On "a count of" I'm getting older

I’m not a smoker, but in my job as a medical transcriptionist, I am witness to the many descriptions of smoking history in patients. Some patients even started to smoke as young as 7 years old! One of the more common ways for the doctor to glean probable cumulative effect of a patient’s history of smoking is to use the “pack years” equation.

From Wikipedia:

A way to measure the amount a person has smoked over a long period of time. It is calculated by multiplying the number of packs of cigarettes smoked per day by the number of years the person has smoked. For example, 1 pack year is equal to smoking 1 pack per day for 1 year, or 2 packs per day for half a year, and so on.[1]
Number of packs smoked per day * Number of years as a smoker = Pack Year
Example: If a person smokes 30 cigarettes a day for 40 years, then we would calculate as follows:
30 Cigarettes a day = 1.5 packs a day (20 cigarettes in a pack)
1.5 x 40yrs = 60 pack years

We use years as a way to measure other things, too. Think of fiscal years, light years, dog years, lunar and solar years. I am proposing a new classification - craft year.

My friend Sally told me she was scrutinizing her cross-stitch patterns to determine what she could actually complete in the remaining years of her life, what she really, really wanted to complete, and what she knew she would never have time to complete. As a crafter myself, I am entirely empathetic in what is in reality a mini-lesson in mortality.

Back to craft years. I started quilting in 1988. If historically I created 2 quilts a year since then (and this unfortunately is an overestimate, unless you count quilts I made in my head), and used some similar calculation to the formula above, I might be able to determine how many quilts are “left in me.” (I would have to factor in my current productive capacity as nil, in that I'm working so much at the aforementioned job that I still have Rachel's wedding quilt unfinished 5 years after the wedding.) If I divide that by the number of patterns and books I own....well, I’m not sure I want to live past the age of 200 just to quilt. Add to that scenario cross-stitching and sewing clothes, I’d have to live even longer than that.

As always, being human is a gift and a curse; the curse, of course, is that we are aware of our own mortality and current calculations of our life expectancy. There is a reason for the bumper sticker “Too much fabric, not enough time.” How many craft years do we have left? Substitute one’s own personal passion for “craft” and it does give one a sense of urgency, especially for those of us who have started the second half of our lives. Question marks have never been my favorite symbols of punctuation.

'Tis more blessed

Homer Simpson’s favorite expression is now a staple response of our granddaughter Caroline - “D’OH!” Aren’t there times we all want to say that? I had one such experience this week.

I was buying some balloons for my supervisor’s birthday at a local grocery store on my way home from work. Ellsworth, Maine, is a small town compared to most cities, and we have only two supermarkets of comparable size. I passed the first one to get to the second one, which is where we usually shop. I bought several items first (including lemon sorbet), then wandered into the card section, where I knew they had a revolving rack with balloon packages. (You purchase your balloon, then after you check out, you go to the recycling room, where someone will inflate it for you.) I was amazed to find not one birthday balloon on the rack - at least one that didn’t say “30” or “40.” They had plenty of “Happy Retirement,” “Happy Graduation,” and “Baby Shower” balloons, but none that I could use. So I took my groceries to the register, trying to figure out where I could get my balloons.

As I said, Ellsworth is a small place. We used to have a Hallmark shop that sold balloons, but it closed. There was a new party store, but it was out of town on the highway in the other direction. So I queried the girl bagging my groceries.

“Is there a place around here I can get a balloon? Y’all seem to be out of birthday ones.” (I know she figured I was a tourist, since it’s that time of year and I was asking directions. Or maybe it was the “y’all.”) Anyway, she whispered, “You might try the competition,” referring to the only other supermarket in town. I was pleased to be reminded that the other store carried balloons in their florist section. Even though it was backtracking somewhat, it was my only other alternative, so I thanked her and headed out to the car and down the street to Shaw’s. Their florist department is right by the door, so I figured I could get in and out without much damage to the sorbet on what was a hot, sunny summer day.

At Shaw’s, there was only one customer in front of me in the process of getting her order. And it was a big one. She was getting about a dozen black balloons. Apparently the clerk keeps lengths of various colors of ribbon already cut and tied onto the little weight clips to speed up orders, but didn’t have black ribbons pre-made. So there he was, slowly cutting and tying each black ribbon, then slowly blowing up each black balloon, then slowly tying each black ribbon to the inflated balloon. I sighed. This was going to take a while. I thought of my lemon sorbet, probably slowly melting away in my car.

After a few minutes of this painstakingly slow process, the customer gestured to me and said to the clerk, “Maybe you should just go ahead and wait on this lady.”

Now, most people would have been ecstatic. Anyone else would have thought “How kind! How thoughtful! My luck has turned! I accept!” But not me. The first words out of my mouth were, “No, that’s OK. I’m in no hurry.”

NO HURRY? I had sorbet in my car, probably sitting in the sun to boot, Ed was expecting me home for dinner, and I said, “I’m in no hurry”? D’OH!

What was the matter with me? I’d been on the other end of this scenario countless times. I’m the world’s foremost “let them go ahead of me” customer. Anytime I have more than an armful of groceries and someone is behind me with a handful of items, I always offer to let them move up in front of me. Most of the time, they graciously accept. It always makes me feel good. It’s more blessed to give than to receive, isn’t it?

Or is it? I once read a folk tale about a beggar in India who was content with his lot in life and did not curse it, because his belief was this: He provided a service to the wealthy. For if indeed it is more blessed to give than receive, he gave them an opportunity for being blessed every time they gave him a coin. If the wealthy didn’t have a chance to give, they would be denied the blessing.

We have been so trained to believe that giving is the only blessing, when accepting someone else’s gift can be a blessing, too. Of course, it’s nice to be on the giving end. It makes you feel good, doesn’t it, to dispense whatever you have to give - time, money, talent, wisdom, maybe even something as little as a place in line? Who knows - maybe that balloon lady was relieved when I rejected her offer. But maybe, just maybe, she was a little disappointed at being denied the pleasure of giving.

Life is indeed a circle - we are all givers, and we are all receivers, and our positions change as much as the temperatures in Maine. I need to remember to accept whatever position I am offered at any given time with gratitude.

It's not nice to fool Mother Nature....

Those of you who are near my age might remember The Wild Wild West, the TV show starring Robert Conrad. It has always been one of my favorite shows, so I ordered Season 2 in DVD. To be fair, I also ordered something Ed would like - the TV show Topper, which he remembers from his own childhood. Ed was born in 1946, and I was born in 1954, which makes us close to the beginning and end of the Baby Boomer generation.

I was excited to watch Topper, because it actually came with a few commercials. I get a kick out of watching old TV commercials. Jello was this show’s sponsor, so we got to see several Jello ads from that era (1953-1955). Jello was introducing three new flavors - and on the box, yes, there it was: “artificial flavoring.” Ed turned to me and commented, “Do you realize how long we have been eating fake food?”

We’ve been reading books on eating locally, the Slow Food movement, and organic gardening, so “fake food” has been on our minds lately. Our generation was raised on food like Jello and margarine - chemical concoctions invented in laboratories. We are the first generation to accept chemicals as food. White bread, soda pop, Cocoa Krispies - all creations of decades of processed, preservative-laden eating. It makes one wonder about the cumulative effect these “foods” have had on our bodies - a whole generation that has lost touch with natural sustenance. It boggles the mind.

Ed thinks one day they’ll discover that the plaque buildup in Alzheimer’s disease is really trans-fat accumulation - a fake food that the body can’t recognize and doesn’t know how to handle - and one, coincidentally, the Baby Boomer generation has been ingesting most of our lives. Whether or not his theory will pan out is anyone’s guess. But it does put the “wonder” in “Wonder Bread.”

Our part of Maine is always in a peculiar weather pattern this time of year. When I leave for work at 4:00 a.m., the temperature is in the 40s, and as soon as I get in the car, I turn the heat/cool system dial all the way over to the right and hope I warm up soon. By the afternoon when I leave work, the car has usually been in the sun all day and the temperature is now in the 70s, and the first thing I do when I get in the car is turn that same dial all the way back over to the cold setting, and flip the air condition on. All that in the same day.

I’ll bet we all have to do a great deal of adjusting in our lives. Some of it is as simple as heating up our area when we are chilled, or vice versa, but others require more effort. After my remarkably successful attitude change at work a few weeks ago, I caught myself yesterday in a thought process that was negative, and realized immediately that I needed a minor attitude adjustment. Nothing major, but all the same, I caught it in time.

They say that people who have lost a lot of weight find success in weighing daily, trying to discern signs of weight gain in the 1- to 2-pound range so they can adjust their habits accordingly before the gain gets out of control. So in one sense, those seemingly minor adjustments are helpful.

We all have bigger adjustments to make, however, and how we handle them can determine how much we struggle in life. I have an acquaintance who admits, “I don’t do change well.” That’s a pity, because life is all about change. Scientists tell us in evolutionary terms that when environmental conditions change, the animals and plants who fail to adapt are the ones who become extinct. Being unable to adjust to changes in our lives might not be have such a drastic result, but they certainly can make our lives harder than they need to be.

One of our greatest disappointments in pastoring churches was their inability to adjust to change. Whether it was a new pastor, a new hymnal, a new book of liturgy - any new way of doing things just fed their underlying fear. “We’ve always done it this way” was their mantra. I realize there can be a certain comfort in the status quo, but change is going to happen whether we consent or not, and we can either deal with it in some productive way (which may give us a modicum of control) or resist with all our might (which can be very energy-draining).

