When the ball drops in NYC

Even though I live in Illinois, when the ball drops in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, I’m happy to start singing Auld Lang Syne, toast with my glass of champagne, wish everyone a Happy New Year and call it an evening. Perhaps it’s because I’m seventy and 11 p.m. Central is past my bedtime. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in Buffalo and by body is still synced to being an hour ahead of where I am physically. 

That second thought helped me realize there are some other subtle leftovers from my childhood. Things like the feeling that something is about to start that accompanies the arrival of Labor Day, since that’s when the school year began. Or still being surprised that stores are open on Sundays, even when I might be annoyed that they don’t open until Noon. 

And, speaking of Sundays, the fun of the thick Sunday newspaper with its Comics section, Parade, and special inserts. Of quiet family time as each of us sat in the living room handing off sections of the paper. While better for the environment, reading online is just not the same. This Sunday’s paper featured photojournalism of the past year and I reflected on cameras. Just last Friday the camera on my phone stopped working and I thought of the long gone days of having to go into a closet or dark space to change a roll of film.

Each of those nostalgic thoughts involved waiting. The countdown to midnight. The anticipation of the start of a new grade. Of waiting a week for pictures to be developed. Tonight we turn the page on the calendar from 2018 to 2019 and it seems we all are in a time of waiting. Waiting for things to change, to get better. New Year’s resolutions involve some type of change. Perhaps a resolution could be about committing to something that makes me - us - part of a catalyst for the change we want the most.

Wishing you a happy and prosperous New Year!

Marilyn

Recall notices

As consumers, we should be thankful for recall notices telling us that something we own is faulty, or more important, potentially dangerous or even lethal. And, while we probably are, mostly we are annoyed that we suddenly have a product we cannot use or have another errand to run, an appointment we need to make and keep. This came to mind last week as I sat in the waiting room at the car dealership for nearly two hours while the computer system in my 2016 beetle received some type of upgrade. 

As a friend, neighbor, lover, partner or family member, there are times when we wish we could send our own recall notices. When we admit there was an instance when, as a faulty human being, we said or did something we wish we could take back. Or maybe our flaw was that we did not do or say something when we should or could have. As citizens, we have the ability, indeed the duty, to issue a recall notice through casting a vote, and as an employee we need to speak up, even becoming a whistleblower to bring to light a concern that requires, if not a recall, at least scrutiny. As a Microsoft user, we can click on an option to recall an email.

Recall notices from manufacturers represent a mandate, a legal obligation, to fix things. In this season of good will and beginnings, let us manifest our own recalls for something in a relationship that we need to fix, or at least try to.

Happy Holidays!

Marilyn

Who is your current gift?

People come into our lives for a reason. Sometimes we understand why right away. At a shared event like a conference, we may meet a kindred spirit, enhancing the whole experience. Casual conversations with a stranger can have deep meaning. New colleagues join a team or new neighbors move in, bringing unique perspectives that make us think. Someone within our circle marries. A child is born. Each new person can be a gift.

People leave our lives for a reason. Sometimes we understand why right away. Well, at least on the surface, particularly if it is the normal order of things. Friends move away, both our worlds shift and we hope that our friendship endures the transition. Elders die and we soldier on. But most often we struggle to find answers to a valued connection’s departure, or at least we are puzzled. That kindred spirit doesn’t get in touch. Accidents and disease take people too soon. Relationships end, sometimes just fizzling out over time, and sometimes due to deliberate and hurtful break ups or to new twists, turns or priorities on one person’s part. And, when connections shift, when relationships end, we have to figure out how to keep going, how to move on, how to work through the pain. Ultimately, all that too can be a gift.

Hindsight makes it possible for us to understand the gift that a person gave us when they entered and/or when they left our lives. We’ve all experienced good and bad relationships that have helped mold who we are today. We realize that we are stronger for having endured, but that doesn’t mean we are grateful for the abuse or the abuser, for the broken engagement, for the hurt, for the grief, the pain, the doubting of self. When we meet someone new who turns out to be such a better partner or we build a different type of life than we’d once envisioned and feel richer, our contentment puts the past in perspective. My biggest retrospective learning is that when I meet someone to whom I have an immediate negative reaction, it is probable that they represent some characteristic that I do not like within myself. That’s a harsh reality that tells me I should try to engage with that person rather than retreat. I should consider them to be a gift.

This is the Monday of Thanksgiving week and there may be new, different, unexpected or empty chairs where you are gathered. Perhaps the timing is such that the luxury of hindsight hasn’t had time to kick in yet and you still are hurt or grieving. Perhaps you are nervous about bringing someone new to the circle even as you are on a high for having this person in your life. Whatever your circumstance, just breathe and see if you can find how the concept of gift and a particular person applies to you right now and give thanks.

Marilyn

A clever turn of phrase

For the past month I’ve been ruminating on a snippet from a sea shanty song I heard while weaving through small coastal towns in Nova Scotia on a tour bus. After a demonstration on lobster fishing and a quiz on the largest lobster ever caught (44 pounds in a nearby harbor), the tour director played a CD on which a regional artist sang that the the air off the ocean is “perfume for my soul.” That poetic combination of words has haunted me, causing me to ponder what spritz, what diffuser is perfume for my soul.

