Merry and bright, or not

Since leaving Buffalo, I’ve spent Christmas on a farm in Wisconsin, in lovely homes on the South and North Sides of Chicago and the western suburbs, in an upscale prefab in South Carolina, in small homes in southern California and southern Indiana, with a parent in a nursing home and with a dear friend in a retirement facility. I’ve been alone and I’ve hosted a houseful. I’ve been with family of origin or family of the heart, the two not being mutually exclusive. I’ve gone way beyond my budget and arrived with bags of festive boxes or had no budget at all and could only give handmade presents.

Through all of that there were three constants. The first is music. I have fond memories of years of Christmas concerts and caroling. Recently a friend said that she found the music of the season depressing. I’m the opposite. I love it, well most of it, as long as it’s played or sung in the old-fashioned way with not a lot of the currently popular vocal embellishments. Another constant was an inner voice that said the day had meaning in itself. That got me through many decades of hoping for that Norman Rockwell moment that never came.

The final constant was acknowledging the need to do something that actually made the season meaningful for me. Some years it was lighting advent candles nightly. Others it was sending notes and cards. Last year I did a lot of entertaining. For many years now I have saved my cards and opened them on Christmas morning. Wherever you are on the holiday spectrum – love, dread, ignore – I hope that you are doing something today or this week that will help end this year on the right kind of note for you.

Marilyn

Gut instincts

Leaving New York to go to college in Illinois was my first major life decision where I followed my gut. It wasn’t practical, for I had scholarships to several schools in my home state. It wasn’t easy, for I had no role models, and it wasn’t supported within my family who wanted me close. It simply felt right for me and that decision became my touchstone for understanding that I need to do what is right for me, regardless of external pressure.

Twice I have left jobs without another job to go to because it felt right. At the time I didn’t realize all of the factors leading me away, or at least couldn’t articulate them. In one instance, my attitude had become so negative I didn’t know any way out without leaving the situation entirely. Some in my circle shake their heads at the three moves I’ve made in the last six years, and while each could be justified, my gut instinct said they were the right moves. Each home has had its pros and cons, but the biggest pro always was the gut factor. Even at the office in creating procedures, sometimes I have to follow the gut policy when there are no best practices available or when making an exception that may not make sense on paper.

When I coach or mentor, I may suggest the making of lists, evaluating or even weighting factors one way or another, but then the final question is always, “What does your gut say?” Now, this is not the 1960s ribald motto of ‘if it feels right do it.’ This is a deep, visceral, very personal final check that I sometimes forget when caught up in the throes of a crisis. In these hectic days pushing toward the end of 2017, I need to pay more attention to what these lifelong lessons should have taught me. Maybe you’ve got a similar thermometer as well and want to check in with it to be better prepared to end the year on a high note and be ready for what awaits us in the new year.

Marilyn

How did it get there?

Weeks can go by and I don’t see, or at least notice them, but last week I paid attention, and I counted seven. Seven shoes by the side of the road. One was a baby’s shoe. Since there is a day care on the first floor of our office building, I can imagine a cranky little one kicking their legs as mommy or daddy hurriedly carried them across the street. But, how one sneaker, boot, stiletto, or loafer ends up along an expressway shoulder is a mystery.

Surely you’ve noticed them? Maybe you’ve got a theory, or an actual story of a sibling tossing a brother’s smelly boat of a shoe out the window of a moving car as a joke. If that’s the case, I’m sure there were consequences. Could it be a superstition of sports teams to drop a shoe from the bus as it sails along taking them to an away game? Are there abandoned clogs in Amsterdam or ferragamos on the Appian Way?

During this season of Hanukkah and Christmas there are plenty of mysteries to consider. Shoes are not one of them, but I doubt baby Jesus had booties and perhaps many of those rededicating the temple had only one pair of sandals. The random lone shoe now makes me think of those who would be grateful for even just the one. So, in my circular way of thinking, I’m sure that there are a pair or two of shoes in my closet that I haven’t worn in ages. I’ll be grateful for them as I sort and then make sure that the Goodwill bag gets delivered before Christmas Eve. You may consider doing the same thing now or the next time you see a shoe along the roadside.

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.

-Dr. Seuss

Marilyn

Pedestals

What is it about human nature that has us putting people on pedestals and then being so surprised, disappointed, and, if truth be told, often secretly gleeful, when they fall off? That question is what I remember word for word of the couple of hours I spent writing before my IPad died. That's because most of what appeared on the screen were unrelated thoughts and some of those are what follows. I wrote about the issue of expecting someone who excels at one thing to be great at everything. About people coming to believe their own hype. About wanting people to be worthy of admiration but they better express their worthiness humbly.

One piece I drafted was something like this: Now, I’m not famous, but there is one thing I do know about pedestals because there have been a couple of times in my life when someone put me on one. It can feed the ego for a short time, but then it’s very uncomfortable and actually made me feel excluded and alone.

The original piece ended with some of these thoughts. I appreciate and want heroes. They give me something to strive for. I can also appreciate and want celebrities. Like heroes, they, too, can inspire me. When either a hero or celebrity screw up publicly, as I also do, it is a reminder that we may have more in common than one might originally think. With the famous falling off pedestals like dominoes – okay, that’s mixing too many metaphors – we don’t know who will be next, but I have one prediction. Soon, one will be a woman who has misused her power, and the conversations and reporting will get nastier.

