Those pesky reminders

I'm a big Downton Abbey fan. The acting is superb, the costumes gorgeous, the setting is breathtaking.  With each episode I am pulled back into that time, that setting, and I feel as if I am really there.   Along with other viewers this week, I accidentally heard ahead of time that one of the major characters was slated to be killed in the finale, which was shown Sunday night in the United States.  Downton Abbey's season aired in Britain in the fall, and with the Internet and Facebook and every other impossible way of trying to keep secrets, I knew something bad would happen, to whom it would happen, and I was devastated.

Of course, the information age being what it is, I learned why:  The actor who played this character did not renew his contract, as he is involved in other projects and wanted to be free of this particular commitment.

I understand that completely, as I also understand I am watching basically a well-acted, well-produced soap opera - a fictional rendition.  Yet, when I am in the process of watching, I am transported to that place and that story.  I really forget these are actors and sets and scripts.  The idea that this actor didn't renew his contract, and therefore the writer had to come up with a fatal accident, was just a sad reminder that these are, yes, just actors and sets and scripts.  I hate bring brought down to earth.  It was just a reminder of reality - reality that I already knew but could escape from for those few hours.  What?!  These people are really actors on a set?  I could swear they are real!

I am reminded of Christopher Reeve, the actor who rose to fame playing Superman.  After his tragic accident which left him paralyzed, he had dreams where he was running and jumping and moving, and then he would wake up and realize it was just a dream, that reality was very different.  A very ugly reminder of reality.

I have dreams, too, where I am 18 again, young, firm muscles, long hair, no wrinkles, all possibilities lying ahead.  Then I wake up  - with thankfully not as much a downward crash as Mr. Reeve -  in my 58-year-old body, time ticking away on my life, and feeling somewhat disappointed in the dramatic contrast in my dream and my present state, and I renew that sense of urgency on how to get accomplished what I want to do in the time I have left.  Every creak, every huff and puff, every gray hair, every mirror, is just an annoying reminder of the reality of growing older every day.

Some reminders, of course, are heartwarming.  I see a picture of my baby Emily on Facebook and talk to the older children on the phone and I am brought back to the miraculous reality that I have four amazing grandchildren from my own amazing kids.  Every day I am reminded that I have a job that challenges me and makes me feel productive. I was reminded when I found a penny in an unlikely place with the year of my dad's death on it that I have had parents who have loved and supported me unconditionally.   I was reminded when I got up and saw certain items arranged on the kitchen counter that before he went to bed last night, my sweet husband thought of what I needed to prepare my breakfast this morning.  I am grateful for the reminders of family and friends and situations that make me smile, that make my heart sing.

So I'm not upset with the Downton Abbey writers and actors, as some fans have been.   I will miss the character, but things happen in fiction and in real life and we go with the flow.  The only thing that disturbs me is that the situation gave me an unwelcome dose of reality, took a little more of the magic of my losing myself in the show, and just reminded me that, hey, I'm actually watching a soap opera!  So be it.  It's a grand, majestic, splendid soap opera and I can't wait to see what happens next.  My hope is that I can wake up here in this present 58-year-old body and hold aloft the same positive, expectant attitude towards my own personal journey... Here I go, still seeking and creating and mourning and celebrating in this, my very own reality show - and I can't wait to see what happens next!

Watch me grow old!

Having a profile on Facebook using my full name (including maiden name) as well as this blog with my full name, and recent photos of me on both, I have been the object of a few private friends who wonder why I am so easy to find on the Internet and why on earth I am showing what I look like as I age.   (I have a cousin who refuses to be accessible anywhere on the Internet!)  In spite of real concerns like identity theft, which has been successful on much less public information, this is the way I have chosen to present myself to the world.

I have approached aging in one way:  Gradually.  For instance, you will always see a current photo of me on Facebook and on this blog.  Every Christmas we take a family picture and it's not just of the kids, either - Ed and I are in it every year.  Why do I do this?  Why do I have the guts, as someone once said, to put my aging self out there for all to see?  Why not give people from my past the pleasure of remembering me as I once was?

Well, surprisingly, it's a selfish motive.  I don't want someone who knew me years ago to come across me or a recent picture of me and think, OMG she's gotten so old!  If they have had access to my aging self, it won't be such a shock.

Several observations back me up on this one.  Take our kids.  We see them every day as they are growing up, and their growing is so gradual that we hardly notice until they are ready for a new size of clothes or until we compare their school pictures from year to year.  But what happens when relatives see them after a long absence?  "Oh, how you've grown!"  Parents and out-of-town relatives in this case are observing the same exact kids.  But the delayed experience of watching them grow day by day is counterbalanced by the shock of someone else first seeing them after several years of not seeing them.   I expect folks to be happy to see me (some, at least!), or maybe nervous about seeing me (some, probably!), or even just curious to see me - but I don't want them to be shocked.   Not a good thing.

Think of the celebrities we have seen age gradually, and those we haven't.  Consider Sally Field.  If she had enjoyed her time in the limelight as Gidget or the Flying Nun back in her youth, then retired from the public scene, and years later PBS wanted to produce a documentary about TV shows from that period and grabbed her out of retirement to be interviewed - we would be disconcerted to see all of a sudden an old Sally Field, and it would be as if she had aged 48 years immediately.    But Sally Field did not retire; she kept her face in front of the camera for other movies, for other TV shows, for commercials, and in fact I just enjoyed seeing her in Lincoln.  We saw her age gradually and beautifully.  Maggie Smith is another one who stayed in the public arena for decades.

Now to the first question:  Why am I so easy to find online?  I have had the occasion to try to find people from my past, such as my good friend Annie, and let me tell you, even with all the information out there, it is very difficult sometimes - especially if you are looking for a female who might have changed her name several times with marriages and/or divorces.  I was fortunate to eventually find her, but I decided early on to just put myself out there and let the chips fall where they may.  I would love, for instance, to see what some folks from my high school look like these days, but pictures are hard to find.  I can even look on Facebook and still not be certain that that is the person I'm trying to locate.   Probably the main reason we feel the need to look up people from our past is simple curiosity - but in addition, there are shared memories, of course.  The older we get, the more important those memories are.

The only thing my graduating class and I have in common is that we went to the same high school - but that encompasses a lot.  We shared the same teachers, were exposed to the same education, remember the same assemblies, the funny things, the sad things, the frustrating things that we encountered.  Most of us lived within a certain radius of the school.  We were all about the same age.  Taken in a broader context, we shared the same society as we grew up - the things going on in politics, in movies and music, hairstyles and clothing.   We share a common bond.  I didn't have a particularly pleasant high school experience, but I grew up with a lot of intriguing classmates, many of whom are sadly now dead.   Every year some more of those shared memories get lost as the survivors get fewer.  I will always wonder what some of them did with their lives.

So that is why I'm "out there."  If anyone wanted to find me, here I am.  I'm easy to google.  This is what I look like, if you're curious.  These are my interests.  These are my life experiences, my response to growing older, tales of my wonderful family, stories of being a minister's wife, packing up and moving from Tennessee to Maine - the whole caboodle.   Now if I ever get to go to one of my high school reunions, maybe, just maybe, there will be someone there who is not shocked to see me.  And that is a good thing.

Farewell to the house

The time has come.  I wouldn’t call it a bittersweet moment, because it’s more powerful than that.  It is kind of like having an overwhelming feeling of relief simultaneously with a panic attack.  It’s what we hoped for, but some part of us hoped it would never happen.  I’m talking about the sale of our childhood home.

I blogged about what this property meant to my family here.  I posted that in May 2011, when we knew Mama would never go back to her house and live by herself and the only thing to do was to clean the old house up and put it on the market.  That was an intellectual decision, made partly because it was logical and partly because it was the only alternative and we had no choice.  