Three weeks after that turn of phrase caught my attention, I was reading a book on Benedictine prayer and was challenged to “listen with the ear of the heart.” Ah, another wonderful concept, I thought, and began considering those in my life who frequently model that unique skill of listening and wondered if listening with the ear of my heart is something I ever show to others.

Nursery rhymes, Dr. Seuss and Disney introduce us to catch phrases early in our lives.  Well crafted marketing campaigns, tag lines and the like continue that work, often, I’m sure, with the help of focus groups. A clever turn of phrase can sway our votes and where and how we spend our dollars. In literature I’m drawn to characters and plots where the flow of the words seems effortless while being intelligent, sharp and savvy. I believe it shows in my writing when I simply try to be clever but not when something on the page also comes as a surprise to me. The next time a clever turn of phrase causes you to notice it, pay attention to what about it appeals to you. Context or content? Topic or timing? Meanwhile, I challenge you to join me in trying to listen to others more with the ear of the heart; we’ll get to the core of what people are saying to us quicker. Oh, and by the way, this time of year, the perfume for my soul would be burning leaves or warm apple cider.

Marilyn

Semi. Retirement.

A musing in June used the meteorological terms isolated and scattered, which deal with the percentages of the likelihood of rain, in describing the potential for frustrations or joys at certain points during my day. Then I challenged readers to think about their own isolated or scattered issues. Here I’m focusing on the words semi (partly) and retirement (withdrawal from one’s position, occupation or activity) to describe a switch I’m making to what has been a routine aspect of my life for eight years. Perhaps you, too, will find something from which to experience a semi retirement, regardless of your age.

By my most recent calculations, this is musing number 384. Longtime readers may remember that my Monday Musing evolved from a weekly update email that I sent to people in my circle concerned about my recent layoff. But, my words quickly switched from assuring folks I was finding enough contract work to commenting on something that happened that week. Then the musings led to an opportunity to write a book. Soon someone told me my musing should be a blog, and here we are today. Some encouraged me to go for broader exposure with a different format, say FaceBook, but I’ve been content in my little world, composing for those who have been interested.

For the next couple of weeks I’m looking forward to some adventures. Travel, whales, turning 70, a celebratory gathering bringing people from all aspects of my life together, seeing if I’ll reach the goal of collecting 70 cookbooks. (BTW, if you are local and may have missed the invitation, please get in touch so you can stop by if you are able.) But, to finish where I was going, I am semi retiring from my Monday Muser role. As long as you remain subscribed, when I post a blog, which will be when I really have something to say, you should still receive it. Just don’t look for something every Monday morning.

It has been a joy for me to have this vehicle through which to realize my long suppressed aspiration to be a writer. It has been sometimes frustrating, nerve wracking, and always a surprise. Those musings which I sweated over and which I though would draw comments rarely did, while others that just flowed out of my fingertips often sent emails my way. I learned to deal with my inner critic whose voice would often emerge as soon as I hit ‘publish.’ My heart was frequently warmed when someone would say, “that was exactly what I needed to hear today.” I thank you for this opportunity to enter your inbox every week. You’ll still find me there sometimes, for this is only a semi retirement. Let me know if you also find something from which to semi retire, for new plans are always more fun when shared.

Marilyn

“Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.” Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne

The tangled webs we weave

For a few weeks this summer an industrious spider wove a nightly web that connected a bush on one side of the walkway to the back door on the other side. That meant every morning I had to destroy its work in order to get to my car. Finally it tired of that routine and traveled the length of the house to the front stoop, where it connected both railings, which again blocked my way. That spider’s daily work got me thinking about the threads that we send out and the threads that are sent our way. Those threads, those webs, connect us to people and things and often define where the control of our lives rests.

Some of the threads are actually strong sturdy ropes, steadying our feet and our view of the world, but with enough elasticity that grounds rather than confines us. Others are single threads, sometimes tiny and tenuous. Other threads may fray, never to be darned or repaired, or, if and when rewoven, can be stronger than the initial tie. Many have a push/pull tension, as both ends vie for control or when one side wants the connection to be stronger than it needs or should be. A few are burdensome and take attention away from ones where we would like to spend more energy. Some we’ve allowed to attach themselves to us willingly, knowingly. Others, not so much. And, it’s not just people. We sign mortgages, car leases, credit cards, student loan papers. We’ve allowed electronics into our web. We pursue passions, hobbies and windmills. 

In our seven degrees of separation world, it is prudent to take an occasional inventory of all the webs of which we are a part. To evaluate the tension, even the necessity or desirability of each thread. We can sever some, lessen the control on a few to make room for new outreach or to be available to new threads sent our way. It may be time for us to do that as we head into autumn. Perhaps like some trees, we can add color or let some connections fly away.

Marilyn

Unused words

While listening to a book on my way home from work one day last week, a character in the story mentioned that something had become their lodestone. I puzzled on that word in that context and liked it, and then thought that I was one hundred percent sure that in my eight years of writing these musings, I have never used that word. For the rest of the week I paid attention to see what other words might fall under that same umbrella. The list I compiled included clavicle, pagoda, bamboozled, turbine, camel, hickory, instagram, journeyman, weathercock, and pathos among others. 

I’ve always admired people whose vast vocabulary made the use of unusual but very apt words seem so natural.Those of us of a certain age may remember Word Power, a regular piece in The Reader’s Digest designed to help grow our vocabulary. Or, perhaps you are a fan of the word-a-day app or calendar, something to keep increasing our knowledge of and understanding of the power of words. A cursory google search told me that on average people speak 16,000 words daily, that we may know 50,000 words but commonly use only 2,000.