Marilyn

Multiple choice

When you were in school, what was your favorite type of question on a quiz? From elementary through high school I wanted true or false questions. I wanted answers to be a clear choice, and then, if I was simply guessing, the odds were 50/50. After true/false, I liked essays. Being a lover of words, I could extol on why an answer was clear cut, why what I was writing, with lots of flowery language and fillers, was correct. But, as I really learned, thought and matured in college, I grew to appreciate multiple choice questions, well, as long as the options included 'all of the above' or 'none of the above' or 'select all that apply.' I no longer wanted there to be only one answer.

Multiple choice, however, can take a long time to catch up with real life. I remember celebrating when the option of Ms. finally appeared in the column along with Miss and Mrs. and Mr. as a box you could check. I recently met someone who is using Mx. as a prefix and who wants to be gender neutral. So, as I continue to learn, think, and I hope mature, I accept that there are even more boxes that can be added. 

I'm grateful to be living in a time and a place where frequently there are lots of options for living our lives and lots of possible and correct answers and solutions to the challenges we face. I can appreciate that even when the answers that are correct for me and differ from the answers that are correct for you, we might find a spot on a continuum where we are both satisfied. I'm frustrated, however, that too often for the things that really count, I want to check 'none of the above.' 

There's a TV ad for DNA testing where a woman says she now selects 'other' on forms because she learned her ethnic background has made her much more than she thought she was. We are all more than we think we are in terms of having the potential to facilitate change. May we find the courage and energy to do what we can to ensure that multiple choices for who we want to be as individuals and as a society thrive for generations to come.

Marilyn

The potlucks of life

Last week we had our annual Thanksgiving potluck at the office. That lunch always brings back fond memories of church potlucks from my youth. Families lined up at tables laden with dozens of homemade dishes. We all hoped that Mrs. Goehle brought her triple layer jello salad with pears and maraschino cherries, that Mrs. Johnson made baked beans and that Mrs. so-and-so did not. I've been to potlucks where there were lots of deviled eggs but no desserts or lots of potato salad and no meat. There were even times where the hosts realized that too many people arrived to partake but not contribute. To prevent any of those scenarios, we post a signup sheet at the office.

The idea of a potluck means that we take a chance that things provided will be good and acceptable, but there is no signup sheet for the potluck of life. As much as we want a banquet table with lots of choices in every aspect of our lives, that's not what we get. Or, it is what we get, and we make poor choices. Sometimes we stand there, at the head of the line, feeling alone, uncertain which utensil to use, not to mention which dish to select. Other times we feel pushed from behind to hurry along and we take the first thing we see. Most often, we routinely pick the comfortable and familiar, only occasionally examining the exotic and new.

As I mused on the idea of potlucks here at the beginning of this Thanksgiving week, two quotes came to mind. One is Forrest Gump saying, "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." We never do know what or who will be added to or taken away from our table. We can pick up a nice looking new salad only to discover we don't like the dressing, just like we meet someone we'd like to know better but learn that they are all surface and no substance. The other phrase comes from Psalm 23, "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies." You and I may have different beliefs on who "Thou" is, or if there even is a Thou, but for centuries people have found solace in those words. 

Perhaps you are dreading this holiday because of someone who will be at your table. Whatever makes them the enemy - behavior, politics, personality, history - it's probably too Pollyannaish to even suggest that you remind them that life is a potluck and their view is one of many, but it may help to concentrate on the potluck of other people present. Me? I'll be with some of my family of the heart. I'm bringing the stuffing. Oh, and today at the office I'll be posting a signup for our holiday Dip 'n Dessert party. This is something new and I can't wait to see how this potluck turns out!

Marilyn

Do you believe in magic?

Like most things in life, people either like, hate or are ambivalent about magic. The term covers a range of things, from Houdini and David Copperfield to pumpkins turning into carriages, from clowns piling out of a small car to wishing on a star, from Harry Potter and heroes with super powers to the first snowfall of the season. Magic has to do with illusion, and that's where we are all magicians. We live under many illusions, the biggest one being that we are in control.

For a while, we can maintain the illusion that we can conquer our to-do lists, manage conflicting relationships, handle aging, meet that life goal. We come to believe that with enough money, we can be happy. With enough self discipline, we can lose those 10 pounds. With enough love, we can change someone. With enough charm, others won't see the insecurities and fears under the surface. With enough power, we can do whatever we want no matter the consequences to others and, since magic is also about misdirection, with enough of that, we believe no one will catch what we are really doing.

We take comfort when we can say that something 'outside of our control' is responsible. It's great to be able to point fingers at the weather, traffic or someone else missing a deadline. We get so used to things as they are or, more likely, as we believe them to be, that we are surprised when life intervenes with something that forces us to change direction and acknowledge that our control is fleeting at best and, at worst, nonexistent. When everything seems out of control, we are reminded that the only thing really under our control, in every aspect of our lives, is our ability to make wise decisions. It would truly be magic if I could remember that more often.

Marilyn

We shall not be moved

Some words are very versatile. Think about the word move as a verb. We move on, move out, move up, move around, move away or back or closer and, to make room for another, we move over. It's an action oriented word even as a noun. In a game we take turns making our moves and recognize that certain moves may put our position in jeopardy or catapult us forward. As a result of another's actions or words, you or I may be moved, bringing an emotional element to the activity and versatility of the word. In relationships, and I'm showing my age here, Carole King felt the earth move under her feet and James Taylor noted that there is something in the way she moves. 