Now this week our beloved house will change hands.  It will be official.  That yard where we played softball would be someone else’s yard.  They will not know of the mimosa tree that our cousins climbed when it was in the front yard.  They will not know of Mrs. Ditto whose property was adjacent to ours out back, who would stand at the fence and share her fresh figs.   They won’t know of the clothesline where we hung sheets and blankets to make tents.  They won’t know of all the memories we collectively experienced in that house and in those yards from 1954 on.  

Of course, I’ve lived in several other houses since then after I left there to get married in 1974.  Our first house was a 1920s bungalow.  It had a rich history, and people lived there before us and people came after us. It was our house for 12 years.  From there, Ed went into the ministry and we moved from parsonage to parsonage.  Obviously, they weren’t our houses - they were houses owned by the various churches where their pastor lived for the duration of their appointments.

When Ed retired from the ministry, we moved to Maine to our large Victorian in Ellsworth.  Again, people had lived there before us, left their mark on the house, we lived there and left our mark, and then we sold it to people who will leave their mark.

This is one of many reasons why my childhood home is special.  We are the only family who ever lived there.  My parents bought it around the time they were expecting me.  The house and I have grown up together - and we are showing the same signs of wear, believe me.  In today’s mobile society, it sounds quaint to be born into one house and live there until you get married.  (I went to one school 1st grade through 12th, too!)  Such stability is almost unheard of nowadays.  I wish we could have given our kids that same feeling of home in one place.

But of course, it’s the memories that give me a catch in my throat the most.  It’s where I was loved unconditionally, and especially where I most remember Daddy (there and seeing him in church).  It’s like giving up a piece of him to sell the house he was so proud of - the house where he established and nurtured the stable, happy family he never had when he was young.

Last week I was driving home from work and had to stop quite suddenly at a yellow light.  Without thinking, I reflexively stretched out my right arm over in front of the passenger seat.  Then I laughed.  Daddy used to do that.  Before the advent of seat belts, at any point when he had to brake suddenly, he always threw his arm across whoever was sitting beside him so they wouldn’t careen into the dashboard.  After we got our first used car with newfangled seat belts,  Daddy still did the same movement, as it was such an ingrained habit.  Now, in 2013, alone in the car, here I was throwing out my right arm to protect...nobody.

Then I realized that our precious house is just a building - a special building, but bricks and wood and all the rest.  The memories - the most important things - are in my heart.  Selling the house doesn’t diminish our experiences there, especially of Daddy - because memories of Daddy and everyone else live in my heart where I can access them whenever I wish - whether in a photo in a scrapbook or at a red light in Ellsworth, Maine.

So, go your way, my beloved house.  You’ll always be a part of our family, and a part of me.  I won’t remember you with rotting wood and outdated electricity and peeling paint.  I will remember you as a loving shelter, your yards with a mimosa tree and clothesline tent and open air “club house.”  I’ll remember you with the shiny wood floors we helped Mama polish, the table set for 4, the birthday parties, the naps on lazy summer afternoons, the excitement of getting the Christmas decorations down the creaky attic stairs.   I’ll remember your tastes of York apples, frozen bananas dipped in sugar, cornbread dressing, and half gallons of ice milk.   I’ll remember your sounds of an upright piano, unending laughter, the movie projector, the dice and chatter at Mama’s bunco parties, the Monkees playing on a record player, our excited conversation for Daddy’s reel-to-reel recorder.  I’ll remember your embrace as we watched home movies, saw Daddy engrossed in his stamp collection, had the extended family over at Christmas and Thanksgiving.  I’ll remember you when I think of packing the car, leaving for vacation. I’ll remember the TSA meetings and the play we wrote and acted out, Thanksgiving services held in the den.   I’ll remember Catland Caverns, Mike, the bluejay, the rooster, and all the rest of our pets you tolerated for our pleasure. Oh, no, house.  Don’t worry.  I won’t forget you.  You’re in my heart and there you’ll stay. Thanks for the memories.

The last of the future

Last week we had the joyous arrival of our fourth and final grandchild, Emily.  The picture under her is her older brother, Joshua, and the next picture is her cousin Charlotte and then her oldest cousin, Caroline.  Four sleeping sleeping angels in these pictures.

Each birth had its similarities and differences with the others.  There were 4 C-sections, for instance.  All babies were born in the same hospital.   In two of the births, we knew the gender ahead of time; the other two were surprises at the time of delivery.  Three babies were very heavy at birth, and Emily was the lightest of them all - well, if you can call 8 pounds 7 ounces light!

We now have four - three girls and one boy - and our grandchildren roll call is complete.  It's definitely a bittersweet feeling.  The last time in the hospital waiting room, anxiously awaiting the news.  The last time to see the baby weighed in, the last time to see the proud parents as they hold their newborn with the family discussing which parent he/she resembles most.

Now we look to the future.  I have been fortunate to have lived long enough to see my two kids grow to adulthood; now I want to live long enough to see my grandchildren grow up and establish their lives.         I am so glad my almost 90-year-old mom has lived to see these 4 great grandchildren born.  That is a blessing only some people get to experience.

There's nothing quite like being a grandmother.  I did not really know three out of my four grandparents.  My paternal grandfather I never met.  My two grandmothers were elderly and ill as long as I can remember, so we never did much together.   So that left my maternal grandfather - he had to fill the role that the others couldn't - and he did so with humor, energy, entertainment, and love, lots of love.  Who else would give us chicks for Easter, one of which turned into a rooster in our midtown Memphis backyard and woke the neighborhood until being shuffled off to a farm?  Who else would give us brand-name dolls that we actually had seen advertised on TV instead of the generic dolls our parents could afford?  Who else made sure we had what was to us gigantic Easter baskets with pastel-colored plastic coverings which gave entrancing glimpses inside?  Who else could play the piano by ear with gusto and did so every time he visited?  Who else had a cat who played duets with him on the piano and organ?  Who else could throw a cane up and catch it in the air?  Who else kept two cans in the back floor of the car on family outings - one for bait and one for chewing tobacco?  He was truly a legend.

So now it's left to me to build memories for these four beautiful grandkids.   I'm still learning how to do this, as it's an ongoing effort as they grow.  Their needs change, their interests change, the activities I can do with them change, but at the core is that important relationship of grandmother and grandchild.

It's a cliche to say that I see them as the future, but it's true.  They carry my genes, they carry my legacy.  They are part of my story and they will carry that as well.  If you have grandchildren, you know what I mean.  If you have grandchildren who aren't genetically related to you, you still know what I mean.   If you are still awaiting that memorable event of having a grandchild born, you probably know what I mean.  Our collective influence is powerful.  We are the memory-makers.

I was in the post office the other day when a kid about 4 looked up at me.  I smiled down at him. Then I realized, "That kid thinks I'm old!"  The idea startled me.  Then I though, of course he does!  I would have at that age as well.  58 is ancient, right?   I often wonder how my grandkids will remember me.  I hope it is of a grandmother who took the time to listen, who could actually get down on the floor to play and get up again, who was there for their birthdays and other important life events, who was always taking pictures, who taught them about Lincoln and maybe some French, who sang "Pony Boy," who taught the power of forgiveness and patience, who passed on wisdom and guidance and, of course, love, love, love.  If they don't wholly think of me as an old lady now, I'm sure in a few years they will, and one day I will actually step into those shoes of an "old lady" from even my subjective point of view.  I pray that I will have enough good health and energy and intellect to be able to continue to make precious memories.  In the end, that will really be their inheritance - those memories, all tangled in with love and hugs and laughter and some tears along the way.