Then I looked at my list again and wondered how many of those I had never used. Ever. Even in conversation. And, you know what? I ended up back where I started. Lodestone. A thing that is the focus of attention or attraction. Like words. Maybe you’ll enjoy playing a similar game for a week and see what words start to intrigue you, but don’t let me bamboozle you into it.

Marilyn

Don’t know about you, but...

Our house only had a bathtub and we took baths on Saturday night and maybe once during the week. The showers at summer camp were a novelty. My dorm at college had showers on each floor and one bathtub that we had to sign up to use. Sometime over the last few decades the norm requires daily showers in fancy spaces. With seats. Of marble.

Growing in Buffalo we called tap water Lake Erie. On our vacations up in northern Canada there was a water pump. As a kid, I thought it was so cool to pump and drink from the aluminum cup that hung there. Lunch boxes came with a thermos which was used mostly for soup. Sometime over the last few decades the norm requires bottled water of all sorts. Plain or flavored. In plastic. Easy to carry. Easy to discard.

I’m probably a typical recycler, trying to remember to put my empty bottle in the right bin. Trying to remember to not run the water the whole time while I’m brushing my teeth. “We all live by robbing nature, but our standard of living demands that the robbery will continue,” wrote poet Wendell Berry. Now, there’s nothing wrong with a refreshing daily shower. There’s nothing wrong with bottled water. Perhaps there is something wrong with our norms. I read somewhere that the next world war will be over water rights. Before it comes to that, there are probably some things we each could change. Don’t know about you, but I intend to give those norms some more thought and reevaluate my expectations and needs.

Marilyn

Out of balance

Ceiling fans were a great invention and, in my opinion, are a necessity. They are a practical alternative or boost to air conditioning on a warm, breezeless summer evening. They provide some psychological comfort that the air actually is moving. But, to work best, to do the job they were intended for at any speed, they need to be balanced. When they are not, they shake and are noisy. Not the hum of the refrigerator background kind of noisy, but more the rattle in the car engine kind of irritating sound. The kind of rhythmic thumping that is like a brain worm that keeps one from being able to relax, let alone fall asleep. 

When something is rhythmically thumping in one area of our lives, it can be very hard to feel that there is any type of balance. We spend so much time and focus so much energy on that one thing that everything feels out of whack. Now, some of that is normal. Think of major events. New parents. A sudden death. Changing addresses. With all of those, we ultimately find a new balance. At least, that is the hope. But when we suddenly realize that we’re feeling sluggish, blah, stressed, cranky, snarky, anxious, or a litany of other states, most likely things are out of balance.

I’ve lived in a couple of places where my ceiling fan was fine, but the one in the apartment below me wasn’t, and that was even more troublesome because it was out of my control. My floor and bed trembled and the annoying machine ka-flunk was audible and it was necessary for me to ask others to deal with their own imbalanced fan. Similarly, when we notice things are amiss in the lives of those around us, we have to gently invite them to reflect on what’s out of balance. We don’t have to be engineers or mechanics or electricians to fix our own or another’s imbalance. We just need to be aware, open to some self examination and exploration, and willing to act. Thomas Merton said, “Happiness is not a matter of intensity, but of balance, rhythm and harmony.” May your week ahead be balanced.

Marilyn

4:44 a.m.

It’s funny how we remember certain small things. Years ago I had invited a couple of friends over for dinner and, at the last minute, included a woman we’d just met. She had recently married a widower we knew and he was out of town. She mentioned her routine of getting up at 4:44 a.m. for some quiet time before her workout on the treadmill. Shortly after that meal, they moved away so we never spent time with her again. I don’t even know if she is still alive, but as an early riser myself, if the clock reads 4:44 a.m., I think of Peg. There are other people who have moved on and we’ve lost touch, yet, every year on their birthday or some other occasion, I think of them, again, without knowing where they are or if they are in this world. That would be okay if they were all folks I want to remember, but there are a couple whom I’d prefer had moved on all together, not to be thought of again.

There are also small instances, like times I screwed up, reacted poorly, downright lied, was bruised or hurt that periodically reappear. Even if the wounds are healed, forgiveness asked for and given, an echo remains, a shadow lingers, and I am again in that emotional spot for a split second. 

These small moments aren’t festering or continually running like ticker tape across my brain. It’s that they occasionally flash, shedding a spotlight on them once again, like an unconscious nudge. If it was something I said or did - or didn’t say or do - then it’s a gentle reminder that, while still a flawed human being, I hope I learned from the experience and have grown. It’s surprising that it is not the heartbreak or major disappointments that haunt. Maybe some morning at 4:44 a.m. I’ll try to discern why it’s the little ones that pop up. If I get an answer, I’ll let you know.

Marilyn

Growing up different

As much as we want to be true to ourselves, to be a strong individual, we also want to fit in. We want to be the we in the we vs. they, part of the in crowd, or if not part of, at least tolerated or ignored by them. Age doesn’t matter. It could be our first day of preschool or of a professional conference. We stand on the threshold and quickly look for the familiar, the similar, assessing how we will be received. Imagine what it’s like if you know and understand that mostly you won’t fit in.