That's all interesting, but academic, and much is also based on the luxury of having a choice to move or not. Our world is full of the flip side of that. Hundreds of thousands of refugees are on the move because their lives, livelihood and ways of living are in jeopardy. Hundreds of thousands of women and men are stuck in abusive relationships or dead-end jobs, afraid to make a move for fear of putting their lives or livelihood in jeopardy. Meanwhile, political, religious and other leaders dig in their heels on one position, claiming, like the lyrics in the poplar civil rights era song, We Shall Not Be Moved. No siree, like that tree standing by the water side, We Shall Not Be Moved because it will weaken our stance and reputation.

Please, all of you in Washington and Springfield and fill-in-a-place, do not just keep moving on from one topic to another when no progress has been made. We're standing, sometimes just treading water here in between the riverbanks, while you righteously stand on one side, pontificating and pointing fingers over our heads to the other side. Meanwhile, on gun control, we are targets. On health care, we are patients running out of patience. On the economy, we're up to our waist, awaiting a recession. Someone, please do something to get things moving.

Marilyn

The hot seat

One day last week I clicked on a link with a headline something like "12 jobs that no longer exist." I read about telephone operators, candlemakers, the town crier and lamplighters, among others. Later that chilly day, for the first time this season I clicked on the button that activates the seat warmer in my car. When I thought about combining those two clicks, I wondered if back in the medieval days, there was some servant with a wide backside whose job it was to sit on a chair to make sure it was warm for the master or mistress of the house. After all, those castles were drafty and cold, and if there were food tasters and lady's maids, then why not someone to ensure a warm seat in a damp and dank chamber?

I rather liked the idea, but have not googled to see if such a task fell to any domestic help of the time. Of course, those literal hot seats are pleasant, comfortable and comforting, but we've all been on a hot seat that are not any of those. When we've gotten caught in one of those little white lies, provided incorrect information, let something important fall through the cracks, missed a deadline, let someone down. How we've reacted, both publicly and privately, to being on the figurative hot seat, tests our character, impacts our self image, and becomes part of our reputation. 

Perhaps, like me, you have found that part of maturing in adulthood has been learning to accept accountability, to not point fingers or make excuses, but simply to say, "I screwed up." What I've learned is that it is far better to take that route than those excuses or avoidance tactics I'd used in the past. I've learned that I actually feel better when I step up right away rather than letting the disappointment linger. I've realized that the situation remains in perspective rather than becoming bigger in my mind than it really is, or, to keep the analogy going, the seat isn't as hot as I made it out to be. 

Marilyn

"Accountability breeds response-ability." (Stephen Covey)

"If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." (Harry Truman)

Write from wrong

In recent days, hundreds of thousands of men and women have taken a stand with two words. The #me too campaign has offered victims a voice and a community. For some, it has been a safe way to say out loud for the first time, that something terrible happened to them. In doing so, they discovered that they do not have to be alone as they face it, name it, and figure out a new way to incorporate the experience into their view of the world. Many who signed on did so after bravely opening a door they thought they'd closed.

Yesterday I heard a report that there is a hierarchy of assault and abuse evolving. Comparisons can be human nature and certainly the law does label one offense worse than another, but does the inappropriate fondling I experienced repeatedly as a child need to be ranked against sex for a promotion in this cyberspace forum? I hope not. We are just linking hands here and it is hard, so we need to be together on this. We are all reliving or remembering the anger, confusion, pain, and, regrettably, some shame that tends to accompany each incidence. All those are common threads in whatever happened to us, as is, unfortunately, the fact that we've kept part of it, if not the whole thing, a secret.

Words have power. Taunts, insults, threats, verbal abuse and harassment, they cut, not flesh, but spirit. The scars they leave on the heart echo over decades. Victims have found solace in the past in journals and diaries, putting pen to paper for themselves, or perhaps sharing with a trusted friend via letters, texts or emails. Let's hope that the power of #me too provides some healing, some relief, some reclaiming, and that it becomes a tool for action and change. And, let's thank those who have joined or support the campaign for their courage and encourage them to continue to use their voices to right a wrong.

Marilyn

Crossing guards

It was about 6:45 a.m. on a drizzly grey day last week when a crossing guard bravely stepped into the street and held up a stop sign. She looked like an iridescent teepee in her bright yellow slicker with circles of reflective tape wrapped around it. She was not at an intersection when she emerged from the sidewalk, but in the middle of the block, and it was not for a backpack-wearing child, but a bent down laborer either coming from or going to work. Even as I stopped, the first car in the lane coming toward me did not. The driver in the second car halted, and, like me, watched as the man nodded at the guard, walked to the other side and kept going. The guard turned, lowered the sign and stepped out of our way so we could resume our morning commute.

