a bit of a rest between the excitement of Christmas and the secular New Year and the arrival of spring and Easter, a quiet time that fits the January vibe of the Northern United States.  Roz Chast, the brilliant New Yorker cartoonist, sums up January this way:
                                    

Ordinary time. A holding pattern, a period of quiet, a lull.  Most of the year is spent in "ordinary time." We anticipate holidays with periods of preparation, but we don't have names for the aftermaths, for the times of recovery.  We spent weeks building up to Christmas and Easter, but quickly find ourselves back in ordinary time.

A lot happens in ordinary time.  The gray cold months of January and most of February (depending on the timing of Easter).  But also the whole long hot summer.  The time when we are expected to vacation, to rest, to restore ourselves. A lot happens in ordinary time.  Weddings, births, vacations, the end of school and the beginning.  We travel, we visit, we walk and bike, we swim and ski.  All on our own schedule, our own time, our ordinary time.

Puzzling

I love doing jigsaw puzzles, a topic I'm sure I've written about before (if I was a real blogger I would index my posts and be able to provide a link here to an earlier article. I am not a real blogger).  I love the orderliness of them, the transformation from a pile of pieces to a coherent scene.  I wonder if anyone has ever studied the spatial reasoning ability associated with jigsaw puzzles. In my experience, they are a largely female pursuit.  But, are they really different from Legos?  Why don't we talk about using jigsaw puzzles as a way to encourage women into engineering? 

This week I undertook a 2000 piece puzzle.  The first time I've attempted such a feat.  I admit to being a bit intimidated at the beginning. Luckily, I had looked at the puzzle measurements before starting and realized that the only surface available to me would be the dining room table. I would have been really upset if I'd started on the card table and then had to move!

Here is what the puzzle looked liked after day 1. I always like to do the border first. Unlike many puzzles, the sky was the easiest part and I started with that.

After another few days of work I got to this point. It felt like I had a long way to go yet, but I had finished the "window" and most of the shelves in the other corner.  The big open areas were the ones where the colors were very similar...save those for last.

Another day and I am almost done now...still left to do--the greenish-brownish wood at the bottom.  I was tempted to go to bed at this point, but decided to see if I could finish. I slowly worked on the wood, piece by piece.

This almost turned out to be a 1999 piece puzzle.  All done and one piece AWOL!!!  I blamed the cats.  They aren't allowed on the dining room table, but every now and then I would knock a piece to the floor and they would bat it away if I didn't quickly retrieve it.  I was pretty frustrated at not being able to finish.

But, eureka!  The piece was found and puzzle completed.

I feel more confident about attempting another now.  Like most things, you need to break the problem down into smaller tasks and tackle them one by one.  Look for the easy parts, work on those, and gradually the whole will fall into place.

Maybe next year I'll put together a big Lego set!

The Container Store

 

Recently I made a visit to the Container Store. It is a place that equally delights and terrifies me.  Walking along the aisles I feel so inadequate. How have I managed without special dinner plate storage containers?  I have dishes packed in cardboard boxes in the basement.  How have I managed without matching bins for rice, pasta, and beans?  My pantry doesn't look like this...


And that's just the kitchen side of the store. Once I venture over to the bedroom, or the office, I start to feel overwhelmed.  Would my life really improve if I had a bra rack? 

There is this mixture of optimism and despair. Maybe if I only had the right boxes, bins, or containers, my life would feel more complete, more stable. But, I'm so far behind...how could I ever catch up?  There are so many things I'm doing wrong...messy drawers, mixed up cupboards...is there any hope for someone like me?  I gaze longingly at closets with neat racks and hooks.  Could my life be that clean?  that tidy?  Would I want it to be?

Strength of weak ties

In the 1970's sociologist Mark Granovetter published an influential article on "The Strength of Weak Ties."  At a very basic level, he argued that it is not through our close, dense networks that we gain new information, but through our connection to other networks.  Some people serve as bridges, connecting two dense networks.  This allows information and ideas to spread from one group to another.  If every group is isolated from each other, then they can't access the people in other networks.  Here is a simple explanation, if you are really interested:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Bm93gN1zJg
 

His ideas have been very influential and applied to many types of groups, from individuals to countries.

But, I want to talk about other dimensions, or meanings, of the "strength of weak ties."  I've lived in Chicago over three years now, and have begun to feel like I "belong."  What does that mean?  It means that the dry cleaner on the corner knows my name and remembers me when I come in. It means that a neighbor down the street who is often outside when I walk to the gym calls out and says, "Work hard!"  It means that the producer of the Moth storytelling events says, "Hi, Chris" when I walk into the venue. I don't have regular interactions with these people, I wouldn't call on them if I was sick. They are weak ties, but they create for me a sense that I'm known and acknowledged.