The recent 50th anniversary of the Special Olympics served as a reminder of how little we once knew about the challenges of the different. Back then, most with mental or physical disabilities had been kept out of sight which also meant, out of mind. Since then, we’ve accepted mainstreaming as a norm. We drop words like autism or Tourette’s and conditions like OCD into conversations. Most likely we use them incorrectly even as we try to show awareness and empathy, and, most likely our actions come across as condescension or tolerance.

We all feel different at times, but it is different to know that you are so. Outsiders have no idea what life is like for a family who has a truly different member. Now that it is more the norm for a child with a disability to remain at home, outsiders do not, cannot, comprehend what it takes to provide a safe and constant environment for their different member. To nurture and help that individual become the best that they can be. I recently had a glimpse into that world and saw the exhausting stress, the painstaking patience and realized how little I really and truly knew or understood. 

Throughout history, the different have been demonized, ostracized or forced to conform. Think of all the left handed children made to change what came naturally to them. Think of the closets full of generations of those with differing sexual orientations. Think of the taunts to those with cleft palettes or crossed-eyes, the uncoordinated, or the dark skinned in the world of the blondes. I’ve mentioned here what are just a few issues on the spectrum of differences and don’t mean to compare one with the other. What I’m musing on here is the commonness of wanting to belong and the absolute imperative to remember that longing to belong is something we all share.

Marilyn

The driver didn’t know

Last Wednesday morning I was driving on a four-lane highway headed back to the Columbus airport when I smelled burning rubber. If you are like me when renting a car, you check out all the basics but may not know what’s going to appear on the dashboard screen when there is trouble; however, no icons were flashing at me as the smell grew worse. Then bits of rubber from a shredding tire on the truck in front of me started hitting the windshield. Luckily there was no damage, and before I could do anything to alert the driver, he turned at the stoplight and seemed to keep going. He didn’t know.

How many times do we leave things in our wake that we don’t know about? That we cut someone off in traffic without realizing it. How what we said was taken wrong and there are stunned or confused expressions on colleagues’ faces as we walked away. When we interrupted something important to those involved with something we considered more important. I’ve seen it happen when there is a sense of entitlement. Maybe it comes with age or with authority, but I’ve noticed a tendency in myself to not be aware of or honor what I’m interrupting. And, worse, to not be concerned with the fact that there may be consequences to my actions.

There’s nothing wrong with keeping focused on what’s ahead. It can be important though, to periodically check on what we’ve left behind. 

Marilyn

Head, shoulders, knees, and toes

When something comes to mind as I consider topics for these weekly musings, I tend to go with it and see where it takes me. So, when the glimmer of a childhood song teased my brain, I did what anyone in search of a piece of information would do, and googled the phrase and found the cutest video of cartoon children exercising. It wasn’t quite the tune I remembered, but close enough. My recollection wasn’t that parents or teachers in my day used the song to get us moving, except maybe for coordination and rhythm, but the modern version combined exercise with the song which seemed like a good thing.

Perhaps I was reminded of the song because I’m in that phase of life more focused on icing or replacing those body parts than identifying them. Well, except the head. There is no head transplant when Alzheimer’s disease is the diagnosis. There is no corrective surgery for how we have deteriorated into so far left and so far right (not necessarily portions of the brain). It was painful to watch my dad’s head slip into the world of dementia. I fear a similar fate, but don’t know whether the fear is that I’ll know it’s happening or that I won’t know. I fear the fate of our world where the rhetoric needs to be iced down and we all need some type of therapy.

“He’s got a good head on his shoulders” is a nice complement, as is “she’s head and shoulders above the rest.” Here in Chicago we are the city of the big shoulders. As a culture and a country we once had broader shoulders. All of those hint at a morality that is not mentioned in the song. Maybe we need a second verse that is ‘head, shoulders, heart and soul.’

Marilyn

When the time is right

When the time is right, I will... You’ve thought it. I’ve said it. We’ve probably even drafted some plans around that fill-in-the-blank part. It may be something that we really need to do, should do, or would like to do. It can range from making a will to leaving an abusive relationship to quitting a job to starting a diet. We are waiting for the time to be right, meaning that the planets are aligned, we’ve saved a million dollars, or hell has frozen over. Mostly we are waiting for the kick in the butt or for something to shift internally so that the time feels right.

If you are like me, you’ve learned that the time is rarely ever right. Not until we make it right. On Saturday I had breakfast with a woman who is waiting for the time to be right to make a decision about a major move. The I’m-moving-to-be-close-to-family-because-it’s-that-time-of-my-life type of move. A wonderful friend is settling in to her new life thousands of miles away because the time came to be right for her to make that hard decision. Yesterday I was at the memorial service of a dear colleague. I had the privilege of accompanying her somewhat on her journey she refused to let be defined by cancer. We cried when she shared that the time was right to tell her fourteen and ten year old sons that she was dying and when she asked me to find time on our boss’s calendar so she could tell him it was time for her to retire immediately. 

You know, as I know, that for most things, the ducks will never be in a row. Don’t get me wrong. Animals in the wild have millennia of learnings on when to migrate; farmers on when to sow or reap. There are better times, not just always that perfect time to get us off our keisters to do what usually turns out to not be as difficult as all our worry and procrastination thought it would be. So, what are you waiting for the time to be right for and what can you do instead of waiting?