We certainly had to make adjustments when we moved to Maine from Tennessee. We had to get used to the snow and cold weather, for one thing. We had to get used to the idea that not everyone understood us when we spoke (and we as well had to ask people to repeat things). Since we moved again to Hancock, we are adjusting to being without a garage, adjusting to a smaller house, adjusting to a longer commute and smaller closets and less acquisition. These are all adjustments of choice, however. The adjustments were required and understood as necessary, based on our decisions to move and our life objectives.

The harder adjustments for me seem to come as a result of inevitable life changes that I don’t seem to have had any say in. I didn’t really decide to become older. I didn’t make a choice that my 52-year-old body shows signs of wear and tear (although undoubtedly some poor decisions on my part exacerbated that). I watch my body show signs of age, I watch my little kids grow up, I watch myself become a grandparent, I watch my job absorb changes that may not be to my advantage - and my first impulse is, well, shock. Everything seemed to happen so fast! My next reaction is, just like the churches, a little fear. Am I going to adjust well to aging, with its accompanying decline in my mental and physical abilities? Am I going to be able to be a successful mother-in-law? Will I be a good enough grandmother? Can I keep my new positive attitude at work while others make what I consider poor decisions that affect my production?

How boring life would be with no change to adjust to! As much as I adored my children when they were little, it would be weird to have them stay that way forever. I once heard a comedian make fun of a traditional reaction to seeing a young person whom you haven’t seen in a few years, “My! How you’ve grown!” Of course they’ve grown! Why the surprise? The surprise would be if they hadn’t grown!

As I make my various necessary adjustments to life, my role model is becoming Mother Nature herself. Each season flows into the next, never the same, but still it flows. Winter may leave kicking and screaming, but spring does arrive eventually. We open the windows, plant some flowers, enjoy the melons...and adjust, even knowing that fall will be here before we realize it and we will have to adjust again.

Of all life adjustments, I think the most important is the adjustment of attitude, for that seems to set the tone for how we handle the whole caboodle. Now you’ll have to excuse me, as I have some fresh cantaloupe in the kitchen which demands my attention. Eating summer’s treats again is one adjustment I can make with unmitigated pleasure!

Filling Up

I noticed yesterday that I had half a tank of gas, so I stopped by the gas station and filled up on my way home from work. As I was standing at the pump, I experienced the familiar sensation that this act gives me - a feeling of security. Have to go somewhere unexpected? Full tank of gas. Price shoots up 50 cents in one night? Full tank of gas. Whatever happens in the world tomorrow, I have, at least for right now, a full tank of gas.

It’s not much, but it’s something. It has a limit, though. My tank will only hold so many gallons, and it’s impossible to shove any more in. Would I have more security if I had a bigger tank and filled it to the limit? Would I have even more security if I had one of those oil storage tanks in my yard?

The problem with simplifying and downsizing is that other parts of my life are not restricted in size, and in my tendency to fill them, I run into that problem. I think it’s human nature to want that feeling of security, even about trivial things. It gives me contentment to see my hundreds of quilt books on the shelf. Yet, more quilt books are published all the time! Egad! How much is enough?

I taught my kids a lot of important things, but I also regrettably taught them my bad habits. Matt, for one, knows that no matter how big a meal he eats, or how full he gets, there is always a little, tiny corner of the stomach that can hold something sweet. Miraculously that miniscule space has avoided filling up for the entire meal. There’s always room for more - if it’s something we really want.

I think we realize that having more than we need of anything good is pleasurable, but I think we may not realize that we are also searching for that feeling of security. Food, clothes, money, personal collections - it seems we consumers are always ready for more. Unlike our gas tanks, the situation is a bottomless pit, and it is a struggle we have to relive day after day after day. Excessive consumption is enticing and is actually a self-propelling act. It’s hard to know when to stop because the gas doesn’t spill over the side and give us a clue.

Ed and I used to joke that that someone with 100 million dollars was someone who was not satisfied with having 90 million dollars. That may be true. The other side to the story is that someone with 90 million dollars is probably making so much profit and interest that their money expands without even taking action. They probably can’t even spend it fast enough. (Unless they’re in the government, of course.) At a certain point, our desire for security can spin out of control and take on a life of its own.

So in the end, we have to be our own monitors of consumption. Like nutritious eating or exercising, it unfortunately falls into the category of “Decisions you wish you could make one time and be done with it” instead of “Decisions you have to renew every day for the rest of your life.” I hate those.

The Vicarious Life

I suppose most kids start thinking about how they want to live their lives from a fairly young age. My granddaughter Caroline, for instance, goes through spurts of wanting to be this or that when she grows up. (This week, it’s a farmer.) As for me, I was content enough enjoying my childhood in a loving family environment, and I really never gave serious thought as to what my life would be like once I became an adult and had to make my way in the world. I was satisfied to let life unfold as I went along.

If I had made specific predictions, I never would have envisioned marrying an alcoholic/later sober man who would become a pastor, living in Maine, being a medical transcriptionist, or even playing the harp. The way my life has revealed itself has been much more interesting than I could have ever imagined.

Now that I’ve lived over half of my life expectancy, though, I do notice a trend. It has been too tempting to experience life vicariously. There’s a reason for this. Secondhand encounters are safe. They can be controlled. They make it possible to experience the enjoyment of something without the work and the risks.

Many people don’t realize that I have traveled all over the world. Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia - I’ve been to them all. I’ve watched them make cheese in Switzerland. I’ve ridden in the gondolas of Venice. I’ve even stayed in the best hotels. Maybe here I should mention my traveling companion, Samantha Brown. She works for the Travel Channel, and every time I tuned into her show, she took me somewhere new and exciting. I didn’t have to apply for a passport, buy luggage, or go through airport security.

That’s not my only use of vicarious living. I vicariously garden, too. I love to look at other people’s flowers, maybe even buying some to sit on the table. I didn’t have to get down on hands and knees in the dirt and dig, weed, fertilize, and water. I let someone else do that. I just reap the results. I have been known to do the same when I drool over others’ quilts while mine sits waiting to be finished, and when I marvel at intricate cross-stitch when I haven’t picked up a project for years. I’ve perfected the technique of exercising vicariously, too. I can put in an aerobics DVD and sit down and watch it with impunity and a bowl of ice cream.

Unfortunately, that last example doesn’t do anything for me, darn it. Where is vicarious living when you really need it? Sometimes I feel like the Little Red Hen’s pals. “You do all the work, and I’ll reap the benefits. Deal?”

The key word in vicarious living (besides the lazy part) is the safety of it. By not traveling, I don’t involve myself in the risks thereof. By not gardening or quilting or cross-stitching, I don’t have to watch myself fail to live up to my own expectations (or others’). I can be a cheerleader. I can root from the sidelines. I can feel good about appreciating everyone else's hard work, but at the same time, with enough introspection, I eventually feel a little disappointed that I’m not personally playing the game enough myself.

Every once in a while, I will come out of vicarious living and do something or create something, an experience which always makes me vulnerable to failure or danger, but gives me enormous thrill and satisfaction. Take the sea kayaking last August with Audrey, for instance. The whole idea freaked me out. I could have watched a DVD of kayaking, or even watched Audrey go kayaking, but instead, with her encouragement, I stepped out of my vicarious mode and just did it with her. I sat down in that kayak, feeling the hard plastic under my legs. I felt the salt water spray on my face. I worked muscles I didn’t even know I had as we paddled along. No vicarious living, that. Every nerve, bone, blood vessel, and brain cell was working overtime. I was in the moment.

It would be nice if one could really lose weight vicariously, or really feel the immensity of the Grand Canyon from a 25-inch screen, or feel heavenly rested in a 5-star hotel bed just because Samantha told you what it was like. Life doesn’t work that way. I can enjoy the flowers someone else grew, or the meal someone else cooked, or the quilt someone else made - but deep down I realize that the actual process of growing or cooking or quilting was as much a pleasure as the final product. The bug bites, steam burns, and needle pokes are just part of the experience, for without them, you might as well watch someone else do it. The discomfort (whether physically or emotionally) is just part of the package. There’s nothing like an unexpected needle poke into your finger while hand quilting to bring you into the present moment. To that I can attest.

The older I get, the more I feel the need to push myself a little. Oh, I’ll never go rock-climbing (and nobody better try to talk me into it!) or do something that would terrify me enough to send me to the mental hospital, but as I age, I find myself content with less risks. Why bother? Why indeed?

I read a magazine article recently about a women who lives in the country and started her own business of selling organic food, then expanded her catalog offerings to include everything about her country life, including home decorating accessories. She said that she realized there was a whole customer base out there that wanted the fantasy of living in the country on a farm without really living in the country on a farm. She said she was happily willing to fulfill that need. For her, though, she loved the reality of actually living in the country on a farm. There are apparently thousands of people out there who are vicarious farmers. (Take note, Caroline.)

I have had some rich experiences in my life, but some I passed up. In college, my music professor asked me to try out for the touring choir. I was too scared I wouldn’t make it that I didn’t even audition. He wanted me in it (he was the decider), and he did everything he could to get me to try out without guaranteeing I would be accepted. I just wanted that guarantee that I would not fail. I never did participate in touring choir. Oh, well, they went overseas and that would have scared me, too.

This week my dear friend Sally passed the Certified Medical Transcriptionist exam for which I have been so earnestly studying. I joked with her that maybe she could add my name to her test, and I could get the reward without the hard work. Alas, it was not to be. I’ll still have to take the test myself. But that will make the pleasure of passing it (I don’t even want to consider the alternative, but it’s there, of course) all the greater.

Ed and I are seeking contentment. Every once in a while, the contentment becomes too easy and it’s time to push ourselves again. I really don’t want the word “vicarious” to be in my obituary. (However, if you do put it in, you’d better at least spell it right.) If you ever feel I need a little shove, feel free. I've got a lot of livin' to do.

