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