Marilyn

How life is like baseball

While watching the Cubs game yesterday, I realized that I may not understand all the nuances of baseball but I do know that the batter either hits or misses the ball. I did a little research and discovered that the phrase hit or miss was first recorded in the 1600s, well before baseball. My next step was the dictionary where I found three slightly different meanings for hit-or-miss from three sources. Merriam-Webster says, “marked by lack of forethought or plan.” The free dictionary says, “haphazardly, random,” and dictionary.com says, “as likely to be unsuccessful as successful.” It then lists the wonderful words “slipshod, lackadaisical and slapdash” as synonyms. 

We’ve all learned that, even with a great deal of forethought and planning, outcomes can be hit or miss. Think of all the Plan B’s you’ve had to resort to due to weather, cancelled flights, or someone’s whimsy. We’ve seen artists’ whose works may seem haphazard but not slipshod or those authors whose writing, in my opinion, became slapdash to cash in on their sudden popularity. And my own weekly writing can be hit or miss from either or both the reader’s and my perspective.

On a daily basis we don’t think about our whole lives being hit or miss. That’s too scary a thought. But, it’s true. Like the baseball players, we practice, hone our skills, work within a team while understanding our role, fine-tune our plans, negotiate our contract. Then we get rained out, scheduled for a double-header, are told to bunt when we think we can hit that grand slam. The manager can strategize against the opposition, but then it’s all hit or miss, and not just hitting the ball.  I didn’t start off thinking about life being like baseball, but, I guess it’s all hit or miss.

Marilyn

In the nick of time

Have you ever started one thing and then gotten so engrossed in something else you forgot the first? Usually that’s okay. But, when the first thing is hardboiling eggs, it’s not. I’ll admit I’ve lost two pans over four decades and am lucky that’s all I lost. I now set a timer, not the one on the stove or microwave, but one I can put in my pocket. Turn on the burner, set the timer, put the timer in my pocket, walk away. Of course I am then startled when the timer goes off. If often takes a couple of seconds before the word ‘eggs’ takes me back to what I’d started 20 minutes earlier. 

In the 1980s portable phones expanded our multitasking options while having a conversation. Now our phones themselves multitask along with us. Even as I use it to send a text, my phone is my diary and archive, my calendar and camera. It connects me to google and social media, my work and personal emails. It could be my timer, if I could figure that out.

It’s hard to do just one thing anymore. I remember when television was new and seemed like magic, so we sat in rapt attention. Now I can’t just watch TV; my hands need to be doing something. After I took a class in using leaves in artwork, a walk was no longer a walk. I had my eyes out for useful specimens, then when I started birdwatching, it was hard to know whether I was in search of leaves or birds.

Studies tell us that we are not as good multitaskers as we think. I can have music on the the background as I write, although like this musing, if I don’t have an end in mind, I can find myself tapping my foot and paying more attention to the tune than the keyboard and screen. Do you find that if your mind is not set on one thing you can easily get distracted. Oops, there’s the doorbell. Catch you next week!

Marilyn

Labels

If you had a one-word sign in front of your home that told the world something about you, what would you want it to be? A new yellow sign popped up on my route to the office and it got me thinking about all of the labels that broadcast things about us. The fact that I wear BIFOCALS is a label as is my GREY hair. Our WARDROBE is a type of label, and some of us want the inside label to be just as noticeable as the clothes themselves. TATTOOS and PIERCINGS represent the challenge of thinking about labels, for to me, the trend is about the balance of fitting in while expressing one’s individuality.

We have learned that some of the obvious labels can hurt or be used against us. Labels like LEFT and RIGHT have polarized our nation. The bullying childhood taunts of FATTY, SKINNY, GEEK can still ring in our ears. Think, too, of Hester’s A or the Star of David BADGE Jews were once required to wear. But as hurtful as those can be, it is the internal labels that we hope no one sees. The ones like INSECURE or ‘FRAIDYCAT that our inner voice shouts or whispers. The one we fear says UNLOVABLE but that we know can say LONELY.

If only we realized that we share more labels than the ones we wear trying so hard to be unique. It was the word DEAF that got me started on this train of thought. That sign is now there to make drivers aware and afford safety to at least one person. But we are all DEAF to something; we all have a BLINDSPOT. Let’s focus on the labels that could make us all more aware and safe.

Marilyn

Reflections on storms

It was a clap of thunder early Saturday morning that served as my alarm. I awoke remembering what I was thinking when I feel asleep, maybe because it was related to what was happening. I had been wondering about the difference between isolated and scattered. While I could intuit a definition, I googled, just to be sure, and sure enough, I was mostly right, I just didn’t know the percentages. Isolated is when only up to 20% of the region may experience the storm and scattered is up to 50%. Anything above that falls under the category of things being likely.

On my current morning route, chances are isolated that something will delay my early arrival at the office, unlike the afternoon when irritants are likely. A visit to the library will generally prove likely that I will find something that catches my interest, and I’ve learned when I might be able to easily buy gas instead of waiting in a long line. The dating apps have figured out some calculations that the programmers hope result in likely, though I’m sure that some subscribers have experienced more isolated success. 

Now, if only there were predictors for flat tires, broken hearts, a fall down the stairs. And, even more, for going from percentages to certainty, such as knowing that the things out of sync in our society will be righted with one election. For knowing what happens at the moment of transition from life to death. But we humans must rely on faith, logic, science, the law of averages. We have choices, but mostly we have and have to rely on each other. Sometimes isolated. Sometimes scattered. Sometimes likely.