To Have and To Hold

One of my Internet friends recently posted about her experience of finding a stack of letters that she had written to her grandparents when she was a little girl. Judging by the excerpts she offered, the letters were poignant, funny, very affectionate, and must have been a cherished treat for the recipients, who wisely and fortunately kept them.

Somehow I just don’t think a stack of e-mails would have meant as much as the pages and pages of scrawled handwriting from a 7-year-old.

You know you’re getting older when you start complaining about the lost values of the good old days, denouncing what society and time have done to our old-fashioned traditions and art forms. I guess I’m joining the chorus of people bemoaning the loss of the handwritten letter - even as I obviously have to reluctantly admit that I am almost exclusively a keyboard writer. It’s not that I don’t want to send handwritten letters - I wish I could. The fact is that after all the years I’ve been typing my correspondence, my penmanship has become virtually illegible! What is that saying? Use it or lose it? As part of that scenario, I have obviously learned to value immediate transmission over days of postal transit, clarity over character, and - my favorite - ability to edit with a few keystrokes over erasing, drawing lines through, or - horrors! - starting the whole thing over.

But in the process of changing the way I communicate, I regret what I have lost. I don’t have letters I wrote to my grandparents, but I have letters I wrote home from college, and letters my parents wrote to me while I was away during my one-year attempt at formal higher education. Around the time I first started this blog, as a part of our simplification process, I chose to go through all the things I had saved from my past to weed out what was not extremely meaningful, and I ended up posting about my dad’s letters to me. They were written on church bulletins, which, of course, lacked enough space to write a normal letter, so he would write in circles around the lines of text until there was no space left. (He was a choir director, and our lives revolved around church when I was growing up; he knew the bulletins were as much “news” as his circuitously written comments.) I get a thrill every time I see something in my dad’s handwriting. I recognize it immediately. He made every cursive capital “E” with somewhat of a flourish, and frequently he signed things with his initials, “iet” - then circled it as one entity. It’s hard to do that on a computer. On some of the bulletins, my mom even wrote a sentence or two, in her own distinctive handwriting.

When I was in the beginning stages of wanting to know everything about Abraham Lincoln (probably in junior high), I bought a reproduction of the Gettysburg Address in Lincoln’s now familiar handwriting. The printed version is just not the same. Ed and I watched a documentary on Mark Twain last night - and marveled at how centuries of authors have written their books in longhand, word after word, page after page. I can barely make a legible grocery list.

Today, I send e-mails (which contain information that can be saved, but not in an aesthetically pleasing way) and make phone calls (which are only saved if I leave a message), and, of course, I post in this blog, which is, in a paradoxical way, the most permanent and transient of communications. I type out my Christmas letter every year, and I have concluded that I stick a family picture in each envelope as a personal touch to lessen my guilt over the accompanied computer-generated correspondence. I make my own greeting cards, it’s true. But I make them with software and I print them off on my ink-jet printer. My real kudos go to people like my daughter-in-law, who does hands-on scrapbooking with paper and glue and - yes - real handwriting. There's something appealing to be able to hold a message in your hand, inhale its accompanying scent, run your fingers over the words, and maybe even to pick it up again and again to read with renewed pleasure.

Ed says every gift comes with a curse and vice versa, and herein lies the dilemma. I generate with care my blog posts every week, in the same old font, the same old format, with the only individuality being in the words and thoughts themselves. My handwriting is not involved. I don’t sign my initials and circle them, nor do I craft the eccentric capital E’s that occasionally I have done through the years, subconsciously as a tribute to my father. Nobody will print off my blog on pretty stationery and wrap its pages up in velvet ribbon and put it in their treasure chest for posterity. Yet, without access to this form of communication, how would I have had my words read in China by Doug? How would I have come in contact with some of my Internet acquaintances that I have met through this medium? Without the ability to craft essays with the ease of a keyboard and screen, would I have had the self-discipline to sit down and write my thoughts out in longhand on a regular basis? I think not.

I was asked recently if I anticipated that my blog would serve as a legacy for my grandchildren. I certainly hope so. But this week I'm wondering whether I shouldn’t throw a few handwritten letters in the pot, too. Now that's something to really "hand" down.

Backgrounds

Backgrounds don’t get the attention they deserve. Take music, for instance. You can buy a CD with a featured famous singer, but whoever notices the musicians supporting her/him in the background? Yet, what would the soloist be without all that support?

CDs are the least of my worries, though. My personal ongoing frustration involves backgrounds in photographs. Those who know me well are aware that I take a lot of digital pictures. I will soon have almost 20,000 photos in my iPhoto library on my computer. I can attest that it is very difficult for me, as an amateur photographer, to find a good background. It’s something that has always bugged me.

For Caroline’s 4th birthday party, Rachel chose the theme of “books.” She had books displayed around the house, gave books as favors, asked for book donations for United Way, and she wanted a picture of Caroline reading a book to display on the party invitations. I sent her over a hundred pictures from my collection of Caroline reading books, looking at books, and carrying books. Out of all those photographs, she ended up choosing one taken on her front porch, because, as she said, “the background was decent. All the other pictures had messy backgrounds.” (You know - the usual house clutter. Usually my house.)

In my last post, I decried the subtle use of photo manipulation to drop 10 pounds off the subject because it was not a “true” picture. Using that argument, a messy background in a candid picture is really a “true” picture - but, of course, not an aesthetically pleasing one.

I make sure to take a family photograph for our Christmas letter every year. There are always the usual annoying things to deal with - getting a picture with everyone looking at the camera, keeping little ones happy, deciding what to wear, how I can best hide in the back somewhere - but the most aggravating thing is wondering where to stage the photo. I never can find a good background. That’s usually because - well - our house is lived in. It’s not a showplace. It’s not a magazine spread. And it’s definitely not a studio.

The outdoors can provide a lovely background. For some reason, though, nobody wants our Christmas picture taken with everyone bundled up in coats, standing outside in cold Maine weather with frozen smiles on their faces. (You have to admit, though, that’s realism at its best.)

Rachel recently took the girls to a department store photography studio. The photographer spent the whole time trying to get the girls to smile (waving Elmo at them) and directing them to sit up straight, shoulders back, heads not tilted, etc. Rachel said every time Caroline was ordered to change one thing in her posture, something else went awry. It was a very anxiety-provoking and tense situation for everyone involved.

It stands to reason that the best person to direct a family photograph is the family photographer - and that’s me. This background problem frustrates me. I have everything else I need. I have decent photography skills. I have an adequate camera. I have a tripod. I have some idea of balance and lighting and all that sort of thing. I have photogenic subjects. I just lack the background. I think there are probably a lot of people in my situation.

So here’s my idea. I think every mall ought to have a studio for rent by half-hour increments. The studio should contain all the accoutrements of a professional photographer’s studio - the steps, benches, cushions, and chairs, the lights, the cute little accessories like teddy bears and so on - but most of all, those great backgrounds, like the billowing white curtain, the professional gray screen, and the pull-down seasonal backdrops. The client brings the camera and the family. There is minimal set-up cost for the rental agency, as they don't have the expense of cameras and paid staff. It would be more relaxing for the people being photographed without a stranger poking and prodding and cajoling and barking orders. You have to admit - relaxed family members make better photographs.

I believe I’ve covered most everything. Oh yes - one wall would have to be a giant window, where mall shoppers can enjoy watching the amateur attempts - and make sure no...um...“indecent” photographers find the studio an irresistible setting for their craft.

I think my idea has merit. Ed, of course, thinks it’s unfeasible. I won’t go into his list of reasons here. Suffice it to say he has never had to coordinate a family photo. So if you have money to invest in this studio-rental project, contact me ASAP. Christmas is only 7 months away.

Something to digest

Fat has been in my head all week - I guess you could call me a fathead. Have you ever had the feeling that there is some undercurrent of significance at play when you find yourself out of the blue reading about certain topics over and over without meaning to?

It first started when we came across articles and books detailing what is wrong with the way we eat in this country, in addition to, of course, what we eat, why we eat, and whatever other adverb you’d like to insert. It is generally accepted that the USA has a long way to go. We eat too much fast food, too much fake food, too many preservatives and chemicals, and our food travels thousands of unnecessary miles to our plates. While other countries take hours for a meal, we feel that we need to finish ours in minutes. While some countries are lacking food, ours is on the whole overfed yet malnourished (because of the quality of food we eat). We’ve become so big as individuals that when they renovated Ford’s Theatre in Washington, DC, they tried to keep it authentic to how it looked in Lincoln's day, but had no choice but to widen all the seats to accommodate our modern bodies. That’s pretty sad, when you think of the expansive dresses they wore back then, isn’t it?

OK, so Ed and I started discussing our food supply and eating habits, and then, when I was perusing a gadget catalog, I noticed a T-shirt that said, “I’m not fat - I’m AMERICAN!”

The next thing we read was that in Formosa, the parents have historically instructed their children to eat until they were 85% full, and no more. That way, they avoided the obesity that has plagued the USA - where, as Ed chuckled, our parents were telling us to clean our plates because “children were starving in China.” Some of them weren’t starving - they were just being taught to eat sensibly, while we were getting fat, trying to finish off “their” food.