In a way it seems selfish to me to be so concerned with if and how my grandkids remember me.  But it's human nature to want to make a difference, to give meaning to our lives. In a way, I'm keeping up this blog in their honor, as a way to connect with me after I'm gone, to get a glimpse into my struggles and dreams and priorities, and yes, how fortunate I feel to be a part of their lives.    I hope to be able to live as long as my mom, maybe even to see some great-grandchildren come my way.  In the meantime, I'll concentrate on my role as memory-maker.  It's one of the greatest honors of my life.

PS - For those of you who participated in Project Birthday Card to send cards from all over the world to my mom last May, the story is in the 2013 February edition of Reader's Digest at the bottom of pages 126-127.  Thanks for being memory-makers in my mom's life!

Joy percent

I was reading a book on healthy eating last week when I came across an interesting observation.  It said that one should never get more than 10% of the total joy in one's day from food.

Say we each have 100% of our total allotment of joy for the day.  If we find maybe 40% of it dependent on the food we eat, we are giving food an inordinate amount of power to make us happy.  And we all know that if you get the majority of your happiness from food, your life is kind of lacking and you probably are overweight.  The way to handle that, says the author, is to deliberately find other sources of joy to enliven your life so food plays a lesser role.

I digested that, pardon the pun, and then I decided to expand the author's thesis.   All the experts in stocks and investments say the same thing - diversify.  Don't put all your eggs into one basket, because then if you drop the basket, you've lost everything.

How about we diversify in our sources of joy?  Expand the food idea.  What if you get 80% of your daily every day from your spouse?  On the one hand, that sounds like a great idea.  It is certainly better than getting half your joy from food.  On the other hand, what if that relationship goes sour?  Or what if that person dies?  All of a sudden we are bereft because we've dropped the basket and have little else to fall back on.  (This is why relationships thrive on shared experiences, as not only do comforting memories bring you joy in years to come, but you may even choose to keep those activities when you are on your own as a continued source of joy.)

Let's say you find 75% of your daily joy from knitting or playing an instrument.  (Another good choice.  I've always been a fan of creativity.)  One day you may lose the dexterity in your fingers or your eyesight.  You have little else to give you pleasure to compensate.

Diversifying our sources of pleasure, of which food is just one,  makes us interesting people.  It rounds us out, makes us balanced.  I never really thought of it before in this way.  Here's an experiment:  Make a list of the things/people/experiences you have discovered bring you joy - major ones like your family, and small ones like bubble baths. Then scatter them around your life.  I can see my precious new grandbaby born this week, experience unspeakable joy, then come back home and find joy in being with my husband, sewing an apron for my mom, blogging, reading, playing the harp, looking through some old photos that make me smile, doing the crossword puzzle, talking to a friend, watching the new season of Downton Abbey, interacting with my kids and three other grandkids, writing a check for a charity, and, yes, enjoying one of my favorite flavors of ice cream.  The key to happiness in life, I'm beginning to believe, is joy in all its forms, liberally scattered throughout every day.  That way if Downton Abbey is canceled (no!  no!), I still have much joy in other places.   This is not to say all joys are equal, by any means.  I would never put Downton Abbey in the same category as my grandchildren.  But our souls crave joy - the big joys and little joys and everything in between.  And don't forget the joys of giving to others - joy is not all take and no give.

I have heard of people who had their joy tied up in their careers, then lost them.  I've heard of others who had their joy encased in their houses or cars, then lost them.  (I remember an elderly lady we met years ago whose husband had left her for a Sunday School teacher.  All her joy in life was embedded in him, and when that happened, she never recovered.   Every visit we had with her was spent listening to her bemoan her unhappy fate.  She was depressing to be around and nothing we could ever say or do made her feel better.)   Even healthy sources of joy such as sewing or gardening or playing an instrument or singing or hiking or swimming can be detrimental if we are so dependent on them as our only source of joy that if they were to disappear, all our happiness would evaporate with them.

This week I want to celebrate joy in all its varieties.  Life has so much joy to offer; why limit ourselves?  The key is finding our sources of joy, then incorporating them on a regular basis.  It is not good to get more than 10% of our joy from food - and it is just as unwise to let other people or things or experiences define our joy.  If we depend on outside sources for our happiness, things are bound to mess up.  Look inside your soul, define your joys, and watch your life fill up with bliss!

Hearts and flannel pajamas

It's New Year's Eve, and I'm lying on my right side on an black exercise mat in a dark room, wide awake, my eyes fixed on the empty space under a small cot about a foot off the floor, my left hand gently resting over a beating heart belonging to a 2-1/2-year-old in red footie Santa print flannel pajamas,  As I lie silently in the quiet night, I'm filled with both overwhelming happiness and deep grief, pondering the meaning of life and birth and death and luck and injustice and awe, with never-ending questions and a troubled, conflicted mind.

Our grandson Joshua is spending the night with us - his very first time for an overnight visit.  After he played with the dog, ate some supper, took a bath, cuddled with his grandpa ("Papa"), and read a book,  I took him to his little cot.  His parents told us to put a blanket off to one side on the floor, just in case he rolled off.  I had just the thing - my cushioned exercise mat, and I rolled it out on the floor right next to the cot.  Josh crawled into the cot, I covered him up, gave him his stuffed animal and blanket, turned to leave, and that is when he glanced over at the mat, asking me what it was.  I told him that was something nice and comfy in case he rolled off the cot.  He pointed at it, looked me straight in the eyes, and said firmly, "You sleep there."  I told him I would stay there for awhile, not all night, but just to help him get to sleep.  That satisfied him, and I lay down with my left hand over his chest to let him know I was nearby.

I had no fear that I would accidentally fall asleep there.  In the first place, the mat is not that comfortable to sleep on, and in the second place, I was in emotional turmoil.  Ed and I had just received a message this afternoon on our answering machine, a message which we listened to only when we arrived home later after having picked up Joshua.  A neighbor, 59 years old, had been out shoveling snow the other day and had a heart attack and died.   Bob had been president of the neighborhood road association, of which I am secretary, and we had enjoyed knowing him along with his wife.  Bob was a year older than I am.  Although I am not privy to his medical details, he seemed in perfect health.  He was a kind gentleman.  The fact that he was suddenly gone was shocking.

As a medical transcriptionist, I transcribe all kinds of medical reports on a daily basis - people trying to kill themselves, old people who want to live and sometimes who want to die, cancer survivors and others who have just been told they have cancer with little time left, teenagers who need appendectomies, women who give birth in planned, happy pregnancies and others who give birth in anxious, unwelcome pregnancies, kids with out-of-control asthma, folks with dementia, patients with strokes, fever or vomiting, people who are withdrawing from alcohol or drugs, and patients who are just normal people living their normal lives getting their mammograms and Pap smears and blood tests and physicals and just going about their earthly existence.  Any MT will tell you that it is not an easy job to be a part of these patients' stories.  We type, we laugh, we cry, we worry, we celebrate, we grieve with every report we transcribe.  But the fact that all day long I hear these medical stories does not mean I get inured to them.  A good MT, just like a good nurse or doctor or other provider, always keeps in mind that these are real people and their lives - not reports, numbers, codes, or folders.

Why is life good to me right now - blessedly, incredibly good to me - and others are so unfortunate?  How does a man my age - a good man, decent man - suddenly die and I'm still here?  I'm not only here; I'm holding onto my dear grandson who is calmly sleeping by my side - and next week, I will welcome my next and final grandchild, Emily, when she is delivered into the world.

It's not fair that I am cuddling my grandson while Bob's family is in mourning.  I grieve with them, curse this unfair, unjust world of death and sorrow, even as my heart overflows with happiness in the presence of my sleeping toddler.