That scene got me thinking about people who have been crossing guards at important and difficult points in my life. People who helped me find safe passage, who held back what traffic they could or helped clear the way. While there are many whose names I no longer remember and many who are long gone, the list certainly starts with my parents and grandmother. My brother and I learned how to tag team intersections as our parents aged. Two piano teachers kept me focused and moving down the road. One English teacher ignited my love of words. When my thirteen year old brain struggled with chemical formulas, a counselor made it possible for me to defer the class for a year when the concepts then fell in place. A college advisor asked me to think about transferring to Harvard since they had started admitting women, which meant a whole bunch of crossing guards had been at work. A therapist, spiritual director, groups of women friends doing art, sharing our dreams or books were mentors as well as guards. There have been friends who stood with me in the intersection, while some whispered or shouted encouragement from the opposite curb, and others came along at the right time to escort me across.

As I acknowledge those above and many more, I also remember how proud I was when I was given a crossing guard sash and badge. I was in fifth or sixth grade and I don't recall if everyone had a turn or how long the assignment was during the school year. I just know it was a badge of authority and responsibility that everyone took seriously. While I still need help at intersections and along the block, I'm also at a time when I hope I am walking in front of, along side of, and behind those whom I can assist. I'm trying to pay this aspect of relationships and connections forward as much as possible. What about you? Who have been your crossing guards and who are you watching out for?

Marilyn

I was just there

Several weeks ago, floral and balloon tributes appeared on a local overpass I drive by every day. I learned that a young girl had jumped to the expressway below even as police tried to talk her down. In August, a colleague returned from vacation and showed us pictures of her favorite town square in Barcelona. Different pictures of that same spot were transmitted around the world just a few days later. Last month I was in Las Vegas. I'm sure something has happened that made you utter, "I was just there!"

Tragedies are somehow more real when we feel a personal connection. When there is a personal connection, we pay closer attention. Unfortunately, even with some type of personal connection, our attention span has become short. I think we move on quickly from these terrible stories because after an initial reaction of horror, what we then feel is despair and helplessness. To block the anguish and those hopeless feelings, we go numb. And, when we go numb, we move on.

If numb was a place, I feel as though "I was just there" so many times in the past year. Together we've been bombarded from the left, from the right, from the crazed, from the elements, from the digital and cyberspace worlds. Some of us have taken health, relationship, financial or career hits. In a recent conversation, one person commented that nothing will change, while another said there are things we can do. Since January, we've marched, met, talked, shook our heads and stared in disbelief, so suddenly, with the thought that there might be something new we could do, there was a flicker of hope. When the first answer that was tossed out was that we can write letters, the hope diminished, there was silence, and we moved on to other topics.

We need new tactics to connect to the "I was just there" and to counteract the pervasive numbness. I have no clue what they might be, but I guess we need to pay attention to when those flickers of hope appear, do what we can to keep that flame alive and the conversation going. I'm tired of being numb.

Marilyn

What's in your closet?

It's that time of year when we here in the midwest switch out summer clothes for heavier wear. Turtlenecks, vests, and corduroy slacks now hang where shorts or lightweight shirts and pants spent a few months. These seasonal switches allow us to to assess, sort and remove worn, out of fashion and no-longer-the-right-size garments. Yesterday as I began the process, I realized there were categories to what I saw.

My semi-organized wardrobe represents pieces of my life. Even though dress codes have changed, I still have clothes I mentally label casual vs. business casual. There are clothes for when I need to feel authoritative or simply need a pick-me-up. I've a few items for those rare dress up occasions and some that are festive or solemn.

My closet holds memories. There's the new t-shirt from vacation, that great jacket I got on sale and what I wore to a big event. As I smiled at a sweatshirt that says New Zealand, I acknowledged that sometimes I have held on to a piece of clothing much longer than appropriate because of association with an event or person. 

When I'm honest, I see poor decisions. Whatever made me think I can wear lime green? It doesn't matter that it was a great deal. What matters is I didn't pay attention to that little voice in my head at the time. Now, there it hangs, having been worn once.

Finally, I see opportunities. I see the chance to get a boost by doing something that I know makes me feel good - getting rid of stuff. I'm going to part with those blankies on hangers, those items with warm memories but which haven't been out of the closet for years. I see items for consignment, for Goodwill and even a couple that are appropriate for the rag bag. I am keeping the one that helped me win the ugly sweater contest a couple of years back, but out goes the lime green one. So, now that I've started, let me ask, what's in your closet? 

Marilyn

Tall, short, deep, wide

If you've visited any historical homes, you've probably seen the beds of past eras and replicas or the actual ones where famous people slept, presumably comfortably. although I remember seeing the bed where Lincoln died and reading how he had to be laid diagonally across it. Last spring I went shopping for a new mattress. I was clear on what I did want (firm) and did not want (pillow topper) and thought my knowledge of bedding was up-to-date. But I soon discovered I had missed something important. Mattresses and box springs have gotten bigger. Not just from full to queen to king, but higher or deeper, however you want to look at it. From my 5-foot perspective, it's taller. It was difficult for me to even try out some floor samples. Once I made my decision I choose the option of a 2 inch bunky board instead of a box spring so I wouldn't need to take a running leap to jump into bed every night.

On my recent vacation I discovered that the trend in tall beds goes beyond the showroom. I was barely able to fall onto the bed in our first two hotel rooms. When we got to the vacation home we were renting for four nights, I saw that I would need a step stool to get into the bed in the two main bedrooms. I settled for the bottom of a bunk bed. It was perfectly comfortable, and actually much easier to get in and out of than the previous hotel beds. When we moved to the next vacation home where it was my turn for the master suite, I had another surprise. There is something larger than a king, and this particular one was positioned in a huge wooden frame with an emorous sleigh headboard so big that the bed had to stand away from the wall.