Marilyn

There are no words

When you learn that someone you know is terminally ill, there are no words. When a baby is born, there are no words. When someone watches as a river of lava approaches their home, there are no words. Yet, we try to fill the silence. Even when we know that what comes out of our mouths is inadequate at best and insulting at worst, we say words. Inadequate because grief, joy, disbelief are so difficult to describe in the moment. Insulting, for what we usually do is shift the focus to ourselves. 

Their experience reminds us of our own frailties and fears that we want to keep tapped down. It can be awkward to sit in silence with the hurting for we want to do something to ease the pain. But silence is more helpful than the story of what we did when something similar happened to our Aunt Bessie. What is best is to simply say that there are no words, share a hug, and then go do something practical like cook a meal.

It’s perhaps unusual for a writer to say that there are no words, but I’m talking here about when words are inadequate. We had yet another example this week of a celebrity tweeting something stupid, and, here, too, I recommend silence. Let the current Humpty Dumpty realize that life as they’ve known it is over. Yes, lots of words are written, said, and rehashed, but the silence for them now comes from the voices that are no longer calling. From opportunities missed, doors now closed. Michael Richards, Paula Dean, Mel Gibson, et al, may reinvent themselves, but there will always be a segment of the population that looks at them in righteous silence and thinks, “There are no words,” and walks away.

Marilyn

Patriots

It was through writing this piece that I realized a few things about patriotism. One is that each generation learns in its own way what it means to be a patriot. For us, it started in kindergarten, when we stood at attention and recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. We learned the words to the Star Spangled Banner and the Battle Hymn of the Republic. By high school we were debating the difference between our enemy, the Communists, and the enemy of our parents’ era, the Axis, and soon after graduation, my peers were drafted and shipped off to Southeast Asia. That’s when my ideas about patriotism started to shift and have continued to do so. 

You may have guessed that some of the headlines last week started this train of thought. The fake patriotism plan that was proudly announced by the NFL does nothing but remind us that the athletes who took a stand in 1968 - their patriotism in action - have not seen the changes they had hoped for. The prejudices my generation (and some of our elders) thought we’d worked through with our marches, protests, demonstrations and sit ins - our patriotism in action - are really still festering under the surface. 

It was my generation that learned the hard way to hate the war but not the warrior, but until we discovered that, we did much damage to those peers who served. We all need to remember that lesson and transfer it to the social and economic justice issues that we thought that we’d, if not resolved, at least made giant advances in changing. True patriotism is disagreeing with, even hating the stand that an opponent may take, but honoring their right to do so. True patriotism is a dialogue, not a shouting match.

Marilyn

As good as it gets

As good as it gets. An interesting phrase whose meaning ranges from acceptable to perfection. We’ve all had experiences, from meals to vacations to studying for an exam and used that phrase. We look at the arts and can stand in awe and wonder if Van Gogh is as good as it gets in brushstrokes and color or Melville with the opening of a novel? Luckily artists learn to emulate, experiment, and do their own as good as it gets in whatever medium they choose. In this musings, mine is words, and I think of one sentence Louis Penny wrote in The Long Way Home. In describing an artist she said, ‘he turned his pain into paint.’ That’s as good a description as it gets. Six words; the addition of one letter. 

Over the weekend there was the royal wedding, with its picturesque setting, picture perfect weather, and a wonderful blend of cultures, sentiment and sentimentality. That may be as good as it gets for true romance. We also had Pentecost and are in the midst of Ramadan, two important markers of major faiths, potentially representing some as good as it gets moments to some believers. Other people got married, there were baptisms, anniversaries and birthdays, and for some, those may be as good as it gets moments with family.

Unfortunately, some people in Texas experienced as bad as it gets moments and are now planning funerals. When it comes to too many critical issues in our world today, we have allowed leaders to settle for less than the acceptable aspect of as good as it gets in order to push deals through congress and with other governments. From gun control to opioids to education to the environment, we need sane voices from all sides of the issues to come together and broker more acceptable solutions. I wish we could hold out for perfection, but I’ll settle for better as good as it gets sensible answers than what we have now.

Marilyn

Treehuggers

Out at the Morton Arboretum I have scores of favorite trees. They appeal to me on some deep level for their shape, their color, their burls, their uniqueness. In New Zealand I saw trees that were alive two thousand years ago and have enjoyed being part of a ceremony where a young tree was planted in memorium. Somewhere there is a photo that shows an impish adolescent me after I successfully climbed a tree in our backyard. 

Trees, like our parents, come in all shapes and sizes. Some have roots that go deep and the sap that flows through them is passed to the sapling it inspired. Some are resilient, learning to bend with the changing winds. Others are mostly for show and have a short season; others offer shelter, shade and protection year round. While my mother and I were not close, a love of nature was something we shared. We could oooh and aaah over that sycamore I shimmied up and both get excited about the maple tree in the fall. 

Now that I have more age rings myself, I’m trying to focus on the positives and commonalities, so I’ve created an image in my mind. My mother is on one side of the blossoming Hawthorne tree my father planted when I was born; I am on the other. We both put our arms around the rough trunk and our hands clasp. I can forget that I wasn’t the daughter she dreamed of and that she couldn’t nurture as I needed. Here we can stand united, hugging a tree, and by extension, each other.

