DIY

We live in a do-it-yourself world. Previous generations would be surprised as we ring up and pack our own groceries, pump our own gas and make our own investment decisions for retirement. Some of these “advancements” have made our lives easier, or at least saved us some time. Many are scary on different levels. I might have been proud that I once rewired a lamp but was concerned each time I turned it on in case I’d done something wrong.

Months ago I ran across this George Eliot quote, “It is never too late to be what you might have been.” With that as a starting point I have begun many musings. I’ve had titles from “Things you can’t recreate” to “Reinventions” and have several interesting phrases, thoughts and beginnings. I rather liked this opening: “Remember that important assignment or task when you wanted to wow the teacher, your boss, your peers, your family, and well, the result was, from your perspective, adequate at best?”

But I have struggled to string those good ideas or phrases together. Yesterday I realized why. This is a DIY musing. I can only speak for me. Each reader needs to figure out what that phrase might mean to him or her.  So, in the two minutes left that you would normally spend to finish reading my words, decide one small thing that you would enjoy doing or always meant to do that reflects one interpretation of Eliot’s challenge. For me, there is someone to whom I could be a better friend. I’m going to text her just with a ‘thinking of you’ message. Now go on and DIY, that is, be more of what you might have been.

Marilyn

Dining room tables

Dining room tables My sister-in-law joined a group that plays the card game euchre and recently it was her turn to host. As she was organizing her first hand, she remembered a time decades ago when our family was doing the same thing around that same table, one piece of furniture my brother had asked for when we were carefully dividing family treasures. She looked down and silently patted the dark mahogany and smiled. Now, that would be a sweet story if that was the whole truth. What she also recalled were the times when it was the rest of the family playing cards while she sat alone in the living room reading or watching TV because playing cards, particularly with her very competitive mother-in-law, had never really been her thing.  Being able to do your own thing in a family setting should be encouraged, so, again, that should be another part of a fond memory. But breaking from the pack wasn't always encouraged in our house. Tacit approval – “do what you want” – might have been the words my mother said, but the set of her jawline said "you're supposed to be in the other room with the rest of us."  "Supposed to be" was big in my house and too often, things, and even the people, were not what they were supposed to be. Unfortunately, we never quite figured out what the "supposed to be" was, only that we hadn't got it right. The house smelled great. The food was delicious. Our Thanksgiving table looked very much like the Norman Rockwell painting, but that was surface. Once each of us realized that we were never going to fill the shoes of "supposed to be" our lives got better. When large celebrations got to be too much for mother, my sister-in-law hosted family dinners around her own dining room table. I enjoyed preparing and serving every day and holiday meals at my table, which is an English pub hand-me-down table, a gift more than 40 years ago from some British friends who paid two pounds ten for it during WWII. I'm glad that the table I grew up with, the place where my parents and I had most evening meals together for nearly 17 years, is still being used to entertain and connect. Just the other day my sister-in-law sat at that table to share coffee with a neighbor who'd received bad news. This Thursday some tables will be filled to the brim with food and folks will sit elbow to elbow. Others will have sparse fixings. Conversation will be stilted or will flow. Some may rationally discuss the disparate headlines about welcoming vs. banning individuals because of race or religion and even appreciate the irony of that issue on this particular holiday. Before anyone takes a bite some may bow their heads to give thanks beyond the cook. Wherever and with whomever you gather, may there be no “supposed to be” vibes in the air, just a loving acceptance.

Marilyn

Duck, duck, goose

Do you remember playing this game where one child walks on the outside of a circle of children sitting on the ground, tapping each on the head saying "Duck" until finally saying "Goose" and then running around the circle? The 'goosed' kid has to get up and chase, hoping to get back to their empty spot before the 'gooser' takes it. Whoever is left standing starts the process all over again.

I hated that game. As someone who felt like a goose in a duck world, I did not appreciate when that was brought to everyone's attention. It didn't matter to me at the time that the game can help teach all children that exclusion is a reality, that there is often an odd man out and that, at times, we are all that person. 

It's hard to be the outsider. It's hard when we don't understand why we are being left out. It's hard when we realize the why and that the reason is beyond our control or is based on unfair or unrealistic criteria, like the color of our skin, other appearance characteristics, the dollars in our bank accounts, our address, education, accent or belief system.

I had started writing this before the events of Friday night in Paris. Before lives and a nation were changed. Before we all experienced a collective fear, a joint rage and a common confusion about how such things can happen, how anyone can think that such acts are justified. These terrorists whose extreme ideologies negate a personal connection to the rest of humanity, deliberately divide the world into ducks and geese.

As we watched with horror that evening, I turned to PBS Newshour. That program incorporated updates on the tragedy in France along with their prescheduled segments. So, in the midst of hearing of hostages and updates on the number of casualties, there was an interview with an expert on the topic of microaggression. Now, I work in microlending and therefore am accustomed to incorporating micro into my language, but this was a whole new use of the prefix. Microaggression is the casual degradation of any socially marginalized group. As I listened and learned, I realized how real it is on a daily basis and that I've been a unknowing perpetrator, making others feel like a goose.

How? The professor gave the reporter a personal example and showed how subtle microaggression is and how it often occurs unintentionally. He described the common social setting where a new acquaintance asks a non-white American where they are from and doesn't accept the answer of "Portland." They press with a follow up question of, "No, I mean where were you born?" and get confused or even belligerent when the answer is still the same. The underlying message is if you don't look like me then you can't be American. Microaggression is an unexamined part of a world view that has minorities, like students in Missouri or actresses in Hollywood, saying that there is still prejudice despite good strides.  (You can read a very public example of Joe Biden and Barack Obama if you go to wikipedia to further understand the topic.)