Yes, I can chuckle and hope you did as well, but there a purpose here. A little research indicates that over the last 100 years we human beings have gotten taller, well, bigger overall, so I get that it makes sense that mattresses have to keep up with that growth. I also get the idea of luxury, but as I looked at pictures of sodden mattresses at the end of driveways, in trees, floating down the street, I wonder if they need to be so big that if they had a door, they could be a room. I may not be a great environmentalist, but there is an issue here that needs some collective consideration. 

Marilyn

Bearing witness

As we rounded a bend in Dixie National Forest in southern Utah two weeks ago, we saw that two cars had stopped on the shoulder and folks were hurrying over to where a third car was off the road in deep brush. It was facing the wrong way and some smoke was coming from under the hood. Despite that drama, I was focused on the silver van that had been tailgating for several miles through the winding 2-lane road as we climbed and then started descending a fir tree covered mountain.

On Saturday, I approached a busy intersection and saw volunteers standing in the middle of the street. Once I was close enough to read the orange lettering on their bright yellow t-shirts, I recognized the annual Knights of Columbus drive. As I turned right, I wondered if in this day and age, that type of fundraising is relevant or effective. That night, as my concert companion and I were walking the four blocks back to my car, after talking about the highlights of what we had seen and heard, our conversation turned to the topic of aging, walking and falling. And then, her foot managed to hit the crack in the sidewalk wrong, and down she went.

As I thought about these three experiences, I realized that it didn't matter so much if those volunteers passed out all of their tootsie rolls or raised signifiant funds. What was more important was that they were bearing witness, they were standing up to help those with disabilities. While I did not see the car go off the road, I will bear witness that I am still bothered that I could not safely stop to help. I feel like the character in the story of the Good Samaritan who hurried by the beaten and wounded. So, I utter thanks for those who did stop and hope there were no serious injuries. The other night, as my friend fell in slow motion and I was unable to intervene, no one else witnessed the accident. But soon a young woman walked up and asked if everything was okay. Here was one grey haired woman lying facedown on the grass and another kneeling next to her, so, no, everything was not okay. I said we were discussing calling 9-1-1, so she wished us luck and continued on her way. Unfortunately, there is a broken humerus involved.

I wonder if my tailgater even saw the accident or if the young woman from the other night has given a second thought to the incident. I wonder if the next time I - or you - have the opportunity to intervene, we will have the compassion, presence of mind, and even courage to act. I sure hope so.

Marilyn

Being topical

Many weeks when I get ready to draft a musing, I struggle. Should I comment on things happening in the world? Do I have anything relevant to say? What about when I want to ignore, or at least temporarily forget, the things going on in the world? Frequent readers know that I usually end up writing about one of the random thoughts that came to me during the week, which sometimes I am able to link to the headlines.

This week was no exception. Above me on the screen are the beginnings of a paragraph on step stools (three I have and one I need to buy), another on the eclipse, and one on the idea of having just been somewhere where something bad happens. That last one is based on a colleague having just returned from a vacation in Spain, where her favorite spot was the square in Barcelona that turned into mayhem two days after she got home.

So, you'll see that my thoughts are all over the place, which is often representative of our days. It can be hard to focus when there is a solar eclipse about to happen. It can be hard to settle on one thing in the news when there is so much to pick from. Mostly, for me right now, it can be hard to concentrate when my brain is ready for a break. 

Which is what I'm going to do. 

By my calculations, there have been nearly 350 Monday musings since they began seven years ago this week. If you do the math, you'll note that I have taken a few brief breaks over those years. Keep in touch and know I'll be back in a month. Until then, think about what you may need a rest from, for as Maya Angelou wrote, "Each person deserves a day in which no problems are confronted, no solutions looked for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us."

Marilyn

Who am I to judge?

If you are like me, you make a lot of snap decisions and you're good at them. Well, except maybe which express line to get in. As I matured, I've tried to pay attention to the consequences of my quick judgements in relation to people. How, by using appearance as the primary factor for putting others in boxes, I cut myself off from opportunities to connect with people whose life stories may seem to be vastly different from mine, but who, in truth, are on a parallel journey. I think I was doing a decent job of it in relation to gender, race, ethnicity, age, sexual orientation, class, and even political leanings. Then came the tattoos and piercings. When I became aware that I was forming an opinion about the young men and women I encountered on a daily basis simply because they had chosen to do something with their body that was contrary to the norms in my world, I realized I needed to stop my instant evaluations of body art and adornment. 

I'll admit it is still hard not to scrutinize and make assumptions. It certainly is often very difficult to not have my eye keep going to the nose ring or the ink. I've leaned that even though I might be intrigued about a design, symbol or word that someone is displaying, tattoos are quite personal and it's impolite to ask.

Yes, we older folks want to warn and caution the next generations about so many things, but we had to try so many things on our own as well, even as our elders judged us for rock 'n roll and miniskirts and protesting a war. And, speaking as one who knows that some people may look at me - short, round and greying - and jump to their own conclusions, I try to enter every greeting with an assumption that we are on common ground, for, after all, who am I to judge?