So this is how I find myself pondering life, looking into the darkness, weeping tears of gratitude and sorrow, anger and joy - all at the same time.  I finally quietly get up, take one last glance at my sleeping Joshua, and with a heavy heart, tiptoe out of the room.  My happiness tonight is tempered with grief.  Life is never easy and it's never simple to understand.  Loss is hard to bear, and sometimes the tears of happiness intermix with the tears of sorrow so much that there is no separating them.   And life - for me, for Bob's family, for the patients whose records I transcribe, for those who are celebrating and those who are grieving, those about to give birth and those burying their loved one - goes on.   I understand the circle of life - I just don't like part of it sometimes.

Last Words

I have deliberately postponed writing a blog post about the Sandy Hook school tragedy for a number of reasons, the first being that there are no words to appropriately react to it, and second, that most everything that can be written has been.  Of course, the fallout includes national conversations on gun control, school safety, and mental illness - thousands of articles online and otherwise go into great detail  concerning those subjects, and they are important ones.  But there is one reaction of which I have heard little.  It all reminded me of a letter to Dear Abby or Ann Landers that I read years ago.

A woman wrote to the advice columnist that her husband and she had had an argument one morning and didn't resolve it before he left for work.  Later in the day, she was called by the emergency room and was told that her husband had had a heart attack and died.  She was not only grief-stricken but her guilt was unbearable; if only she had had a chance to make up, she said.  If only their last moments together on this earth had been loving ones.  Now she had to live the rest of her life with "if only."

Mornings are especially difficult for most families with kids, even those without kids.  Maybe someone didn't get a good night's sleep, maybe another had nightmares, maybe someone else was dreading a test at school or overslept or was still carrying a grudge from an argument the night before.  Maybe a kid is dragging her heels about getting ready, maybe mom at the last minute realized there are no clean clothes, maybe someone can't find his keys or cell phone.  There are countless reasons we tend to argue in the morning at the very time our loved ones are leaving, when our family separates for the day ahead until they are gathered back together in the evening.  But sometimes they don't gather back together in the evening.  Then comes the anguish of what had been last moments together - sometimes outright yelling, sometimes just stubborn silence, sometimes just irritated snapping, sometimes just in too much of a hurry to give a goodbye hug.

The letter mentioned above reminds me that there were adults involved in this school massacre, too - wives and girlfriends and parents.  Each adult and each child had no reason to believe that, no matter if their mornings had in fact been hurried or tense or argumentative,  there would be plenty of time to set things right when the family reconvened.  We always assume there is plenty of time.

It doesn't have to be mornings.  Any time our loved one departs and temporary separation exists, there is always the possibility the temporary situation might become permanent.  It's rare that it would happen in this tragic way, but there are heart attacks, car wrecks, and numerous physical ailments and accidents that can snatch us in an instant.  Nothing in life is guaranteed.  Not next year, not tomorrow, not the rest of the present hour.

It is my hope that we all, in the midst of our overwhelming grief and sadness, make a promise to ourselves to take care in our daily separations, to part with love and forgiveness in every instance, realizing it is one more chance we have been given to bring peace to relationships and to leave our loved one with the knowledge that they are unconditionally loved.  What better gift?

We as Americans make it a point to prepare for the just-in-case scenario:  We buy all kinds of insurance we hope we will never have to use, we try to maintain our furnaces and cars and appliances in working order, we may even be successful at saving some money for emergencies.  Yet, we live our lives day in and day out under the false assumption that nothing unusual will ever happen when it comes to relationships, that our loved ones will always be there after a temporary separation - even it's just our significant other running to the store for something - and we treat each other accordingly.  We always assume we can make up another time, or ask forgiveness tomorrow, or give that hug when they get home from school or work, or even when they wake up in the morning.  Sometimes they don't come home from school or work, and sometimes they don't wake up in the morning.

One of the most poignant parts of some church services is when the leader says,  "The Lord be with you."  And the response:  "And also with you."  What a kind greeting or parting!  Or "I love you."  Or a hug and kiss.

For years, Ed used to say, "Be careful!" as the last thing when one of the kids left the house to go somewhere.  One year Rachel had a car accident, and she swears he forgot to say "Be careful" when she had departed.  Whether he had done so or not, it was very important to her.  It meant he loved her very much and was wishing she be spared any harm.  It was the last thing she heard him say every time she went out and it comforted her.

If we take away anything from this horrible time, let it be that we try to treat each other better at all times, and to appreciate our invaluable relationships, but importantly to take special care and acknowledge our bond when we know we will be separated from our loved ones.  There are no guarantees, and, in the event of the unspeakable, we would want each other to have the last words be ones of love and peace.

May the Lord be with you.

Used to it

When I first started typing in high school, I used an IBM Selectric and correction fluid which I smeared over mistakes.  It was a mess.  But I was used to it.  Then they invented the correction strips, where I just retyped the wayward letter over the strip and it magically disappeared.  This was such an improvement!  I got used to it.

Then I moved up to a word processor.  I remember the very first day I used one.  I was working in the pathology lab at Methodist Hospital in Memphis, and we had just gotten these newfangled machines delivered.  I volunteered to learn the system first.  They set me up in a little room with a trainer from the company to learn this new way of typing.  I typed my first sentence.  By the second one, I somehow got the cursor in the middle of the sentence, expecting to type over what was on the page.  Immediately I sensed something was wrong.  I turned to the trainer.  "The new letters aren't typing over and replacing the old letters," I said.  "They're adding themselves into the middle and moving the others forward."  He laughed and said, "That's what they're supposed to do!"  What kind of weird system was that?  But I got used to it and learned to enjoy it.  Fast forward to 16 years ago when I started my medical transcription career.  We had a transcription system with a word expander program, where we could actually make shortcuts and type a few letters and the words expanded!  Wow!  It was a clunker, though, and had many drawbacks.  All the transcriptionists shared a database and if one made a change for what typing "cr" would expand to, then all the MTs would be affected.  (That would be a shock if you always used "cr" to expand to "creatinine" and unbeknownst to you, an MT changed it to expand to "cardiopulmonary resuscitation.")  We were also limited to how many of these shortcuts we could enter into the database.  We reached the limit quickly, so every time we wanted to add a new one, we had to come to an agreement on which one to delete.  But the whole system was an improvement on what I used to have, so I gladly got used to it.

Then a few years ago when, after years of this outmoded system, we got a new Windows-based platform and I discovered Instant Text, the creme de la creme of word expander software.  I was in heaven.  The features were extraordinary.  It couldn't get any better.  I got used to it.  Then they improved it, and immediately I wondered how I was ever satisfied with the older version.  This new version is unbelievable!  I am so used to it - used to its perfect design, its comfort on my hands, its intuitiveness, and its production capabilities.  Now I take it for granted that I can transcribe a great volume of work every day.  It's a pleasure to go to work.  I'm used to it.

I guess that's what the purpose of Thanksgiving is - taking the time to look at all the components of our lives that we have become "used to" and breathe a sigh of gratitude.   I'm used to getting all the food I need (and more!).  I'm used to a good job, I'm used to loving family members and faithful friends, I'm used to having enough to wear, a warm house, and a comfy bed at night.    All these things I expect, just like a good production with my MT tools, and because I have had them for long enough I take them for granted.

But do you know what else I'm used to?  Security.  Freedom.  Peace.  I leave the house every day and I'm not searching in the sky for the next drone attack.  I'm not running to the bomb shelter every half hour when a siren blasts.  I'm not kissing my husband goodbye in the morning, wondering if the next time I see him will be in a coffin.  I'm not coming home to a shattered house.  I'm not getting on a bus wondering if there is an explosive hidden on it.  I don't worry that my grandkids' schools will be bombed.  I don't get up in the morning, wondering if this is the day I will lose my life because I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I'm used to a life of peace.