So where does this rambling lead? To an e-mail I received the other day. For some reason, this e-mail brought together every book, every magazine article, every piece of information about fat that has crossed my life this week. The e-mail was from Hewlett Packard, and they were announcing their latest camera - it makes you skinny. I’m not kidding. It comes with some kind of software in the camera itself called a “slimming” option. Here is their spiel:

They say cameras add ten pounds, but HP digital cameras can help reverse that effect. The slimming feature, available on select HP digital camera models, is a subtle effect that can instantly trim off pounds from the subjects in your photos!
With the slimming feature, anyone can appear more slender—instantly.
• The effect is subtle—subjects still look like themselves
• Can be adjusted for a more dramatic effect
• See a before and after version, then decide which to keep

Has it come to this? I know photo manipulation has been used in the ad industry for a long time - and I have used it myself on a few occasions to remove errant bra straps and such - but really, do we need to have a slimming feature in our cameras? Can we not even take an honest photo - is it just too real?

I, for one, will not buy it. I will not “touch up” a candid photo of myself. I choose the cheaper, more sensible, more authentic method. If I don’t like it, I delete it. (This is why there are very few pictures of me in my collection. I don’t like most of them.) Of course, the catch is - I’m forced to lose weight the old-fashioned way. Sigh. I’ll just consider it my sacrifice for integrity.

Equal Time

My sister Joy and I have shared some hilarious experiences. One of the most memorable ones was when Memphis Magazine held a treasure-hunt contest. We travelled all over Memphis and its environs with obscure clues in hand. Once we ended up in Mississippi, or Arkansas, or both, by mistake. Several times we traipsed around mud-filled parks and golf courses. We got soaked in rain. We tore our pantyhose. We went to playgrounds at night with only a shovel and a flashlight, standing behind trees to hide from oncoming headlights. We carried around crowbars to lift up manholes. We had so much fun! Alas, we never did unearth the Bufflehead prize, but I found solace in keeping a written record of our exploits, part of which Memphis Magazine published. Joy only had one reservation about my essays. “How come,” she lamented, “you always make me out to be the idiot?” My answer: “I am the author. I can do whatever I want.”

I was reminded of that this week. After I write each blog entry, I read it to Ed. He’ll smile or laugh or just roll his eyes, but recently he voiced a thought similar to Joy's - wondering how come I always make fun of him, and never mention the stupid things I do or say. My answer: “I’m the author. I can do whatever I want.” I added, “You can get your own blog and make fun of me.” Fortunately, he has never shown any interest in doing such a thing.

After some consideration, I decided it was time for an entry of personal confession. I will graciously give Ed equal time and sacrifice my spotless reputation to reveal my faults. Feel free to snicker or give an all-out guffaw. I can take it.

Most people already know how accident-prone I am. I burned myself by pointing an already flaming (unbeknownst to me) fire starter gel bottle at my face and squeezing, which resulted in an explosion. I’ve sliced a chunk of skin off the tip of my finger while peeling potatoes. I’ve slipped on the kitchen floor carrying a pot of boiling water with oil in it to the kitchen sink. Just last week, I burned my lip trying to get a loaf of homemade bread out of the hot pan. (Some people would find that challenging, but I have apparently perfected the technique. You have to shake the pan so hard that you lose control of it and it hits your mouth. And it has to be a really, really hot pan, right out of the oven.) I’ve sewn through my finger with the sewing machine needle, and another time I had a sewing machine needle pop out and bounce off my eyeball. I’ve run into things, tripped on things, and generally have had so many accidents that my co-workers once gave me a first-aid kit for my birthday. All my friends and relatives have their own ideas about why I am so prone to accidents. Ed says I just go too fast and don’t pay attention.

I also have what folks call “senior moments.” Like trying to turn on the TV with the phone (or trying to answer the phone with the remote). Like putting the yogurt cup in the microwave instead of the refrigerator. Like using confectioner’s sugar instead of flour in a cookie recipe (sweet!). C’mon now - I know you do it too.

I put my hot water bottle in the microwave to heat it up. I’ve done it for years. Yesterday it was one time too many, and it blew up. Water came pouring out of the microwave onto the stove below. That was one of my finer moments.

I guess the most recent incident in my life worthy of confession is my attempt to back up in our driveway. Our driveway is gravel, and it is on an incline with a slight curve to the left. Add to this the fact that we have no grass in our yard to visually separate the brown dirt driveway from the brown dirt yard (or the white snow-covered driveway from the white snow-covered yard), and one can understand how I might have a little trouble.

When the driveway is full of ice or snow, I get stuck on the hill several times when I’m leaving for work in the morning. The only thing to do in that case is to just back up to a flatter area and start over. For some reason, I can’t seem to back up straight. I back up crooked. I should see the side porch of the house in my rearview mirror, in which case I know I’m OK. When I see the front porch of the house in my rearview mirror, I know I’m in trouble. I know if I keep backing up in that direction, my car will be our new piece of living room furniture.

Our driveway is a few inches higher than the front yard, so as I back up crooked, I tend to get stuck on that edge, with the right half of the car being down in the yard and the left half being up on the driveway. For some reason, this perturbs Ed. Maybe it’s because he has placed a reflective post to alert me to the edge of the driveway. Maybe it’s because I’ve backed up on, run over, and flattened that reflective post a few times. Maybe it’s because I get him out of a sound sleep in a warm bed at 4:00 a.m. to go out in freezing weather to get my car unstuck. Who can say?

Well, that’s all I can confess today. It’s all Ed can think of, anyway. I told him that this is his only chance to develop a fan base for himself, to form a group of people sympathetic to his plight, wondering how on earth he could live with a crazy klutz like Carol.

Hey, confession feels good. Maybe I will try it again in the future. In the meantime, though, I’ll continue to focus on Ed and the rest of my family. They provide me with so much wonderful material that it would be a shame not to share it. If anyone in the family ever wants to take issue with my portrayal of their eccentricities, they can just give me a phone call. I’ll answer it as soon as I can find the remote.

Maybe the dog will eat it

Part of our simplification/life enhancement process is eating healthier. For those of you who don’t know, Ed has always done the cooking in our household (and for that, the kids will be forever grateful). I saw a set of aprons in a catalog yesterday that gave me a chuckle. One apron (for Ed) said, “She married me for my cooking.” The other apron (mine) said, “He didn’t marry me for my cooking.” Why should I bother to learn how to cook well if my husband is gifted in that area, and enjoys it to boot?

Anyway, for the last few years, Ed has made a special effort to steer our menus towards healthier fare. His favorite place to shop is the local natural food store. He bought kefir the other day. It’s some kind of Russian dairy product. It looks like buttermilk with lumps of God knows what. So gross. But it’s for him, not for me, thank goodness. I just have to turn away when he pours it.

That’s the point. He can experiment on himself as much as he wants. Just don’t test these concoctions on the rest of us. The family loves his cooking, but when we hear “experiment,” the groans begin. (He cooks for the extended family on holidays and at other times, but I am usually the recipient of his cooking skills, of course). He makes excellent chili, but every time he fools with the recipe, we are disappointed. Why tamper with perfection? He will put something in, take something out, change something here or there. He does this with cornbread and any other thing in his repertoire. Always tinkering. He just can’t leave well enough alone.

One of his dishes I adore is homemade beef vegetable soup. When he makes this, he usually makes a big pot of it and our culinary enjoyment can stretch several meals. The other night, we had some of that leftover soup. I anticipated the dinner all day with joy. I always look forward to soup night.

On this particular night, as I sat down to the table, I had an immediate misgiving. It was the smell. It didn’t smell right.
“Is this the regular homemade soup you usually make?” I asked. “It smells funny.”
Ed was reassuring. “It’s leftover soup from last week.”
Hmmm, I thought. I gingerly took a spoonful and immediately spit it out.
“That’s horrible!” I sputtered. “You say this is the same soup we had before? What happened?”
Ed was on his second spoonful. “It tastes OK to me,” he said. Of course, he had added his usual generous shot of Tabasco to his bowl, so his sense of taste was skewed.
“Well,” I said dejectedly as I pushed my bowl away, “it tastes fishy. It’s beef vegetable soup but it tastes fishy.”
“Doesn’t taste fishy to me,” he said, slurping his third spoonful.
“Well, this is unacceptable,” I replied. “I’m going to heat up a can of Bean and Bacon soup.”

As I got up to head to the stove, the horrible fishy taste apparently had made its way through the Tabasco in Ed’s bowl and he pushed his bowl aside. “You’re right,” he said. “It does taste fishy. Worse than fishy. It tastes like dead fish after the tide has gone out.”
Meanwhile I was at the stove, stirring my alternative entree.
“I can’t understand it,” I kept repeating. “It’s leftover soup, for Pete’s sake! We just had it last week! It’s the same soup, and last week it was delicious!” I just shook my head in befuddlement.
There was silence for a couple of minutes. Finally, Ed’s apparent guilt got the better of him, and I heard him say ever so quietly, “It may be because I put seaweed in it.”

SEAWEED? IN MY BEEF VEGETABLE SOUP?

Turns out he had bought seaweed at his last visit to the natural food store and thought it would be a good experiment to add it to the leftover soup. It was not a good experiment. It was a very, very bad experiment.
Ed seemed sincerely apologetic. “I thought it might make it taste salty, like the sea. I didn’t know it would taste like rotten fish. Sorry.”

You would think from this tale that Ed has learned his lesson - that experiments should stay out of the kitchen, that we are not human guinea pigs, and that just because it’s sold at the health food store doesn’t make it good. But somehow I doubt it. I notice he has one package of seaweed left. Lord help us.

Times, they are a'changing

I’ve always enjoyed the company of elderly folks. A lot of my acquaintances are nervous around the elderly for one reason or another. Maybe being around the aged reminds them of their own mortality - I’m not sure. Those acquaintances are much more relaxed in the company of children. For me, it’s just the opposite. Of course, I love my children and my children’s children, and my sister’s children. But on the whole, other people’s children, as cute as they are, quickly drain me, while old people infuse me with energy, affection, and - well - curiosity.