Marilyn

Making a move

Our first move is through the birth canal when we make our entrance into the world. From that point on we are often told to stop moving and keep still, but we move in, move out, move up or down, move away. We may join a movement or play the movements of a symphony. In dance or on a hike or making love we appreciate the moves our body can make. We strategize gambits in games, planning our moves while hoping to block our opponent’s, and hone our social moves to attract and meet people.

At the office I am constantly moving appointments, and we move the furniture in our conference room to accommodate the needs of those who are meeting. One friend is recovering from surgery, after being moved from emergency to a regular room, and is simply glad to be able to move her foot up and down and is anxious to increase her range of motion to go side to side. This morning the dark clouds moved in, even as elsewhere the earth shifted beneath its surface, forever changing some lives. 

We learn that people move in and out of our lives. We are lucky when we find those who move from acquaintance to friend to family of the heart. We also learn that, as in most other things, the timing of our moves matters. Each major move is a transition and can be as scary and thrilling as our first nudge out of the nest. Over the weekend a dear friend moved away. She worked hard for a year to be ready to move on as well as away. 

I’m sure you’ve experienced such situations, both as the mover and the one left behind. The words from the song Move On from Sunday in the Park with George came to mind. “Stop worrying where you’re going - move on. If you can know where you’re going, you’ve gone. Just keep moving on. I choose and my world was shaken, so what? The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not. You have to move on.” Whatever moves are happening in your life right now, “Look at what you’ve done, then at what you want, not at where you are, at what you’ll be...just keep moving on.”

Marilyn

Truth in the construction zone

A marquee on the shoulder of the road I take to the office has two messages spelled in orange capital letters. The phrases shift back and forth. It doesn’t matter which one I see first on any given morning. I know the other one will follow, just as the reality of their words do in life outside the construction zone. 

Work in progress. Expect delays.

Expect delays. Work in progress.

We are all works in progress and often need to give ourselves the grace to honor delays when they happen, no matter how they happen. I’ve found it rather healthy to be reminded of that at the beginning of every day. If you’ve got orange cones, signs and detours also popping up all around you, see what correlation you can find between the message and your life. It’s an interesting experiment.

Marilyn

Drop off

There is a day care center in our office building, so when I arrive at work, there are usually a couple of cars in the drop off zone right in front. I have dropped off a meal for those who are grieving, homebound, or exhausted from the birth of a child they soon may be delivering to day care. I’ve taken advantage of the drop off service at the laundromat. People, ideas, projects can drop off my radar for a while and then resurface. At the end of a long day, I hope to drop off to sleep quickly. 

The phrase took on a different meaning when I stood at the rim of the Grand Canyon last September. There was an element of risk; I experienced twinges of anxiety. I was surprised that instead of becoming accustomed to the fear, my apprehension actually increased during our trip. By the end, when we went to Bryce Canyon, I hugged the land side of any path and only went close to the edge when there was a railing.

I guess there is an element of risk in all of the routine drop offs also. Viruses get passed from one child to the rest. A red sock can bleed into the white towels. When I drop off a friend in front of their home, I wait until they are inside and assume they are then safe. I’ll bet that’s what the parents of the young men at Syracuse University thought last fall when they dropped them off. They didn’t expect to see their sons on the national news for doing something stupid in the hope of acceptance and inclusion. From Sandy Hook to Las Vegas and Barcelona to Brussels, parents, friends, cab and bus drivers dropped off children, families, or their fares for the routine or the special occasion, not knowing that particular day would be extraordinary. Yet, for every drop off we do, we really want to trust there will be an equally simple pick up. May local, national and world leaders work harder to make it so.

Marilyn

Road closed

My normal route home from work is blocked. A barricade with the words Road Closed plus workers and trucks make the reason apparent. It is rare that we know the reason when other roads are closed to us. To know why we received a no at that point in our lives for that thing. From marriage proposals to job interviews to a bid on a house, we get rejected, a road is closed, and we must speculate why, for the generic trite phrases often used don’t tell us what we want to know.

When I decided to take a break from college, I needed to get a job. Although I’m a fast and accurate typist, I flunked the typing test at the Mayflower Moving Co. I’d never had to line up forms in a typewriter, let alone do that while pretending to talk to a customer on the phone. That’s the only time I knew why I wasn’t selected. Probably like you, I received my share of thanks-but-no-thanks replies to jobs, to a potential new friend, to an idea, a dream. I have a stack of rejection letters from publishers for my ideas for children’s stories and poems. Some indicated they didn’t want to hear from me again. Even those that said I was encouraged to submit other proposals were still a no for something I thought I wanted very much.

I take my hat off to actors, who need to have very thick skin to keep going to scores of auditions annually. To artists of all kinds. To the unemployed who keep networking. The disappointments and the hurt can pile up so that we stop trying to find a path that might welcome us. Other areas of life can take over. I stopped drafting notes on ideas for children’s stories when my career took a different turn. When I lost that job a decade later, I started writing these weekly musings, and within a year I had a book. It doesn’t always turn out that way, but in retrospect, I’ve learned that something else always does open up. Sometimes on its own, then or later, or because I tried another door. That’s why I’m not following the detour signs posted to direct me home, but have found my own alternatives.

Marilyn

Oldie but a goodie

Because it’s been a crazy week, I’m doing something new...asking you to enjoy a previous musing. This one is from July 2013.