A few weeks ago I met two friends for a weekend getaway. We have been friends for about 50 years, but we interact rarely.  Years went by without any contact and even now we see each other infrequently. Still, we have a bond that is different from any others. It is not the same as siblings, but like siblings we knew each other all through the awkward pre-teen and teen years. We knew each others families, first boyfriends, and bad fashion choices. But, while we know a good deal about each other now, we are not active in each other's every day lives. We don't turn first to each other in times of trouble. We don't interact on any regular basis.  We have a bond that is both strong and weak.  Strong in history, weak in the present.  Those ties are important in their own right. In much the same way that Granovetter's bridges link social networks, our ties link our past and present selves.

So, today I'll celebrate all those weak ties.  The people who recognize my face today and give me a sense of belonging in the present and those who connect the me of today to the me of years ago and give me a sense of continuity.

Next time

We are lucky to have three different Moth events each month (themoth.org) in the Chicago area.  The Moth is a NYC based program of personal storytelling that grew into a public radio show and podcast.  Moth events emphasize "true stories told live and without notes."  Events, called storyslams, are open mic, anyone can come to the stage and tell a story.  However, since time is limited, if you want to tell a story you put your name "in the hat" and 10 people are randomly chosen to tell their stories.  You may or may not get called.  The audiences vary by venue, but are usually a couple of hundred people, mostly white, upper class, and over age 30.  A standard public radio crowd.

Having taken a few memoir writing classes, I was looking for something different to do.  I noticed a storytelling workshop being offered and signed up.  In the class we developed stories each week around a theme and then spent a few weeks polishing one story to perform at the student showcase.  But, our instructor also encouraged us to attend other events and tell stories.  I took her up on the challenge and went to my first Moth event, put my name in the hat, and was called.

I was terrified.  My story was okay, not great, but average for the night. It felt good to push myself, but also, I won't lie, to hear applause!  Here's a link to that first story...
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wzlc7ITvm9k&t=17s

Afterwards, I was talking to my instructor and mentioned that one of the hardest moments was walking onto the stage and having the bright lights shine directly in my eyes. I was blinded and unable to see any faces in the crowd. I told her, "I wasn't prepared for that."  Her reply was perfect, "But, next time you won't be surprised."

Next time--her assumption that there will be a next time, that I will do this again, but also, the matter- of-fact acceptance that some things may come as surprises, but you learn from those experiences and are ready for them when they happen again. There is no shame in not being prepared for everything, no harm in not knowing exactly what will happen.  Now you know more than you did before.

Many times in the year since that first storytelling I've thought back to that statement...next time you won't be surprised.  It is a reassurance that I can still learn something new and that learning sometimes is a bit scary and requires some mistake making along the way. But each of those experiences prepares me for another "next time."

Emptying the empty nest

I'm about to get rid of one of the last tangible pieces of evidence in my house associated with my children, the marimba.  

Both of my sons played mallet percussion throughout school.  They were really good, winning awards and honors, and playing in select bands and orchestras.  For several years we were allowed to keep one of the school's marimbas in our house for them to use to practice (sparingly....).  Then, another student who was about to graduate asked if we would be interested in buying his wooden, custom made, practice marimba.  Yes!  Soon we had this beautiful piece of musical furniture in our living room.  For about five or six years, until my youngest son graduated from high school, it was a permanent fixture. The boys learned duets and medleys and often they would pass by, pick up the mallets, and play a few bars of some piece before moving on.  Our whole living room was arranged around the placement of the piano and the marimba.

When I moved to Chicago there was nowhere for the marimba to go but with me.  There was a perfect nook in my condo where it was installed and has sat, mainly unused, for the past three years.  Whenever a boy was in the house, though, there would be music. Just as before, they would be drawn to the mallets, pick up the sticks, and play a snippet of some tune.  The plan had always been for the marimba to move to my older son's home, once he had one, and I anticipated the relief I would feel without it.

Well, now he does have a home with room and it is time to disassemble the instrument and move it.  And, I'm unexpectedly sad to see it go.  I don't play it. I barely dust it. It is large and limits my furniture arrangements.  But, with my younger son moved into his own place it is one of the last real tangible pieces of evidence I have of my children. There are no more piles of shoes by the door, backpacks and jackets strewn in the entry, Legos or HotWheels cars underfoot.  Kids don't live here anymore.

I'm guessing, like the bittersweet sending of a child off to college, that once it is gone I'll happily sweep and dust that corner, move some furniture around, and smile at my newfound space.

       (not my house, not my marimba!)