If you consider life a journey, the elderly represent for me the ones who have travelled the farthest. They’ve successfully navigated those areas that I have yet to cross. I love to hear their stories, embellished as they are sometimes. Old people have a lot to say.

My Uncle Tommy, at least, has a lot to say. As a McDonald, he will bend your ear for hours at a time as he talks about Scottish history (don’t get him started on the murderous Campbells!). He is also the keeper of family anecdotes. His sister (my mother) can be rather taciturn. She has a lot of memories, but doesn’t really think anyone else would be interested. I don’t think it ever occurs to Uncle Tommy that somebody wouldn’t be interested in his stories, as they excite him and he is certain they will excite his listeners. Once years ago we stayed overnight with Uncle Tommy and Aunt June. After others had gone to bed, Ed and I stayed up with Uncle Tommy, who was his usual garrulous self. He was full of family stories that night - some we had never heard before. I thought at the time that I should have been taking notes, but fortunately Ed has a wonderful memory and to this day, he can retell those fascinating tidbits of my heritage.

How did our mother get the first name of Arnetta, a name she never uses? Well, there was an uncle Arnett in the family back then, who was always in a cyclic financial status - he would get rich, lose it all, get rich, lose it all - and my grandparents named my mother Arnetta after Uncle Arnett, hoping to catch him in of the wealthy parts of his cycle when it came time to make his will. Alas, it was not to be. He was broke when he died. As they say, timing is everything.

Old people are fascinating, because in them I see my future, and in them as well I vicariously live a past that I have only read about in books. On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong made his historic moon walk. Ed relates that as he and his family watched the fuzzy pictures on TV, Ed’s elderly grandmother shook her head in amazement. “When I was a young married woman,” she explained, “we and most of our friends still had outhouses. And now a man is walking on the moon.” It just seemed incredible to her, and if you think about it, that’s quite understandable.

I think some of my friends are uncomfortable around old people because it can be frustrating to deal with the mental lapses and slowing that comes with age. But think about it: People my mother’s age (almost 84) have seen countless changes and inventions in their lifetimes, a list of which, laid end to end, would stretch for miles. Just in the field of safety, they’ve seen the creation of smoke detectors, seat belts, car seats, air bags. They’ve seen the invention of TV, color TV, remote controls, VCRs, DVDs. When they were young parents, a walkie-talkie made a great kid’s gift - and now their kids and their kids’ kids are e-mailing friends instantly around the world. They used to depend on department stores; now they can buy anything over the Internet. They grew up with scratchy 78 rpm records, and they lived to see that media evolve into today’s digital music, where thousands of songs can be stored on a portable iPod. They grew up having to talk to an operator at a switchboard just to place a phone call, and now they see cordless phones and cell phones, some with built-in cameras. Speaking of cameras, they’ve lived to see cameras that don’t need film! The medical field advancements they have witnessed would have been unimaginable when they were young. Heart transplants? Total joint replacements? Amazing!

Not everything old people have lived through has been glorious, of course. When they were young adults, there were certain products that were not advertised...let’s say, personal hygiene products, for instance. There were certain things of which proper society did not speak. There were certain things a proper lady would not wear out in public. Heck, the media even agreed to keep Franklin D. Roosevelt’s paralysis a secret! Now the elderly are bombarded with details of celebrities’ sex lives. I can understand why old people these days are awkwardly trying to maneuver around a transformed world. Sometimes they must feel that the world as they knew it has turned upside down.

My sister recently accompanied our mom to a doctor’s visit. While they were in the doctor’s office, my mom mentioned an article in the Memphis paper that she wanted to cut out and send me. My sister, who had her laptop with her, immediately got online, accessed the newspaper’s web site, and e-mailed me the article, right from the room. My mother was astounded. She knows, of course, that things like that can be done now, but watching them unfold always takes her breath away.

We’ve gotten so nonchalant about all the changes in the world that we are sometimes advised to reenergize by stepping back and seeing the world through the eyes of children, with their sense of unending wonder. What we are apt to forget is the benefit of stepping back and seeing the world through the eyes of the elderly, as they have a sense of unending wonder, too. Next time you interact with an old person, and you feel impatient and frustrated and annoyed, calm down and try to imagine what it must be like to have lived through such a world, a world that is still changing even as I write this. The fact that they even survived, and in many cases, thrived, deserves respect and admiration. Old people have a lot to say. I, for one, am listening.

Instrument of Change

I had an ongoing ritual. Every day I would come home from work and complain. I complained about injustice, I complained about how the office was run, I ranted and raved about individuals who were obnoxious, irresponsible, dishonest, and inadequate. After a few of these complaint sessions, Ed would give me some advice which I would usually ignore, but I would be temporarily humbled and make a vow to quit finding fault with everything and everyone, only to find myself before long once more voicing my unending dissatisfaction.

I will not detail my complaints here. Some were petty, some were selfish, some were formed by my sense of fair play, and others were ignited by how co-workers had treated me. I was a helpless victim, at least in my own mind. I did not have the authority to run the office the way I felt it should be run, and I felt as if I had been sucked into a giant vacuum of stress, a condition which I was powerless to overcome.

This past Tuesday, as I finished one of my complaining sessions, Ed said, “When are you going to learn that you can’t change other people? When will you recognize that you can only change yourself?” Something finally clicked.

A few weeks ago, I had dreamed a strange dream. In it, a family friend had given me a dollar bill - a treasure of sorts - torn into three long pieces, each with a jagged, irregular edge. I remember in the dream that my response was one of disappointment. I realized that the money would be of no use to me unless I managed to tape the pieces back together, and with the jagged edges, how utterly time-consuming and frustrating that task would be! The money, though, would be useless in that broken condition.

As I sat there in silence after Ed asked those questions, I thought of that dream. We’re told that we consist of three aspects - body, mind, and spirit. I realized that the stress I was putting myself under at work had torn my identity apart. I was acting in ways that did not reflect my true self, and it was going to take some work to reassemble my mind and spirit parts so that I could again work and live with integrity. I could not “fix” anyone else, but I could certainly take charge of myself.

The next day, instead of inwardly grumbling about a co-worker jumping on the “good” dictations (or even racing her for them), I started giving them away of my own free will. “Here, I’ve had one of these already today...why don’t you take this one?” I also made special amends to one co-worker with whom I have had a very difficult relationship for almost two years. I kind of enjoyed all this. Regardless of the response, it felt good to be kind and generous. I felt like Scrooge after his nocturnal journeys. I concluded that Ed was right - I could only change my attitude, so that is what I changed. As a byproduct of my actions, my co-workers are changing too, even though that was not my initial goal or even expectation. There is now in the office an aura of graciousness and kindness (along with some understandable shock!). My stress level has plummeted, and I don’t dread going to work in the morning.

I’ve often turned to the Serenity Prayer for guidance, but it was only this week that I really - really - understood its meaning. To have the ability to change the things you can, accept the things you can’t change, and the wisdom to know the difference. In the end, Ed is right. All I can change is myself. And therein is indeed my treasure.

And the Greatest of These is Love

We took advantage of slightly warmer weather to take Caroline and Charlotte to the playground yesterday. The playground itself was covered in pine mulch chips, so it was not slushy, but the yard we had to cross from the parking lot to the playground was full of mud through the whole middle of it. Caroline, who, by the way, had on brand new light-colored sneakers, was so excited to get to the playground that she ran right through the mud. Rachel immediately yelled, “Oh, no, Caroline! New shoes!” and rushed down the sidewalk to get to her.

“Caroline,” she wailed, “You ran through the mud in your new shoes!” To which Caroline looked up at her solemnly and asked, “And what should I have done?”

We had another death to deal with this week. An 89-year-old friend of ours died after a long, fulfilled life, although the quality of her life in the last few years had been greatly deteriorating. We had made it a point to take her out to eat several times (when she was felt well enough to get dressed and go out). We took her to tour the model home that we chose when we decided to build our new house. We visited her by ourselves, sometimes with Matthew, sometimes with Rachel and the girls. During one blizzard, we brought her a fresh flower bouquet, because she hated snow so much. We wanted to remind her that spring was indeed coming at some point. One day in the middle of summer, I took my harp to her apartment and gave an impromptu concert on her front porch, which she seemed to enjoy very much.

But after every death of someone close to us, I always find myself asking the question that Caroline asked. “What should I have done?” Then I expand on it. This week, I asked questions again. Should I have called Winnie more? Should we have brought her food when she didn’t feel like going out? Should I have brought her more flowers to cheer her up? Visited more? In other words, did we do enough?

There are some people in this life whom we care about very much. Death comes, and with it no more opportunities to show love. We all have busy lives, and amidst the stress and scheduling, we try to find time to do the actions which demonstrate love and caring. We remember all the times we said, “Hey, we should [call, visit, take out to dinner, take for a drive, pick up some things at the grocery for, check on, mail a card to, etc.].” In looking back, some plans never materialized, or something came up, or life just took another turn. Then the death, then the door shuts on all good intentions, then the inevitable question: What should I have done?

Serendipity

Sometimes I sit down to blog and have some deep philosophical matter to discuss. Other times, the subject is about simple pleasures. Today it is the latter.

One of my favorite words is serendipity. I read where the term originated in 1754, coined by Horace Walpole, suggested by The Three Princes of Serendip, the title of a fairy tale in which the heroes “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.”

On our way home today, we had a serendipitous experience. We were driving the speed limit up a hill in the right “slower” lane of a highway, when the driver of a Volkswagen Bug, of all things, raced past at a high speed. Then we watched as he tried to pass another car on the right as the road narrowed to one lane. We’re used to seeing pickup trucks and SUVs speed past us around here, but I just never thought a little Bug would be a Hare to our Tortoise.