Marilyn

Diaries and journals

Do young girls still keep diaries? Or, to be inclusive, even little boys? That treasured book that comes with a key so secrets can be recorded and locked away? So older siblings can search for it and tease or tell? I was thrilled to receive a pink and white one for my tenth birthday, but the novelty soon wore off and it was left unsecured and unused in a drawer. 

Since then, I've received and even purchased some lovely journals. Leather ones. Ones from museums whose covers boasted impressionist paintings. Some had blank pages; others were lined and had inspirational quotes above the gilt edges. But, try as I might, I could not consistently record anything of worth. My ordinary days didn't belong in such a beautiful edition. Mostly, I felt that there was somehow a right way to keep a journal that everyone else had figured out except me. Was it a particular type of pen or book? Did it matter when you spent time writing? Or where? I struggled with the details of the process rather than the process itself.

What got me thinking about diaries was discovering that much of the fascinating story of the Wright brothers in David McCullough's book comes from what was recorded in their and other family members diaries. Now, I've had dear friends who've told me that should anything happen to them, my job was to get to their journals before anyone in their family did, and destroy them. What if that had been true for Wilbur and Orville? Much of what we know about history, be it of a family or a country or an invention, comes from the written word of people of the time. We know what everyday life was like throughout the eras because of the men and women who wrote about the mundane as well as the extraordinary.

The other day when I did my occasional look onto FaceBook, I was told that it was 279 weeks since I'd posted anything. Many people may not think about the diary they are keeping on FB or other social media platforms. Future generations are going to have so much more to sift through to find reality than McCullough did. Most of what I have written personally for the past nearly seven years is what is recorded here in these weekly musings. There is no right or wrong pen, time of day to write. All I've needed is a glimpse of an idea and my keyboard. And access to the internet. And you. Someone to read this public diary I've created. Thank you.

Marilyn

You're (never) too old

When I was five, I was told I was too old for two things. The first was my blankie, a small quilted square my grandmother had made me and that I held onto at night. In bed. Like a comforter. The second was sitting on my father's lap. The loss of both of those broke my heart and confused me. Three decades later I learned that taking those things away from me also broke my mother's heart, but she was doing what the experts in some parenting book told her to do. She said if she had it to do over, she would have followed her gut, not the directions. In that conversation she modeled that you are never too old and it is never too late to say you were wrong.

Now, I believe I may have shared those stories before, but this time I'm presenting them in a different light, giving my mother a break and focusing not on the earlier acts but on the regret she expressed. You're never too old to reframe or extend grace, even beyond the grave.

In the past few years several friends have made major moves across the country even as others are preparing to plant new roots thousands of miles away or just several blocks from their current suburban home. You're never too old to begin anew, to initiate a transition. Yesterday I was at a 90th birthday party. The birthday gal has had her struggles in life, but, despite not really wanting to be the center of attention, she allowed us to honor her. We're never too old to accept a gift or be thoughtful of others.

Society, or some might say propriety, dictates that people are too old for some things. Wearing miniskirts or speedos. Extreme sports or climbing a ladder. A lifetime of experience may tell us we are set in our ways, too old to change. There is some truth in not being able to teach an old dog new tricks. But, I'm equally sure that Victor Frankl's words, "when we can no longer change a situation we must change ourselves," are words I need to embrace. There are some new tricks that I'd like to employ. It won't be easy and will require courage. Probably along the way I'll face more lessons of you're (never) too old category like those mentioned above. Perhaps you've also a challenge you'd like to face. Join me. We can learn together.

Marilyn

Of course it is

You know those times when you think one more thing can't possibly go wrong and then your keys go missing? I had one of those days recently, starting off with stopping at a Dunkin Donuts at 6:30 a.m. to buy coffee for 24 people for an 8 a.m. meeting on the South Side, when the thunderstorm started. "It's pouring," I thought, and added, "Of course it is!" Five people showed up for the meeting. The day continued downhill from there.

We all have those periods in our lives when nothing seems to go right or when we are feeling down. Many of us are able to recognize the bad time for what it is and know that things will get better. For some reason, last Thursday, as I rolled my eyes and sighed at each 'of course it is' moment throughout the day, I thought about those people for whom those feelings are their norm. 

There are dear people in my life who are helped to stave off the constant "of course it is" through chemicals. While great strides have been made in understanding and treating depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and so on, I wish it were more. I wish the clouds on the horizon for so many were cumulus instead of stormy. Having to be vigilant and constant in fighting off 'of course it is' must be so much more exhausting than the energy my occasional visits into that world require. 

I guess this is part of the walk a mile in someone else's shoes philosophy. Perhaps you'll have an "of course it is" moment this week, that is, something will give you a chance to experience the world from another's view. Take advantage of it, for it's one thing that can help build bridges. 

Marilyn

Our etch-a-sketch moments

Every summer we made the 8 hour drive from Buffalo to Bobcaygeon, our 2 week vacation destination in northern Ontario. The 'we' was my parents and me in one car and Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Bob in another and all of us in a large cabin on the lake. Each night after dinner we played cards which I enjoyed, but I would eventually leave them to their 4-handed games and go outside, ending the evening sitting on the dock. As my feet dangled in the water and I watched the moon rise across the lake, my mind could wander wherever it wanted while I enjoyed the gentle sounds of the night. 