That's what's so hard about watching the news this week.  Because for some folks in the world, fear is a daily occurrence.  The sad part is - they're used to it.  It breaks my heart.  It should break all our hearts, no matter what "side" you take, no matter what country you think is the aggressor and what is the defender (for both sides in this conflict have blood on their hands), humanity is showing its ugly, violent side, the air has the smell of death, and tears are being shed in buckets.  We have enough destruction in this world from weather catastrophes and accidents.  We don't need to add to it by doing things that are preventable.   Does anyone remember the movie War Games?  If hateful revenge is the answer, it will be the final answer because there is no end in the game of retaliation until there is nobody left to retaliate on either side.  Then who wins?

In our own country, there are people still being discriminated against, but they're "used to it" by now. There are families in abusive situations that are just "used to it."  There are people who know nothing but depression, or pain, or addiction, or illness.  It's gone on so long they're just "used to it" and can find no clear way out.

This Thanksgiving, there are some things we are used to, for which we lift up our hands in thanks.  There are other things we are used to that we shouldn't have to be used to, and for these things we pray for strength, patience, enlightenment, wisdom, and a path to peace.  Yeah, peace.  Some folks could really get used to that.

Pirate or Policeman?

My remarkable dad, Ensley Tiffin, a man of many talents, had a grand time when he was younger in musical theater in Memphis as a part of Memphis Open Air Theater (MOAT).  He especially held in his heart fondness for the Gilbert and Sullivan shows.  My sister and I grew up with Dad singing from Pirates of Penzance, "A policeman's lot is not a happy one...." - then, as the song dictates at the end, Dad in a deep bass voice would sing the last 3 slow syllables "...happy one."  (My niece Amelia is currently carrying on the family tradition of musical theater in her high school and college acting career.)

How I wish now that I could have paid more attention and appreciated all Dad's stories, but since he died when I was 26 years old, I guess I wasn't old enough and wise enough to appreciate the time I had to listen to this amazing man.  I do remember this, though:  He said in Pirates of Penzance, he had to play double duty.  They didn't have enough people to have a separate cast for policemen and pirates, so the men in the chorus played both roles.  They would do a scene, then have to go quickly change costumes and come out as the other characters, switching back and forth as the show continued.

I think about that story when I think of all the various characters Dad played in his own life - Son, husband, son-in-law, brother-in-law, father, uncle, father-in-law, grandfather, friend, Methodist Sunday School teacher, choir director, chairman of church committees, lay speaker, bank teller, conscientious objector who nevertheless served in the US Army, passionate Democrat, stamp collector, letter writer, reel-to-reel tape operator, home movie cameraman...not to mention the usual roles of a parent as chauffeur, teacher, homework helper, groundskeeper, grocery buyer, vacation planner, bill payer, etc.  Some of these were simultaneous, and others were of a chronological nature as his life stages progressed.

Then I think of all the characters I have played in my life.  I tend to focus on my failings but I try to concentrate on the successes - from my relationships with family and friends to my jobs and concerts and hobbies.   And so do we all play our roles on this earth.  Sometimes we might wish that the cast could be bigger so we could have more down time, but then when life demands it, we rush offstage and change from our policeman costume into our pirate costume for the next scene.   As they say, life is not a dress rehearsal and sometimes we just have to make up the script as we go along.  I guess that's what makes life adventurous - these tragedies and comedies in which we participate. We're on stage completely unprepared, sharing scenes with others who are likewise winging it, knowing that somehow it all comes together and miraculous things can happen.  One minute we're doing one role and the next minute we assume a totally different one, and the change can happen at any moment.

At this Thanksgiving, besides the usual extraordinary people and circumstances I always have to be thankful for, I am realizing that my role is changing once again - as of January 8, I will be grandmother to 4 instead of 3 grandchildren when little Emily Jean is born.   I will have to say out of all my roles on the stage of life, Grammy has to be one of my favorites!  Am I ready for the next act?  Bring it on!

Have a blessed Thanksgiving, everyone.

Clown Backup

I always listen to the radio on my way home from work, and a couple of weeks ago an ad came on for Carbonite.com.  Apparently Carbonite is some kind of internet computer backup company, but at the time I was listening, tired from a hard day's work, brain off kilter, I misheard their ad, which stated something like "Everyone needs automatic cloud backup."  I, though, heard this:  "Everyone needs automatic CLOWN backup."  I thought, How true!!  Wouldn't it be wonderful that if every time you were frustrated or stressed, something would happen to make you laugh?

I had automatic clown backup when our son Matt was young.  Most kids know what will push their parents' buttons.  Matt knew how to push my funny bone.  He understood that if he could make me laugh, I couldn't be angry with him.  Born with comedic talents anyway, Matt honed his skills so that he would be able to manage any maternal irritation.

He could assume one of his "characters" in an instant - Paw, the old, old man who spoke as if he had no teeth, who was married to The Old Hag and had a girlfriend named Trixie, was his standby.  However, Matt didn't even need to assume one of his personas to make me laugh.  It was always the horse that did it.

The horse involved total body/voice coordination.  His foot would paw the ground while he whinnied and snorted.  It was hilarious and just immediately made me crack up.  It never got dated; it never got monotonous.  It didn't matter how mad I was or where we were - the horse would make me laugh until tears came pouring out of my eyes.   Sister Rachel was never pleased, as she had no similar strategy to fall back on in order to get out of trouble.

Of course, my life ambition now is to teach his son Joshua to find his own special way of making his parents laugh. He has to find out what funny bone stimulant will work on his own parents.  The horse did it for me, but it might take a whole 'nuther approach for Joshua to use when he senses parental doom.

I know what you are thinking.  After all these years, does Matt still do the horse for me?  Aye, if I plead with him!  Do I ever get tired of it?  Neigh, my friends. Neigh.

Prejudging the Duke

I have been sewing a lot recently, and when I decided I wanted to learn how to work with concealed zippers, I searched You Tube for instruction videos. They were helpful, but I wished for someone, a sewing friend, who could teach me this skill in person.  Alas, I have no local sewing friends.  I actually have few local friends at all.  My time is taken up with work, family, home life, and hobbies, and there has never been anyone in Maine with whom I had a lot in common.

So I started to wonder if there is a compatible friend in this area for me.  For this potential friend,  I had a wish list and it was growing day by day.  I want her to share my hobbies, of course - sewing, quilting, cross stitch.  It would be great if she were musically inclined - piano? organ? Celtic harp? Singing?  We could play and sing duets!  How fun!  I could also really could relate to someone with my social background - married for many years, a couple of adult kids, a few grandchildren - maybe even a caretaker of an elderly relative.  That would certainly give us lots to talk about.    Wow - I wonder if she could actually be a medical transcriptionist like me?  We could share the laughs and frustrations of being in this wacky career!  Would it be took much to ask for a friend with an affinity for history, especially Abraham Lincoln?  Also, someone with my religious views, social views, political views?  And someone who shares my eating preferences - that would make it way easy to get together...

A new coder started in our office a month ago.  I thought, maybe I have lots of things in common with this lady!  We are near the same age; she may become a "perfect fit" friend for me!  I nonchalantly queried her one morning, as she seemed a little reserved and I didn't want to freak her out.  "Do you have any hobbies?" I asked.   Hobbies? She paused.  "Yeah," I said.  "Like sewing?  quilting?"  No, she said.  But she does like to garden and go kayaking.   (I don't spend time in nature, the idea of gardening makes my skin itch, and my one kayaking experience with dear friend Audrey was enough in my life, thank you very much!).  Hmm...  "Do you have children or grandchildren?" I asked.   She shook her head no.  Oh well.  Strike out.  She is such a nice lady, but we just aren't that compatible, apparently.