A few seconds later, a police car, lights flashing and siren blaring, headed down the highway in the same direction. As we turned onto our street, Ed commented that the police were after the Volkswagen. I, on the other hand, got the impression that their presence was unrelated, that maybe they had been called on an emergency somewhere. Within 30 seconds of this discussion, we both decided to turn our car around, go back to the highway, head south, and see if we could see that the police had pulled the Bug over.

We drove for a couple of miles in an area that we probably haven’t seen in years, and saw nary the police car or the Bug. We did, however, come upon a wonderful local smokehouse that we had read about but never visited. Their speciality was smoked salmon and other fish. We recognized a serendipity immediately! It was a half hour before closing time, so we strode into the store with an air of excited expectancy and bought the most heavenly piece of smoked trout I ever did taste, and that’s what we had for supper tonight.

If that car hadn’t been speeding - if the police hadn’t careened by - if we hadn’t turned around - I wouldn’t be blogging about smoked trout tonight. But it did, and they did, and we did.

Sometimes serendipity surfaces to produce great life-changing moments. You're in the right place at the right time; maybe you forgot to get your gloves, and the delay put you in a place to meet your future partner, or you happened to bump into a person on the subway who could transform your career - things like that. But most of the time, it is the small, fleeting serendipity - the one whose power maybe lies only in the simple pleasure of a succulent piece of smoked fish - that is one of life's little unexpected rewards. I've found that to experience and appreciate these serendipities is one way to truly live in the moment.

Following the Rabbit

My oldest granddaughter was named after me and her other grandma - her first name, Caroline, after me, and her second name, Alice, after her paternal grandmother. I’ve always liked the name Alice, I guess because it reminds me of the adventures of Alice in Wonderland. Ah, the place where things are not what they seem to be. (Which reminds me of that Gilbert and Sullivan line my dad used to sing: “Things are seldom what they seem. Skim milk masquerades as cream.”) In Wonderland, you never know what to expect and things could turn topsy-turvy in the blink of an eye. I always imagined how it would feel to be in a setting so incongruous that you wonder if you have stepped into another dimension.

Well, I finally was able to experience that out-of-body/mind experience today. Maine is under a winter storm warning, and we are expecting loads of snow and freezing rain changing to rain to descend upon our entire state momentarily. We made a trip to the grocery for necessities, and all we had left to do was replenish our fatwood and BioBrick supply. (For the uninitiated among my readers, probably you warm-climate dwellers, fatwood is resin-treated sticks used for kindling, and a BioBricks are recycled wood byproducts shaped into bricks to be used in a wood-burning stove.) It is indeed the middle of March, but every good “Mainah” knows that we are still in the throes of winter, and tonight’s forecast emphatically reminds us of that. The highs today are in the 20s. Snow is still piled up in parking lots. Everyone is bundled up against single-digit wind chill.

We have 3 places in our little town where we can buy these items. We tried the nearest one. We walked into the corner where we knew the fatwood was prominently displayed in its burlap bags. There in front of us lay....well, basically empty shelves. That was disappointing, but not shocking. The shocking part was the apparent reason for the empty shelves - for immediately adjacent to the place where the fatwood should have been, there were shelves of - ready for this? - CHARCOAL! Yes, folks, we’ve just stumbled into Wonderland.

We made haste to get out of there, almost tripping over the GRILL and LAWN CHAIR displays. OK, so maybe we hadn’t heard the forecast right. Maybe spring came when we weren’t looking. Maybe all that white stuff outside is, uh, cotton that somehow got carried by the winds to Maine from Alabama.

So we tried the second store, a big Home Depot. We went straight to the aisle where we had previously seen fatwood and fireplace accessories. The good news is that their shelves weren’t empty. Hurray! The bad news is...they were full of LAWNMOWERS. Now why didn’t I think of that? That snow and ice in our yard has needed mowing for the longest time. The whole thing was so incredulous, it took all the control I could muster not to collar an employee and say, “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHERE YOU ARE????” But in my gentlest, most non-accusing voice, I just approached the customer service desk and asked where the wood-stove supplies went. The lady pointed to a 2-shelf display shoved in a corner a few feet from the desk. “That’s all we have left,” she said, as she resumed her work.

Again, we walked out of the store, noticing the seed packet displays and the countless fertilizer bags stacked high. We stopped to take our bearings. We live in Maine. Check. It is still winter. Check. We are under a major winter storm warning. Check. We can’t buy kindling but we can buy a lawnmower. Check. Yes, the facts seemed evident, but obviously we were still in Wonderland, or its modern counterpart, the Twilight Zone.

The third store, our last, final, desperate attempt to restore our sanity, was closed for staff training. I hope the first thing they train their staff to do is keep the store open during staff training. I hope the second thing they train their staff to do is to be able to step outside and guess what season it is.

So that was our day. As I write this, Ed is valiantly trying to keep the fire burning without fatwood or BioBricks, and me....well, I’m deciding if it’s worth sitting out in my lawn chair while my steak sizzles on the charcoal grill. At least I’ll have a front-row seat to enjoy the blizzard. Pass the iced tea, Alice. It’s gonna be a long night.

Adjusting

A great number of participants in the simplicity movement call themselves followers of “voluntary simplicity.” This affirms that their lifestyle changes are based on desire, not necessity. I can’t really call our lifestyle changes exclusively voluntary. To be sure, we crave a life of peace and simplicity, so a strong desire is there, but our changes are also borne out of more practical reasons.

We got our heating oil delivery today, and the bill was $237.00 for 4-1/2 weeks. That is probably half of what it would have been in the old Victorian house. Our electricity bill has been halved, our property taxes have been halved, our house insurance has been halved. Add to these regular expenses the issue of frequent and costly old-house repairs on an ongoing basis, and you can clearly see a few reasons why we moved. As beautiful and meaningful as that big old house was, it was financially inadvisable for us to continue to live there. It was a financial drain that could not exist indefinitely.

So in a way, we have no choice for downsizing. Fortunately, it is a fulfilling way of life for us.

Some people come into downsizing kicking and screaming. The power of culture is still strong. The encouragement to “upsize” and accumulate more and more never disappears. Sometimes a decision to simplify is sidetracked by catalogs as much as a decision to diet is blown off course by our culture’s obsession with food. It's easy to assume the attitude of victim, focusing relentlessly on the injustice of it all. Part of the downsizing is necessity, but all of it is our fulfillment. It is the path we are choosing more and more frequently. It is nice, isn't it, when what life demands of you is the same thing that you most strongly desire anyway?

We’re not fighting our simplicity movement. We are choosing instead to embrace it. It forces us to continually reexamine our priorities, and that is, as Martha Stewart would say, a “good thing.” A definition of embrace is this: “To accept or support (a belief, theory, or change) willingly and enthusiastically.” Some might call it “riding the wave” or “going with the flow.”

Some of my acquaintances ask me what it’s like going from a closet the size of a room with built-in shelves, ceiling lights, and tons of space to a regular small closet with one shelf and no lights. They ask me how hard it is for us to adjust to having no garage, after we have enjoyed years of a 2-car garage with automatic doors. They ask me how we can possibly survive with only two channels on TV and painstakingly slow dial-up Internet connection.

My response has been consistent. When I can’t see my shoes on the floor of my closet, I just smile. When I have to scrape my car off in 0-degree weather at 4:30 in the morning, I smile again. When I have to move the ironing board and two boxes to access a drawer of quilt fabric - yes, again I smile. (When it takes me several hours to download a 2-minute video of Caroline reading....OK, I get quite grumpy.) The questioners are incredulous, of course. How can I smile at things that would most likely be irritating and at times totally exasperating?

Necessary simplicity, voluntary simplicity, or combination thereof - whatever you want to term it - has become integral to our lives. We could fight it, or we can embrace it. We have chosen to embrace it.

I stand in front of my closet and remember the conclusion I came to a couple of years ago - that if I had too many clothes to fit in this closet, then I just had too many clothes, period. When I watch the crazy weatherman on Channel 7, I enjoy a pleasant diversion and get to see Ed go nuts at the same time. When I move stuff around in my sewing room/office in order to access other stuff, I’m reminded how much wonderful fabric and books and tools I have. When I scrape my car before I leave for work, I take a moment to look up at the sky, rewarding myself with glimpses of an extraordinarily large moon or shining stars - a view which can put a realistic perspective on life itself. I even marvel at seeing my breath in the frosty air - appreciating the ability to see that which is ordinarily invisible but without which I wouldn't exist. Embracing simplicity tends to make one annoyingly philosophical.

Oh, I know the “honeymoon” with simplicity may not last. I know I will find mud season particularly unpleasant when our yard has no grass yet. But I sincerely hope this enjoyment of location and circumstance continues until the day we die. I believe embracing - certainly not fighting and not just accepting - the whole lot of it is the secret.

We don't want simplicity to be just an acquaintance we tolerate because we have to; we want it to be a dear friend that we have invited to live with us. And I hope that will make all the difference.

Growing the Future

Back when my sister and her husband got married, a video was made for them at the reception which included comments and best wishes and honeymoon advice from the wedding guests. When they turned the camera on our little Matthew, the ring bearer, he came up with this: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Of course, he had no idea what it meant, but he thought it sounded good enough to say.