In today's world it is so easy to snap a picture of a moment, be it beautiful or ironic or important or tragic or silly. I heard that studies are showing that we are not enjoying or actually being in-the-moment because we are too busy recording it. I'm probably a less-than-average photo scrapbooker, I think mostly because I don't post anything other than these musings on social media. Last weekend a friend and I spent a long time by the baby snowy owls at Lincoln Park Zoo and, I'll admit, I wanted to make sure that I had a couple of pictures which I've shown a few people. Mostly we just stood and marveled. We talked to others who happened to stop by the rather out of the way spot, but they all took a picture and moved on. They can say they saw the owlets. We can say we watched them.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all in favor of photographs. My walls are covered with them, some more than a hundred years old and others are ones I took that I had printed on canvas. While a photo captures a moment, it's the feeling, the place, the people I was with that I talk about when visitors ask about any of my pictures. I can still conjure up in my mind the moonlight on the water from all those decades ago, but it's the peaceful feeling that makes me smile. I can shake my head, and like the etch a sketch, shift the picture but remember the feeling. If you are like me, there are many photos on your phone that you could (and perhaps should) delete to make room for your next adventure. Take a few moments this week to revisit your photo gallery and the moments recorded there. See what you need and want to keep and make sure they are safely stored and then etch a sketch away all the others.

Marilyn

The phantoms of 3am

What is it about that certain time of darkness when the mind awakes and will not shut down? You look at the clock and sigh. You've enough experience to know that you are at a very fragile crossroads. Either the brain loop obsession that has just started about the thing you didn't do, should do or should be will shut down. Or it won't. If you are lucky, as you roll over, you find that internal switch and drift off. But, if you are like many, you have entered the zone where you feel most alone, inadequate and afraid and you lie there focused on one particular aspect of yourself, someone close to you or how the world is spinning out of control. Trying to find rest once those demons have arrived is impossible.

You probably guessed that I had one of these phantom visitors the other night. I did what I've done in the past. Found pen and paper and wrote down an important thing that had fallen through the cracks the day before. Ten minutes later I was up and added another note and then listened to the clock chime the quarter hour seven times. 

Now, often the next morning I've been unable to read my in-the-dark writing or the light of day put a different perspective on what was recorded. If it was a task, I usually found a way to handle it. If it was a phrase that I had thought masterful for some future musing, it's about fifty-fifty if my 3am self was truly wise. This time, the forgotten task was important enough to shoot off an early Saturday email to a colleague. A quick response told me it had been cared for.  

So, here are my lifelong learnings about the phantoms of 3am. What seems important usually isn't. There is the possibility that someone else already took care of what I forgot. What is happening is common so I am not alone. Up and down the block, people like me plus parents and caretakers are also awake. Breathing is important and trying to fight the phantoms doesn't work. I can trust myself to know if additional sleep or even rest is a probability and it's okay to put on the lights at 3am. That's it. Nothing profound or perhaps even helpful, except the next time this happens to you, maybe you won't feel so alone.

Marilyn

The blink of an eye

Funny the things you remember. Our driver's ed instructor had a favorite phrase. He continually said, "Size up the situation!" which, at 16 years old, we students could not fully appreciate. We kept track one day, and he said it 27 times in the 56 minute class. The other thing he said that has stuck with me, was that when we sneeze, our eyes are closed for 7 seconds.

Today I have a much better appreciation for how both short and long 7 seconds actually is. It's each one of the scores of times I've swerved to avoid hitting a dog or cat or squirrel or ball followed by child running into the street. It's the times I've held a hand as someone died. It's the sperm fertilizing the egg and the final push as a baby makes it all the way through the birth canal into the world. It's the click on the remote to change channels or on the trigger sending the bullet through flesh and bone. It is the heartbeat when you can't take back something that just came out of your mouth, the lightening when it hits the tree and the initial step off home plate towards first base after bat meets ball. It's the raising of a hand to salute the flag, the time it takes to rise or kneel in prayer. 

Now, I have not googled that fact from 50 years ago. Probably because I want it to be true since I've believed it all these years. Also, probably because the actual number doesn't matter. What matters is the appreciation that it is true that important things happen in the blink of an eye. They can be life changing, thrilling or dangerous and demand our attention. May your eyes be open today to those 7 seconds. 

Aa-aa--choo. What did I miss?

Marilyn

How to build a porch

My mother wanted a back porch.  A porch would mean we would no longer track mud into her kitchen. It also would mean we were keeping up with the Joneses, and so, my father built a back porch. In the summer, it was a place for meals and relaxing in chairs or on the daybed, where I sometimes slept on hot nights. During the winter, since this was Buffalo, NY, it was a place to thaw the turkey, store containers of holiday cookies and, of course, our boots.

The second bedroom in my first apartment was really the unheated back porch, but my roommate was quite content, even on cold Chicago nights, to wrap up in several comforters and retreat to her space. In my third apartment, I had a balcony, the urban equivalent of a back porch. It faced south and was a great space for a morning cup of coffee but then often unusable until the sun started to set. Another place had a rather large landing, being the top of three flights of back stairs. Two chairs just fit and I bought an umbrella that came with a large clamp that attached to the railing.

I'm writing this on the back porch of my new place. It's enclosed, but with four large windows and a breezeway panel that is now hooked up for the season. My $2 dollar estate sale chairs are cheery with striped cushions and there are geraniums in colorful pots. It is peaceful here at daybreak as the bird chorus accompanies the sound of rain on the roof. 