Then about a week ago, it hit me.  I wasn't looking for a friend - I was looking for a CLONE of myself!  How embarrassing!  How ridiculous!  How utterly boring that would be!

Sometimes we get so comfortable with ourselves and our lifestyles that we stay put in our regimented lives and instead of opening ourselves to possibilities, we make a prerequisite demand to the world that it matches our wants and interests.  This was brought home to me recently when, as we were planning what movies to record on Turner Classic Movies, Ed and I came across Rio Bravo with John Wayne.  "Ugh, no," I sniffed.  "I hate John Wayne.  I never watched a John Wayne movie in my life.  I hate Westerns."  Ed countered, "But you'd love this one.  It's funny!"  I balked, but he forced me to record it and forced me to watch it, and guess what - I loved it!  He suggested another John Wayne movie,  McLintock, and we acquired that and watched it and I loved it too!  We watched The Shootist - a great movie!  Why had this funny, talented John Wayne been missing from my life?  Because I just "knew" I didn't like him and never bothered to really find out.

After that surprising revelation, I began to think of the friends I have had for years.  They are not my clones.  There are some things I share in common with each, but there are big differences there also.  The diversity they bring to my life makes my life rich and meaningful.  From one's political dialogue to another's unique interests and skills - from one's sense of humor to another's sexual orientation - from one's religious affiliation to another's life adventures.....each friend makes me more open, more aware, less judgmental and more accepting of all the variety life has to offer.   I am so thankful they have been a part of my existence - whether local to me, or back in Tennessee, or as far away as California.

If all my friends were my clones, who would teach me something new?  Who would challenge me?  Who would talk me out of things I fear and nudge me here and there?  Who would be strong when I am weak, and encouraging when I am down?  The dichotomy, the give and take, would simply not be there, and life would be dull and certainly depressing.

Oh, yes - and that new coder?  I love her hair and clothes - I want my hair to look exactly like hers and she wears all my favorite colors!  She will be my inspiration!

The moral of this is - please - don't shut yourself out by only associating with people who are exactly like you, watching the same movies you've always watched, eating the same food you've always eaten.  Believe me, it's hard to branch out - but can be so rewarding!  Always be willing to try something new, learn something different, discover what makes that acquaintance tick, and then sit back and watch your life blossom with serendipity and surprises.  This is especially true of the people we meet (or who have been sent to us?).  Each unique person we encounter and form a relationship with is like a new flower to our gardens - new color, different style, different growing regimen, different scent - that together make life beautiful.  Did I say garden?  Maybe one day...and if I ever agree to get in another kayak on the ocean, I'll let you know...

TMI

TMI.  It's a frequent response from our adult kids.  You should have heard their conversation with their dad when he tried to explain details of his laser prostate surgery and aftermath.  Those kids sure know how to cut a conversation short!

TMI, as we all know, stands for Too Much Information, usually spoken as a warning when unwanted awkward personal information is about to be shared.  This week, however, it evidenced itself in my life with another nuance concerning health advice.  This time I take it literally - Too Much Information!!

As a medical transcriptionist, I'm always interested in health news.  I constantly read nutrition information and research (not that I always eat right, but at least I know when I'm eating wrong!).  I keep up to date on current exercise information (high intensity interval training is the latest recommendation, by the way).  I follow lots of blogs having to do with low carb and Primal eating, cholesterol testing, and I am generally fascinated with the advances in medical science.  Maybe too fascinated.

I think I've reached my breaking point.  The doctor's advice column in our newspaper this week mentioned the fact that HDL cholesterol has just been proven to NOT have the beneficial protection from heart disease that the medical community has been telling us all along it had... OK.  First it was eat eggs, then don't eat eggs, then eat them again.  First it was eat butter, then eat margarine, then for heaven's sake, margarine is transfat and don't go near it and please go back to butter!  First it was fat, then low-fat, then it was good fat versus bad fat, and hey, doncha know that low-fat products have sugar added to improve the taste?  And sugar is worse for us than fat!   It's the LDL, you know.  No, wait, it's the triglycerides and the LDL particles.  Eat lots of bread, the staff of life....no, make that only whole grain bread....no, make that gluten-free bread...no, skip the bread entirely.  High fructose corn syrup is made from a vegetable, right?   Eat local, eat organic.  But what if you have to choose between local non-organic and trucked-in organic? They say eating local non-organic is more important than eating organic shipped from far away.  Is your head spinning yet?

Then there's exercise.  Aerobic...no, weights.  Heavy weights with few reps.  No, light weights with lots of reps.  Primal exercise - do things as you would have done as a cave person (climb, sprint, pull up, etc.).  Running is good...no, it's bad for the joints.  Low impact is the way to go.  Exercise intensely for 20 minutes x 3 days.  No, exercise a half hour a day minimum.  Some folks advise that we don't need to exercise at all!

It reminds me of my favorite movies, Christmas in Connecticut.  The heroine is pretending (to keep her magazine job) that she has a husband, a baby, and lives on a farm, because that is what she has been writing about in her home articles that supposedly reflect her life, and if her publisher discovered she had been making it all up, she would have been given the boot.  So she gets a guy who has a farm anyway to pretend to be her husband, and his housekeeper babysits for two neighbors who work at the war plant, so she had her necessary baby to complete the setup.  The problem is that one baby comes one day, and the next day it may be the other baby.  The publisher, staying with them for the holidays, sees these two babies at different times but thinks they are one, of course.   When one mother comes by to pick up her baby, the publisher sees her carrying it out of the house and he assumes the baby is being kidnapped and immediately calls the police. When asked to describe the baby, he gets flustered.  Dark hair...no, light hair.  Teeth...no, make that no teeth.  His trying to assimilate the two babies into one is one funny scene.  That's the way the current health advice sounds to me, one contradiction after another and what you end up with you feel you can't really trust.

Well, it's finally too much overload for me.  Just like political pundits, I have already chosen my side.  I have taken into consideration everything I have read, everything I have learned, and combined that with common sense and finally, how my body responds.  It's sad, really.  Health-information-wise,  I don't trust the government, I don't trust doctors, and I don't trust dietitians and "nutritionists" to have the whole story.   The limited story they do provide changes week to week.  New research always contradicts old research, and most of the time, that research is funded by the pharmaceutical companies.  It's just TMI.

I certainly won't retire from learning.  I am still intrigued by the latest research, but I will take it with a smile and a grain of salt.  Uh...I can still eat salt, can't I?

The legacy for me

July 20, 1969.  Were were leaving on vacation late at night (to get a head start on driving) with a family friend, and we sat around Mrs. Grogan's black and white TV watching Neil Armstrong step down on the moon before we left.  Now tributes are pouring in on what an extraordinary man he was, how he could have had anything after his milestone journey, but he chose to stay out of the spotlight and shun publicity.  I even read where he didn't make a habit of signing autographs "to be sold to the highest bidder."

So don't offer me any money for this little gem above.  Maybe he took pity on me since I was in high school, maybe my letter was irresistibly eloquent (unfortunately, I didn't keep a copy), but for whatever reason, after I wrote him an admiring letter, Neil Armstrong mailed me this photograph which I have treasured ever since.

All the tributes in the media really made me think.  Society has the custom of heaping praise on people once they're dead.   Everywhere there are eulogies, documentaries, dignitaries weighing in on the important influence this or that deceased person has had on society.  All well and good.  Do we ever think to tell them while they're alive?  Sometimes not, at least not to this degree.

I remember on my mom's 70th birthday, we held a surprise party for her in the hall of her church.  Old friends came, relatives from near and far as well, and all the guests signed their names in the guest book.  I recall as I looked through the guest book, I had the vision for a moment that it was a memorial book - you know, the kind they have in funeral homes.   But it wasn't in memory of - it was in honor of - and I can tell you with a smile how much fun we all had that day.  My sister and her husband had made a video of Mom's life up to that point, with interviews from family and friends, which Mom just about cried through - and all were extolling Mom's generosity, her caring nature, her compassion, her faithfulness - in other words, everything one would say at a funeral except the honoree was very much alive and getting to hear all the wonderful comments.