From the first moment our kids are born, we have aspirations for them. Part of this process entails the search for similarities between parent and child. One of the greatest compliments you can give a new parent is to say, “Your baby looks just like you!” As the child grows, we bask in every nuance of mannerism that mirrors our own. He’s got my smile or my gait. She’s got my speech pattern or my wit. Then later, we cultivate our interests and hobbies. Chris is pleased when Caroline can pronounce some obscure character’s name in Star Wars. I’m ecstatic when Charlotte can recognize Lincoln. And, as last week revealed, I took pride when Caroline expressed a tiny bit of interest in quilting. Already I had her life planned out as being the next generation of quilters in the family.

“Don’t do what I wouldn’t do,” and its corollary, “Do what I do; like what I like; be good at what I am good at” are parental mantras, whether we actually voice them or not. These are our expectations, because part of the joy in raising children is feeling we have had some influence over their personalities and tastes and beliefs. We have passed on part of ourselves.

My dad was a philatelist. I always felt guilty that neither my sister nor I ever really carried on his love of stamp collecting. But instead, he passed on to us his love of music.

Caveats abound in parenting books on the trap of trying to live through your kids. I get a kick out of thinking that were it not for my mother, I never would have learned to play the piano. Was she a pianist? No - she couldn’t play a note. But she always wanted to learn, so instead of learning herself, she enrolled her daughters in piano lessons and played the piano vicariously from then on. That’s sort of a backwards influence - in this case, not “Do what I do,” but “Do what I always wished I could do.”

An Asian Olympic skier was in the news this week. He had become lost as a child, and when his parents couldn’t be located, he ended up being adopted by an American couple - who happened to be ski instructors. He was immersed in that pursuit at an early age, and followed it to participation in the Olympics. I wondered what would have happened if he had been adopted by violin virtuosos or artisan bread bakers. Would their influence have moved his life in a different, maybe equally successful direction?

As our children maneuver through adulthood, our roles change more to that of spectators rather than participants. We set the foundation, help with the education, then watch what turns out. Sometimes they mirror our interests; sometimes they go off in a complete different direction. Sometimes, like my friend Sally, we marvel at how on earth these talented, gifted, remarkable adults ever even came out of our bodies, because they have developed their skills to such heights that they have surpassed our wildest expectations. We watch them make decisions about careers, about finances, about where to live, about how to negotiate relationships, about how to raise their own kids, and we worry and we encourage and sometimes we just stand back in awe and wonderment.

So sometimes we find ourselves starting to say, “Don’t do what we wouldn’t do,” and other times, “Do what we do,” but in the end, all we can say to our children is this: Be your wonderful selves. Develop your potential. Have patience with us because it's hard to let go. But most important: We love you and are so proud to be your parents.

In The Hole...Why I Don't Play Golf

Our daughter Rachel, her husband Chris, and our granddaughters Charlotte and Caroline visited us for several hours on Friday. It must have been the first time my quilt hoop had been set up for Caroline to see, because after I arrived home from work, Caroline seemed to take a curious interest in it.

“This is a quilt I’m making for your mom and dad,” I said. (OK, so I started it 5 years ago for their wedding quilt. It will be finished just in time for their 5th anniversary!) Caroline peered intently. I explained the mechanics of a quilt, how they called it a quilt sandwich, because it was 3 layers, and had a back, a middle, and a top. Caroline giggled. “But we don’t eat the quilt sandwich,” she said, her eyes twinkling. I gathered she thought the idea was pretty silly. (It was a great time for inserting something about a “high-fiber diet,” but, alas, when you’re discussing things with a 3-year-old, sometimes you have to forego the puns.)

She asked if she could learn how to quilt. I let her scoot underneath the hoop so she could watch the finger of my left hand from the underside as it deflected the needle. I showed her the callus on that finger, and I explained that actually touching the point of needle was the only way to be truly certain that the needle had penetrated all 3 layers of the quilt.

She then requested to cuddle up with me in my chair and “help.” I let her do so, showed her where I kept my thimble and what it was used for, showed her my tiny scissors that looked like a stork, my spool of thread, and my tiny, tiny needle. When she had absorbed all that information, I showed her how to thread the needle.

Now, you have to understand that I use a size 12 quilting needle, which is the smallest they make. It’s known for its ability to achieve the prized tiny stitches every hand quilter wants. It’s so small that if you ever dropped it, your only hope of retrieving it would be catching a glimpse of a piece of thread dangling from its tiny eye. And it is into this miniature eye that I am supposed to stick a piece of thread on a regular basis.

I do this many times in one quilting session. It never gets easier, and to add insult to injury, the older I get, the worse my eyesight gets, and the smaller they make the eye of the needle!

So there I was, trying to show Caroline how to thread a needle. I missed the first attempt (what a surprise!) and immediately thereafter missed the second, third, fourth, and fifth attempts. I tried all the tricks - wetting the thread, wetting the needle, cutting the thread at an angle - all the usual things - but that thread was stubborn and the needle was mischievous. For a while, I even forgot about Rachel, Chris, Ed, and Charlotte in the room. I even forgot about Caroline, sitting there so patiently. My surroundings just melted away as I repeatedly tried in vain to put the thread through that hole.

I have a needle threader, but gosh darn it, it was the principle of the thing by this time. I’m 52, not 82, and I ought to be able to thread a needle on command.

At last I received the successful outcome I had so ardently worked for. There! Did you see it? The thread went through the hole! I laughed, I giggled, I was thoroughly giddy. I did it!

At times like that, I push the thought from my mind that this is just one of many times I will have to thread the needle in the future, maybe even in the next few minutes. No - all I was focused on was my moment of thrilling success. As Ed says, “It doesn’t take much to amuse you.”

I continued the quilting lesson, letting Caroline pull the needle out of the quilt a few times, showing her how the stitches we were creating were forming a circle of stitches. She said, “How many have we got? I bet there’s 15!” So I counted. We had 8. I let her do 2 more stitches. “How many now, Grammy? I bet there’s a HUNDRED!”

Our little lesson filled me with gratitude. Of course, her interest may wane. Caroline may have had her fill of quilting after a while. But who knows - it may stick. I may be training the next quilter in the family. At the very least, though, I’m building memories.

Next time you hear someone say something is “like looking for a needle in a haystack,” you can smile and think of me. Because the hardest part is not finding the needle - it’s threading the darn thing.

Clarity

My sister posted an interesting comment to my last blog entry, offering one of our favorite hymns to the discussion. “Be Thou My Vision” is a hymn that we made sure was sung at our father’s funeral, as the prayer expressed therein interpreted his life.

I’m thinking a lot about vision this week, as I have just finished the eye chapter of my studies. I learned, by the way, that the pupil does not increase and decrease in size - it is the iris which opens and closes, making it appear that the pupil is getting larger and getting smaller. Even studying about the eye, you can’t always “see” the truth easily!

“See” is one of the first words we used to learn. Remember the Dick and Jane books - See Spot run! Run, Spot, run!” See this, see that. Seeing is believing. Seeing your way clear. See what I mean?

The eye is a most intricate instrument. As I understand it, the cornea bends, or refracts, the waves of light, then the light is focused on the retina (the nerve layer), which in turn sends impulses to the brain through the optic nerve. Of course, many of us have defects in the ability to properly focus images, resulting in vision correction in one form or another. Add to that diseases of the eye, such as glaucoma, and sometimes we really can’t see clearly. But in essence, the eye “sees” and the brain “understands.” That’s the kind of clarity I’m looking for.

Coincidentally, as I was studying the anatomy and function of the eye, I was reading an article by Steve Pavlina called “The Power of Clarity.” Mr. Pavlina is CEO of Dexterity Software, and he is writing mainly to people in business, but his thoughts apply to us all, I think. We all want to have clarity in our lives - some kind of vision that directs our lives in such a way as to reach our goals and give our lives some significance.

Here are some of the things Mr. Pavlina has to say:

Bunker Hunt, a man who rose from a bankrupt cotton farmer in the 1930s to a multi-billionaire when he died in the 1970s, was once asked during a TV interview what advice he could give to others who wanted to be financially successful. He responded by saying that it’s not terribly difficult to be successful and that only two things are required. First, you must decide exactly what it is you want to accomplish. Most people never do that in their entire lives. And secondly, you must determine what price you’ll have to pay to get it, then resolve to pay that price.

First, I want to thank Mr. Pavlina for modifying the word “successful” with the word “financially.” As I mentioned before, there are lots of different ways to be successful. I would also add a phrase to his last sentence, “....you must determine what price you’ll have to pay to get it, then resolve to pay that price or decide if that goal is worth that price.” Some people would love to make a few million dollars, but an 80-hour (or more) work week and no family time is not a price they are willing to pay, for instance. Or maybe you want to lose 100 pounds but realize that you aren’t willing to commit to the level of exercise or food intake that that goal would require. Clarity can help us set reachable, sustainable goals, and clarity can help us sometimes find the wisdom to redefine, adjust, or even relinquish those goals, if their price is just too high.

The whole idea of goal-setting can be overwhelming. I once had a goal software program that used an outline form. I had major goals, then minor goals under those, then goals that were “activity” goals under those, and so on. Then I had to decide whether to work on one or two goals first, or try to get a little done on every goal at the same time, or adopt some other method. There were even built-in reminders that would pop up on a calendar, detailing my “activity goals” for the day. The whole thing got to be too overwhelming, and I just dropped it.

To set goals for our lives, we have to have clarity, seeing the world through wisdom’s (God’s) eyes rather than the eyes of the marketing industry or the latest celebrity’s idea of fulfillment. It’s very hard to tune out all that cultural noise in order to concentrate on what direction we want our lives to take.

As if that weren’t enough, Mr. Pavlina even says the just choosing a life direction isn’t sufficient:

Many people assume that because they have a direction, they must therefore have goals, but this is not the case and merely creates the illusion of progress. “Making more money” and “building a business” are not goals. A goal is a specific, clearly defined, measurable state. An example of the difference between a direction and a goal is the difference between the compass direction of northeast and the top of the Eiffel Tower in France. One is merely a direction; the other is a definite location.