That's what I've come to understand about back porches. They are a place of peace and quiet, of contentment and a sense that all can be right in the world. My father built one with concrete, wood, steel and linoleum tiles. With muscle, sweat and friends. I've found or recreated one in the midst of a busy barbecue on a crowded deck or dealing with writer's block trying to draft a musing from a rocking chair on a wraparound porch of an old Victorian mansion here in Oak Park. It's finding that feeling within yourself that makes the back porch ambiance, not the actual space that matters, although a view can help. While I smile at the memories of watching dolphins from a balcony in Hawaii and a herd of sheep from a front porch in New Zealand, being able to breathe and find a moment of rest in the midst of busyness at the office is what helps get me through the day. I wish you an easy way to build a back porch this week when you need it.

Marilyn

Making sense of scents

They say our strongest sense is the sense of smell, possibly because it evokes memories. Last weekend I followed a contemporary into the grocery store. In his wake, I was suddenly back in high school walking down a busy hallway behind any number of guys who had started dowsing themselves with English Leather. At that time, we girls were graduating from Evening in Paris to Chantilly. My mother wore Chanel No.5 and my dad, Old Spice. Any of those scents would have sent me back decades. 

Smells tell us of the change of seasons and when something is going bad is the fridge. I started a list of distinct odors and pared it down to: a walk through a spice market or past a bakery; a fishing boat, a barnyard, a freshly mown lawn; peonies, lilacs and eucalyptus; bbq, gingerbread and a fresh tomato. Like everything there is a flip side, so I need to include a dirty diaper and sulphur. One of my favorite TV series, Tenko, about British and Dutch female prisoners in Japenese camps during WWII, included an episode where they were traveling between camps and ended up at a compound that had showers. One of the women turned to the other and said, "I can smell that I don't!" I love that line.

After writing the above, I stopped and thought about our noses breathing in whatever smells there are in the air around us. A friend who recently broke her nose had said her appetite was diminished, in part because she couldn't distinguish any tantalizing scents. Another friend grieves no longer being able to bring her favorite flowers, stargazer lilies, into the house for they make her sneeze. At the office we have a conversation with new employees about being mindful of strong odors that can trigger a migraine for colleagues. I also thought about how various military organizations have utilized airborne weapons like mustard gas and how pharmaceutical companies experiment with sprays that can make some medicines easier to take.

Back to the gentleman wearing English Leather. After I smiled, I took a quick detour down a different aisle because he had been quite generous in his application of after shave. You've had a similar experience in an elevator or seated next to you at a concert. When you look, it is either someone who has started to lose their sense of smell and therefore overindulges, or someone who is just starting off and hasn't learned subtlety. Wherever you are on this spectrum, take some time this week to find a favorite smell, take a deep breath, and find someone to whom you can say, "Get a whiff of that!"

Marilyn

I know what I know

There are people who are Subject Matter Experts (SME). Sometimes one gains this status through academia, but most often by earning a reputation that may be based on book learning but that is honed through experience. Whether it is the person on the witness stand or the local mechanic, there are go-to people in small towns and metropolises who everyone knows will have the answer or get the job done.

I've been an SME on a variety of things in my career, and there were times when that fed my ego as well as paying the bills. In this wikipedia and google era, however, we can all be SMEs in an instant on any matter. It can be easy to overlook the blood, sweat and tears that many put in to earning the spot that enabled them to pen what others may claim as their own from digital sources. 

Now, I'm at a place in life and my career where, I think simply through age, persistence and experience, I have evolved into an SME generalist, a Jill-of-all-trades. I'm a trusted consultant, confidante and problem-solver. As such, I'll pass on the two most important things I've learned over the decades.

The first is that the greatest gift someone can give you is to really listen to you, and in this day and age when multitasking is valued and attention span is minimal, it is a rare gift indeed.

The second is that the words "I don't know" can actually take you farther in life.

Marilyn

What will?

Fill in the blanks: If ___________ doesn't force me to ______________, then what will? 

I don't know where your mind went with that, but a couple of things prompted this thinking for me. Current headlines, for one. If anger and disgust over what's happening in our country today doesn't force me to do something to facilitate change, then what will? Try though you might to prevent it, every conversation seems to get around to politics. One colleague has started keeping track of how long it takes. Now, talking about politics is not a bad thing. It can indicate engagement. But, what it mostly means is that people are complaining, expressing opinions, looking for agreement but not active solutions. Opposition counts on apathy to ensure the status quo. Our discontent doesn't seem to be at the tipping point yet. What will that be? For us collectively? For you? For me?

This 'what will' thinking really started last December. Cancer was behind me. It was the holidays, my first December in this home and I was thoroughly enjoying it and them. But, one morning during my quiet time I said to myself, "If having cancer doesn't force me to lose weight, then what will?"

For my whole life that been the biggest 'what will?' It wasn't love or logic. It wasn't embarrassment or encouragement, challenge or comfort, theology or therapy. Or, it seems, cancer. So, I don't have the answer to that question or the one above. Perhaps, as I continue to go mindfully through day-to-day life, at least being aware of the issue is enough. For now. Is it enough for you, with whatever is the biggest 'what will' in your life, to also simply be sitting with an awareness and contemplation of it to feel as though you are moving along its continuum? If not, what will?

Marilyn