I'm glad Neil Armstrong is being hailed as a humble hero, for he truly was.  I just hope he realized how much he meant to this country and to us as individuals before he left us.  I wish that for everyone.  This week, call someone up, write a letter, or go visit the people you care about, the people who have made your life better, the friends, role models or teachers who have influenced you in unforgettable ways, whether famous or not, and let them know how much they mean to you, while they are still around to hear it.

Farewell, Neil Armstrong.  Thanks for making a high schooler's day brighter.

Investment

What’s the first thing you think of when you hear the word “invest”?  Money?  For a long time, that too was my first reaction to this word.  Investment, investment accounts, investing in retirement - things like that.  In the last few years, though, my experience has led me to broaden my interpretation.

I am a medical transcriptionist by trade and I get paid by production, by how many lines I transcribe.  The more I transcribe, the more money I make.  So I pretty much type fast and furious for 8 hours a day.  As you can imagine, my hands would probably fall off if I didn’t have some powerful software (mine is Instant Text 7) to give me word-expanding capabilities.  (For those of you who are unfamiliar with word expansion software, I would type, for instance, the letters “caps” and that would expand to the word “capabilities” with the touch of a key.)  As I posted last year, I was fortunate to be a beta tester for the update of Instant Text and knew that I needed to spend a lot of my own personal time learning, working, creating, experimenting, and otherwise using this powerful software as a tool to enhance my production.  I was ready and anxious to invest my time to claim the rewards I would receive from my investment (more lines, more accuracy, less wear on my hands).  Besides, I always get excited learning something new.

It amazes me that not everybody feels this way when it comes to tools.  It seems simple, really.  You invest in the time to learn something that will later pay you back with interest.  Sure, it involves work, maybe time you’d rather spend doing something else with more immediate pleasure, but the time and energy invested will give a great return.  I’ve had interaction with transcriptionists who don’t feel it’s worth the effort to learn such time-saving techniques, for one reason or another.  Some consider it a waste of time, when I consider it an investment.

The Instant Text scenario led me to reexamine other areas of my life, and society’s life as a whole, with regard to investment.  So many of these investments aren’t quick payoffs, but we know the payoff will eventually come.  We make decisions to invest in our health, foregoing instant gratification for long-term goals.  We make investments in the upbringing of our children, in education, in job training, in relationships, in elections, in gardens, in the health prognosis of our planet, in the future of our community and our country and our world.  

Ask any of the Olympic athletes if their investment was worth it.  From what I heard, even without a medal, the opportunity to take part in the games was worth their years of training.  The key, some said, was not to think about the pain of training, but to keep in the front of their mind the glory of the goal.  They knew the payoff could be grand indeed.

Investment takes time, effort, energy, commitment, and sometimes (but not always) money.  Basically, an investment says, “I’m betting on this idea.  I’m betting that what will come out of this will be multiple times the amount I’m putting in it.”  We are betting that we (and its sometimes long-reaching effects) are worth it. 

I used to tell a story in one of my children’s sermons of an old man who was planting an apple tree.  A kid came by and said, “You old fool!  Don’t you know you’re so old you won’t live to eat a single one of those apples?”  The old man said, “Yes, I know.  But someone will.”

Some investments, like my beloved Instant Text, seem to be at first glance only for my personal achievement.  However, its effect of making me more accurate and productive benefits all the patients whose medical records are in my care.   My investment in my health will hopefully pay off in a higher quality of life, one that won’t involve so much dependence on my children or others to see me through.  I invest time in what books I read, what I watch on TV, the friends keep in touch with.  I invest in my marriage.  My years of investment in my kids - their ethical training, their education, their responsibilities as humans and children of God - have already paid off in abundance and will be multiplied as they pass on their own investment to their children and beyond.  

A lot of the time, investment involves risk, of course.  Some people spend their parenting years trying to invest as best as they can in their kids who in turn ruin their own lives by making bad choices.  Just like high-risk, high-yield funds and safer ones, in other part of life every bet is not a sure bet.   Then again, the payoff may be a long time coming.  We are all familiar with the great social reformers in our history who invested their whole being in trying to bring a sense of justice and grace to the world.  Some of them lived to see the payoff, some died before they had any idea how much of a difference their investment made.  

So my question continues to be:  Am I investing in what is worth investing in this life, are my priorities straight, are my “bets” ones worth making?  Am I cognizant of the fact that the payoff of my investment may not be realized in my lifetime?  Is it then still worth it? It’s ironic that we so often consider the financial definition as the primary meaning of investment - yet money comes and goes, houses are worth a lot one day and not much the next, gas prices and crop prices and stocks go up and down, and the value of everything is relative.  What do we all have, though, that is for sure and is worth the same always?  The limited (yet for most people, abundant) time and energy that we are allotted on this glorious earth.  They are ours to invest.  Let us invest wisely - with purpose, passion, wisdom, and integrity.  It’s not always about the money.  

"Not feelin' the goat, mon"

It's been almost a month since I blogged, and I feel quite guilty.  But you see, I just haven't been "feelin' the goat, mon."  (Link to delightful story below on that wonderful quote.)

Everyone who blogs (and isn't this truly just about everyone these days?) approaches his/her blog with an individualized approach.  Some blogs are specific - sewing, carpentry, knitting, etc. - sort of hobby related.  Fans tune in to read what other people are accomplishing in that chosen hobby and to perhaps get inspired.  Then there are blogs that are all about the kids or grandkids, or blogs that feature lovely photographs, or blogs that revolve around theology or philosophy discussions.  There are as many different blogs on the Internet as there are people in the world.

When I created this blog in 2005, I had one purpose:  To outdo my sister, of course.  She had been asked to learn about the art of blogging at her work, and so as a "guinea pig" endeavor, she started a blog of her own, detailing her woodworking project of building a big desk/shelves complex to fill a wall in her house.  The idea of a blog intrigued me, and so I thought, "OK, I can do that, too."   She has long since dropped out of the blogosphere (although the carpentry project turned out to be stunning), and here I am still plodding along.  I originally kept with a theme of simplifying, since at the time, we were trying to downsize and sell our Victorian grand dame of a house - the adventure of which provided much blog fodder (as well as trepidation, angst, anxiety).  As I was writing, I realized that I was taking my life experiences and trying to learn from them, putting my fears and doubts and serendipities on the screen as a way to clear my head and deal with circumstances.  The simplicity idea grew to include my response to aging, becoming a grandmother, frustration with my procrastination and perfectionist tendencies, fond memories of long ago, and a desire to appreciate my blessings.  It began to represent the whole of my life, encompassing the last year in my 89-year-old mom's stay with us in Maine.

I can't blog every day because I would have nothing to say.  I can't even seem to blog every week on a regular basis unless I feel there are words in my head that need to get put down somewhere.  Maybe a recent experience in my life or a comment from a friend or family member will plant a seed in my mind and I think, "There is something for me to learn from this" and a blog post will follow, because, I figured, maybe someone else could benefit from this insight too.   My blog involves a great deal of introspection.

Therefore, I refuse to blog when I have nothing to say.  The wonderful thing about a blog is that, unlike a newspaper or other media, there are no deadlines.  Sometimes if I'm inspired I could blog 7 posts in 7 days; other times, like now, it can be a month or more before I feel ready.