Being introduced to microaggression in the midst of reports on a terrorist attack was a startling juxtaposition about inclusion and exclusion. Better philosophers, theologians, diplomats and historians than I can discuss the evolution of extreme groups and attack tactics. They can theorize and strategize the big picture. All I know is that those who constantly feel like a goose in a duck world are vulnerable and susceptible to any welcoming message. Beyond that I can't begin to understand the powers at play here, but do understand that I can play a small part in my corner of the world. I can be more aware of the ducks and geese around me. I can search for common ground and seek ways to honor differences so we all - ducks and geese - can swim in the pond of life without fear. Perhaps you can pledge to do the same, regardless of the feathers you wear, and together we will make a difference.

Marilyn

Patterns, rhythms and habits

The superstition that things, both good and bad but mostly bad, come in clusters is common in most cultures, though the particular number may vary. Here in the US we tend to say they come in threes and we can cite several examples, usually of celebrity deaths or tragedies within our own circles. Such folklore is built over centuries as people looked for patterns. Once such a pattern is found, we reach a certain level of comfort by being able to say "that's over, there won't be anymore, at least for awhile."

Before finding patterns we live with rhythms. There is a rhythm in our world to which we all tune in. How we do that, I believe, is part of our connection to the universe and one another, for it is the rhythm of the natural world that we all have in common. The four elements of earth, air, fire and water. The four seasons, different though they may be depending on where one lives. The movement of the sun and moon and earth. The sounds of wildlife. Bela Bartok, and I'm sure other composers before and after him, used the rhythm of birdcalls as inspiration. I once heard that the taunting musical phrase children use in a teasing manner and which you can only imagine since you can't hear me going 'nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah' is present in all cultures.

Habits can be based on patterns. I certainly plan my morning and evening commutes based on what I've experienced as routine traffic patterns. Leaving my house five minutes late can make a fifteen minute difference on the road. There are those who are differently wired for whom patterns drive an internal necessity. It may manifest itself in the need to wash their hands a certain number of times or other behaviors that observers may label weird or even disturbing but which makes total sense to the hand-washer.

In the patterns, rhythms and habits of my life I find that I've gone from comfort to comfortable. There is a constant and a contentedness which is satisfying and even gratifying. When we are in that state, the challenge can be to remember our universal connection and those whose patterns are unsettled, whose rhythms are driven by danger and fear and who, in order to remain safe, cannot develop habits. 

This week I've heard a lot of people saying that it's hard to believe Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Here in the midwest that is true because El Nino has disrupted our normal November rhythm. Our collective balance is a little squeed. We are preparing to enter a holiday season with all the November, December and January festivities and have limited time to meet end of the year goals. All that places additional stressors on our patterns, rhythms and habits. I am hoping to maintain my current harmony. One thing that will help with that is a daily to-do list that, besides all the tasks required to keep me on course, also remind me to breathe, rest, and, in the spirit of the season, help ease someone whose pattern has been disrupted by one or two of those bad things as they wait for the third to drop. Perhaps you'd like to adjust your own routines to do something similar. If you do, let me know how that works out.


Marilyn

Miss Marple has it right

For those not familiar with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, she often solves mysteries because the killer/thief/perpetrator reminds her of someone in her small town. I recently realized that I keep meeting the same people just in different bodies. Given a group congregating for a random or even common purpose, there are certain types who seem to always be present.

This adventure into group analysis happened a couple of weeks ago when I spent a few days with thirteen people whom I didn't know. We were a random group collected for a brief common purpose. In our introductions activity I was struck by the fact that one woman looked so much like someone I know. Later that evening when she also acted like my acquaintance, it actually got creepy. Seriously, she was a dobbelganger in both looks and affectations. In this group, she was the Caretaker. Then there was the Earth Mother, a comfortable woman with great common sense and a knowledge of how to teach important lessons. The Pain in the Ass was loud, long winded and not self aware, although I'm sure others had pointed out his faults throughout his adulthood and their helpful hints were ignored. The Frightened Mouse actually got along with the PITA, whom several of us decided was simply lonely.

The Wait To See How The Wind Is Blowing pair pretty much stuck together while The Professor got along with everyone. Mostly we left The Full Steam Ahead alone which was fine because she didn't seem to care. She Got A Pickle And I Didn't and Easygoing did ok together, particularly if the Peacemaker was around. The One-Up bustled between sets of the others and the Naysayer ended several conversations.

Stereotypes, dislike them though we may, exist for a reason, which is that on the surface they are accurate. Every group has a certain combination of the above, plus a few more, including the Follow the Leader, the Wanna Be and the Pleaser. One prejudice I am conscious of having myself is against those individuals who perpetuate a stereotype by being so like it, such as when I run across a Dumb Blonde. I want to shake the person into something else. And here I was with a whole group of obvious stereotypes.

It was when I wondered how the rest of the group was pegging me that I finally got to the next layer of the onion. I realized that actually there are bits and pieces of many of the stereotypes I've listed above in me, well, in each of us really, if we choose to let them out. Those characteristics are just under the surface. I can Caretake, Placate, Naysay and One-Up with the best of them. So, as I continued down that road of self realization, peeling away to a deeper layer, I understood it is often those bits and pieces about myself that I have tried to work on because I find them annoying that is a common denominator. Now isn't that a PITA? Wonder if Miss Marple ever figured that out.

Marilyn