In other words, you know when you get there.

He goes on:

Every day is a mistake if you don’t know where you’re going. You’re probably spending most of your time working to achieve other people’s goals. The local fast food restaurant, TV advertisers, and the stockholders of the businesses you patronize are all very happy for that. If you don’t decide what you really want, then you’ve decided to hand your future over to the whims of others, and that’s always a mistake.

I think some goals that just function as directional goals are necessary. Not all goals can be measured. How will I know that Ed and I have raised responsible, kind, loving kids? It’s not something I can pinpoint in a single moment of awareness, but as I see our kids live their lives, raise their own kids, and interact with others, I am assured that we gave them a solid foundation and they are developing as we would have hoped.

Likewise, our journey to simplicity requires some directional goals and some measurable goals. How are we spending our money? How are we doing on controlling waste (not only of trash, but of food, money, time, energy, and our gifts)? Am I achieving the goals I wanted to achieve after we moved - like spending more time out in nature? Taking time to exercise? Taking time to quilt and to play the harp? Spending more time with Ed and less on the computer? Learning to live in the moment? Having a grateful attitude? Paying attention to my priorities?

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
be all else but naught to me, save that thou art;
be thou my best thought in the day and the night,
both waking and sleeping, thy presence my light.

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise:
be thou mine inheritance now and always;
be thou and thou only the first in my heart;
O Sovereign of heaven, my treasure thou art.

A sad state of affairs

I finished studying another chapter for my CMT exam tonight and decided to “reward” myself by watching some TV. As usual, I had my pick of two channels, and since the ABC show 20/20 was airing a show called “Promises, Promises,” I watched that. They were exposing deceptive marketing techniques of today’s product promotions. Promises of weight loss, “genuine” designer handbags at 90% off, fine print in car ads and other commercials on TV (print so small that you can’t even read it as it flashes across the screen), dubious claims from Suzanne Somers that her brand of hormone pills will guarantee eternal youth, off-label uses (not FDA approved) for prescription medications, encouraged in ads (paid for by the pharmaceutical companies) made to look like medical research papers - and on and on. Of course, the show itself was supported by commercials, all well versed in the latest marketing techniques.

We are a consumer-driven culture, certainly. We also are apparently a gullible group of consumers. The expression “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is” just falls on our deaf ears - deaf, that is, to common sense, but very much intact to empty promises. In the end, we can blame the deceptive practices of corporate America, the naivete of the average American, or, put in a more flattering light, the endless supply of hope in the human soul. We want desperately for something to work, to keep us young, to get rid of the weight, to be an incredible bargain, so much so that we accept the questionable product claims and ignore the fine print and warnings. The whole thing made me rather sad.

That 20/20 program, plus the countless commercials I sat through to watch it, reminded me again how entrenched our culture is in acquisition and how corporations and individuals take advantage of that. The advertisers know how to catch us - by encouraging our greed and by zoning in on our tiny glimmers of hope, knowing that we expect that this product or that product will be the key to our happiness in one way or another.

Another way the culture imposes its values on us is by its definitions. Take, for instance, the word “Christian.” There are groups of people in the world now whose idea of what it means to be Christian is diametrically opposed to mine. The word “patriotic” means something different to me than to many other people. Our environment (including but not limited to the advertising industry) has strongly suggested one definition over another time and time again.

I was listening to the radio this week when they aired a commercial for Donald Trump’s latest “success” kit. I’m not sure if it was a book and/or CDs and/or DVDs, but whatever it was, Donald Trump said that if you bought it, it would make you “successful.” He kept saying that everyone wants to be successful like he has been successful, and he would graciously show you the way there.

Well, Mr. Trump, there are many definitions of success, and financial success is only one. According to your standards, Mr. Trump, my dad was a total loser, because he never made much money. You would consider him unsuccessful, in spite of the fact that he had a wonderful, lasting marriage and gave his two girls a happy childhood, worked for peace and justice, wrote many letters of encouragement, and shared his love of music with his choirs for decades. I don’t really want to go into your personal life, Mr. Trump, but if you represent success, I think I’ll pass.

If there’s one thing I want to teach my kids and their kids, it’s this: Scrutinize the message society sends, because it is often a furtive, devious message that distorts the higher meaning of life. It can accumulate in your brains for a long enough time that it soon becomes the only message you can perceive. Don’t accept everything you hear as truth. Listen to your spirit for your innate wisdom. Ask questions about sources of information. Don’t assume a self-appointed “authority” really knows what’s best. And most important - create your own definitions and live with integrity. You too can become a success...just like my dad.

The Fix

I got my fix tonight. I didn’t realize I was so desperate, of course. I ignored the warning signs of pensiveness, inability to focus, unexplained longing, and frequent sighing. So I gave in, picked up the phone, and called the only one who could help me.

My fix was not for drugs or alcohol or even for Coke (which, by the way, I have not had since we moved in December). No - my fix was for Paw.

Paw is a character created by our son Matt when he was an adolescent. It was a virtual soap opera situation. Matt created an old man several billion years in age (if Matt was 11, Paw was 11 billion years old, and Paw’s age stayed commensurate with Matt’s). Paw had no teeth, of course, so Matt mimicked that by pulling his lips over his teeth. Paw's story evolved as Paw matured, and we discovered he had a girlfriend named Trixie (he already had a wife, The Old Hag). Oh, Paw had quite an exciting life, yes, indeed.

Paw usually slipped in unexpectedly. Matt would fade into the background, like some kind of medium, and all of a sudden, there would be Paw, telling us his latest joke or timely observation. Paw was always amusing, entertaining, and most welcome to join us at any time. He appeared in restaurants, in the car, and even at church. One never knew when Paw would show up.

Rachel, of course, was not to be outdone, so she invented a character named Wap (Paw spelled backwards). It made for quite a few interesting conversations.

Alas, Paw gradually disappeared as Matt became an adult, and I had only my fond memories plus a few videos. My dependable source of laughter had fizzled.

Paw talked about many subjects, but the one expression he could hardly say with a straight face was, “Oh, crap!” Now, it wasn’t the most polite thing in his repertoire, but for some reason, whenever he said that phrase, I broke out in laughter so hard that it made me cry. We could all try to imitate him, but only the original Paw could say it with just the right nuance. Paw was loud, obnoxious, and absolutely adored.

Oh, yes, I needed my fix, and I needed it bad.

Videos help, photos help, but I always wish for someone to invent a magic button to push that would stimulate the memory part of my brain to replay poignant scenes from my kids' childhoods. I just can’t accept that those days of innocence and frivolity now only exist in the minds of a few people.

So I dialed up Matt on his cell phone. “I need to hear Paw.”
Matt was obviously taken aback. I could imagine his expression.
“Uh...Paw’s not here,” he said weakly.
“Oh, but I think he is,” I admonished gently.
The awkward discomfort on the end of the line was palpable.
Thinking he might be in a public place and might be concerned about embarrassing himself, I asked, “Where are you?”
I could tell he sensed defeat. “Home,” he said in a small voice.
“Well, then, I need to hear Paw.”
Again, hesitation. “This is just weird,” he muttered.
Ed, talking in the background as he always does when I’m on the phone, offered, “Say OH CRAP.”
And then it happened. All the intervening years faded away, and I heard Paw’s familiar booming voice on the other end of the phone. “Oh, crrrrrap!”
I laughed until I cried. My baby still had it. Paw will never disappear, not as long as this despondent parent can coax his presence forth one more time. Paw has staying power. After all, next month he’ll be 24 billion years old!

Regrets

There’s a person who works at my hospital who has a license plate that says NORGRET, which I assume means something along the line of “no regrets.” It makes me sincerely happy to know someone is living in this world today who is in this condition, but I think, unfortunately, this person is in the minority. Most of us have many regrets, both major and minor, especially by the time reach the second half of our lives.

I think it’s pretty universal to wish for a life rewind button. Oh, the bad choices I have made - the precious time I have wasted - the stupid things I have done! Even if many things turned out all right in the end, my journey has been full of unnecessary strife and pain. Regrets? I have regrets, indeed!

Yesterday Ed and I were discussing the news story that Americans are now so far in debt that the savings rate is, for the first time ever, in the negative realm. We talked about the idea that every high school could offer a course in financial matters, from checking accounts to investments to buying a house to credit responsibilities - things many of us just learned by experience, not all of it good experience. Wouldn’t it be great if we could add more courses to the curriculum? Ethics? Manners? How to live as civilized human beings?

But at the top of my list would be wisdom.

All my life I have relied on knowledge as the most powerful tool. And I still believe that it is powerful - one reason I’m studying for my CMT exam. The reason I have regrets, however, is not that I lacked knowledge - it is that I lacked wisdom. “The quality of having experience, knowledge, and good judgment” - one definition of wisdom. I realize that wisdom can come with age (but not necessarily), with experience (but not necessarily, as some people never learn), and with knowledge (again, not necessarily). Unfortunately, wisdom is not inherited (or I would have been all set), it is not really learned (I had remarkable teachers for other things), and it’s one of those things the Bible praises but everyone has a different idea of what it means. A lot of people think that if you agree with them, it follows that you are wise, and vice versa.

I still don’t have as much wisdom as I would like. I say things when I should keep quiet, don’t say things when I should speak up, and hurt people unintentionally. I either act before I think, or think so excessively and obsessively before I act that I am paralyzed and can’t do anything.

No, I will always have regrets, and they are ongoing. My only hope is that the scale will tip to the side of wisdom as I come nearer to completing my journey.