Thus I just say that "I'm just not feelin' the goat, mon."  This quote is from a wonderful story here that Ed and I read several years ago.  The story explains a lot about why food tastes better when it's cooked with love - and how when one attempts to do something simply because it's "expected" when the inspiration is just not there, the end result is lacking in some way.  There are times to push yourself and times to stay put.  The key is knowing when to do what.

By the way, if you click the link and read the story, you'll understand why homemade food cooked by someone who loves you is better for you than fast food from a burger joint.  For one thing, who do you think prepares and cooks the food at most burger joints?  Teenagers who would rather be anywhere but at work.   I can't imagine much love goes into any of those things on the menu - no matter how many hugs Ronald gives to the world.   

I assure you, my readers (who number less than the fingers on one hand), that I will never blog unless I feel I have something worth saying.  It may take a long time between posts, but when you're not feelin' the goat, you're just not feelin' the goat.

Power

Now that that politics rules the airwaves, I have a question.  If you had a genie grant you the wish to be President of the United States or some other version of "sort of ruler of the world," would you accept it?  Would you want it?  Or would you flee from it as fast as you could and throw the magic lamp in the ocean?

I personally never understand why people actually seek positions of power.  Ed once read a science fiction novel that portrayed American presidential elections in the distant future.  The country decided that the best president was the one who didn't want the job.  So the leaders drew up a list of the best and the brightest - wise, intelligent people from all over the country, and interviewed them all.  The ones who were eager for the job were crossed off the list.  The one who truly disliked the idea the most was the one they put in office.  (I assume they had lie detector tests or something similar to assure the reactions were legitimate.)  The premise was that no one in their right mind would want to hold a position of that power, and anyone who wanted it had to be...well, crazy.  The person who didn't want the job would be the best in the job.


I tend to laugh at politicians who are asked but decide not to run for high office.  Their reasons are so in keeping with their sense of what they should say.  "I'm satisfied as a senator, thanks."  "It's not the right time."  "My family is not in favor."  "I have health problems."  "I want more time to gather support."  OK.  I'm looking for the guy or gal who can be honest and say, "I'm honored you want me to run for President, but that job scares the crap out of me!!!"

I served on a local jury several years ago.  It was intriguing, but frustrating.  I hardly had the ability to choose my outfit for the day, never mind deciding the guilt or innocence of another human being.  The power was too great, the risks for error too high.

With power comes responsibility, and therein lies the conundrum.  I will freely admit I don't want the responsibility of running the country and making decisions about the economy, jobs, environment, and warfare, while simultaneously trying to work with people under me who are just as power-hungry and looking out for their parties, their friends, their companies, their positions, their prospects, and their salaries.  I just don't get it.  Why would anyone actually want this job?  It's not a perk - it's a burden.  Actions you take can affect the world.  Who thinks they are up to that monumental task?  If you think about it, anyone who runs for President of the United States thinks she/he is the best person in the whole country to tackle that job.  That's either a healthy ego of a truly remarkable person with vision - or a deluded individual whose quest for power has blinded reality.

Much has been written about how power corrupts.  Even politicians who enter the field for "duty and public service" eventually find the temptations of power too hard to resist, and the survival of their careers so important that ethics can be set aside.  What chance does integrity have against riches, power and privilege?  Sometimes, not much.  Temptation on a small scale is bad enough, but on a grand scale can ruin lives quickly and infamously.  Someone who thinks that eating sugar is bad but knows it is his weakness should never be in charge of a bakery.  In the same way, an environment that harbors betrayal, bribery, peer pressure, fame-seeking, and shameful secrets may not necessarily be a good choice for certain individuals who are not prepared for the pitfalls of living in such an environment.  Occasionally you will see Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Smith in Washington rise above the fray, but more often I fear others are pulled into the riptide and drown in the unforgiving waters.

It's Washington that is the seat of power in this country, but I'm not just talking about Washington.  From principals to mayors to office managers on up - with power comes responsibility.  Power demands integrity and power requires wisdom.  We each have to examine our own souls to decide if we have what it takes, and are not just trying to take what it has.

Of course, the kicker in all this is that we have the power all the time for a variety of things.  Every day we have the power to hurt or soothe someone's feelings, the power to lend or refuse to give help, the power to serve or demand service.   Every minute of my time is led by my personal decisions on how to use my personal power.  That, quite frankly, is enough for me.

I don't need or seek to have control over other people.  I wouldn't be comfortable managing a small office, let alone a country.   I don't consider that a sign of weakness.  I consider that a confirmation that I know enough to run away.

Taking stock

So Mom, like Elvis, has left the building.  Unlike Elvis, she is still enjoying life, returning to her familiar routines at my sister's house outside of Memphis.  As I am inclined toward introspection, I felt the need to take some time to take stock.  What things have I learned in the past year my mother has been with us?  What life lessons am I taking from the experience?

1.  Caretaking both difficult and rewarding.  It requires energy, commitment, planning, flexibility, and most of all, patience.  Ed bore the brunt of most of this, as he was home during the day, but I had my share.  My sister, bless her heart, has assumed the reins again for the duration.  Included in this is knowing when to take charge, as I discussed a few weeks ago, when I "became" the parent and Mom the child.  Someone has to be the bad guy once in a while.   It's not a role I relish.

2.  I must, must, MUST take care of my health if I want to have the life I envision.  I saw with my own eyes the devastation that health neglect can take on the body and spirit, and as I want to live out my days with independence and without pain, I have to put this on the front burner of my life.  It is too important to procrastinate about.  I have to eat right and keep moving.  Which brings me to...

3.  I have been taking so much for granted.   We had an extra bedroom, small though it was, which housed the elliptical machine and where I exercised to DVDs.  Once that was turned into Mom's bedroom for a year, I suddenly became aware that I had not used it as much as I should have, and now would be without it for a long time.  We get so used to things being there that we don't think about them until they're not available.  I consider that a wake-up call.

4.  Sometimes you just have to take a chance.  That was what my sister Joy and I did when we brought Mom to Maine.  I called it "pushing the envelope" in a way....making a bet that she would not worsen and pass away, and that her best friend or elderly sibling wouldn't pass away.  Making a bet that she would survive the arduous trip to and from Maine (and that we wouldn't have a wreck), that we would be able to easily pick up her prescriptions in Maine, that she wouldn't get depressed being away from home, that we would have the ability and wisdom to take care of her as she deserved.   During the instances when Mom seemed to deteriorate for a few weeks, Joy and I voiced aloud the heretofore unspoken concern of "are we doing the right thing?" by moving Mom for an extended period of time.  But in my heart, I knew it was necessary, and indeed, it seems to have been a success.

5.  Take time to be with family.  There is nothing more important than to spend time with those you love.  If you could have seen the expression on Mom's face when she interacted with her grandkids and great grandkids - priceless.  It was so gratifying to have been able to give her that experience and to watch it unfold.

6.  Take care of the caretaker.  My sister needed a break to allow her to focus on her family life and concentrate on things she had put on hold while taking care of Mom.  After just a year, I now understand how important that break is.  The caretaker must take care of herself, or the whole thing falls apart quickly.  This is not selfishness; this is survival for everyone involved.

7.  Take a minute to count your blessings.   As it was a blessing for Mom to be here for her, it was a blessing for her to be here for me.   The phone is a wonderful invention, but it's not like talking in person.  You can't hug through it, you can't wipe tears through it, and you can't apply Aspercreme on an arthritic knee through it.  Sometimes you just need the real thing.

8.  Finally, as I posted earlier, it takes a village to celebrate a birthday.  I learned that there are some kind people in this world who will send a complete stranger a greeting card.  Anything that revives or confirms a belief in human goodness is much needed in our society.

So what do I take away from this past year of wonder?  Wisdom, gratitude, and a heart overflowing.  These are life lessons I am happy to receive.

At least, that's my take on it.  Now, where did I put my exercise shoes?