Top 5 Inventions

Last fall, it was my job to come up with some mealtime conversation starters for the participants of a weeklong retreat. The one that generated the most buzz was “What are the top 5 inventions from your lifetime that changed society or impacted your life?” The ending of the question meant the discussion could be personal or generic depending on how much people wanted to share.

The microchip and technology was number one and cut across all categories such as medicine, business, and even the arts. There was agreement that some medical advances that helped individuals, such as birth control or little blue pills, also affected societal norms and values. Some diners wanted to debate whether the impact was positive or negative. It was hard to draw the line between invention and what we called ‘the next.’ None of us were around for the first airplane (the invention), but did experience going from propeller to jets (the ‘next’).

Think about any room in your home or the different things you do each day. It is interesting, and sometimes difficult, to realize all of the initial inventions and all the ‘nexts’ it took to get our lives to what they are. I have a picture of my folks standing by their Model T and one of my nephew by a race car. If today’s generation made this list it would not include indoor plumbing, the transistor, rabbit ears, the refrigerator, or inoculations but might contain something from the latest episode of Shark Tank.

Whether it’s an improved garlic press or going from the printing press to personal printers, our lives have adapted to the new and/or improved and we anticipate many more ‘nexts.’ If you are waiting for me to share the results of that dinner time discussion, you’ll be disappointed, for I did not keep them. My job was, and still is, just to get the conversation or thought process started. Let me know where today’s question takes you.

Marilyn

Connecting some dots

In a world where it seems more things are dividing us than bringing us together, I wanted to see if I could track through my life how I became aware of differences that shouldn’t, but too often seem to matter. Following are a few highlights of my journey. My experiences don’t make me any more inclusive than the average person, just reflect someone who has tried to understand and bridge gaps between the we/they parts of society from a young age.

It made no sense to me that when I was six and was a flower girl at my brother’s wedding, our relatives who were Catholic (they) couldn’t attend the Presbyterian ceremony (we).

I didn’t know I was from a blue collar family (we) until third grade when a new girl arrived. Her father was an executive and her conversation included words like dishwasher, cleaning lady, swimming pool, and flying to California (they).

While I marched against the war in Vietnam and segregation, I knew no soldiers and my world was lily white protestant (we). I was 25 before I spent any time with people of color (they) and a few years later, folks from the LGBT community (they).

Through college and my first fulltime job, I didn’t know I could aspire to a career other than what post WWI females did, until I met a businesswoman in upper management (we). But, even then, with a new target, I didn’t realize that I automatically accepted limitations on my goals until the term glass ceiling (they) entered our consciousness.

This was an interesting exercise that you might also try. What I see in retrospect is that with each encounter and subsequent learning that: a) I was surprised; b) my vision of the world was pretty restricted; c) I appreciated that my world expanded, even when it wasn’t easy; d) it is better to be for something than simply against; and e) it took a one-on-one, a relationship to make the issue more than a theory.

Marilyn

A stitch in time

One of the student speakers at the March for Our Lives in Washington DC last Saturday was Emma Gonzalez, an 18-year old senior, now on the world stage because of the February shooting at her high school in Parkland. In an interview leading up to the march, she talked not just about the activism role she and her classmates have assumed, but also about the coping mechanisms they are discovering. One of hers is embroidery. The jacket she wore at the march is covered with patches she made when she needed to escape the spotlight.

As the march in Chicago was wrapping up, I was in the textile department at the Art Institute enjoying an exhibit on American quilts. There were hand-stitched pieces from the mid-1800s to a few modern ones where sewing machines were additional tools for the crafters and artists. Some quilts told a story while others commemorated an event or a person; a couple simply used up scraps of material. It was easy to picture quilting bees through the centuries. To see each stitcher concentrating on a square that would become part of the whole. To envision mothers guiding little hands, as my own mother did the summer I was eight. Whether embroidering a patch, badge, vest, doily, tablecloth, pillowcase, or a square for a quilt, the task can be relaxing. It is rewarding to see different threads and stitches make the piece come to life with color, design and texture.

Emblems embroidered on uniforms identify brands, teams, and ranks in the military. They provide a sense of pride for the wearer, a sense of accomplishment for the sewer. I hope that Emma continues to proudly wear her jacket, to add patches as she wishes, and I hope that with each stitch she finds healing as well as purpose. Mostly, I would hope that this generation no longer stitches badges for contemporaries lost to gun violence.

Marilyn 

Bumper stickers

One of my favorite exercises when facilitating a session on corporate or personal values is to divide the participants into small groups and have them come up with bumper sticker slogans representing the different points of view. Usually clever, mostly on target, and occasionally controversial, the activity both summarized the learnings and often generated interesting conversations for the remainder of the training. Though I’ve never had a bumper sticker on any of my cars, I do enjoy reading them as I drive or sit at a stoplight. I’ve laughed, frowned, agreed and disagreed with the sentiments. Sometimes I was appalled or confused. 

That’s how I was on Saturday in the grocery store parking lot when a saw one that said, “If you can read this, thank a teacher.” I smiled, recalling the ones that warn, “If you can read this, you’re too close.” Nice twist, I thought. But the bumper sticker didn’t end there. It went on to say, “If you can read it in English, thank a soldier.” My smile turned to a scowl for I didn’t immediately understand the exact intent of the message. On the surface, it might be simple, but somehow it seemed sinister. Perhaps it’s today’s political climate that had my mind going to arming the teachers with assault rifles and to those with guns who blocked the school entrances during the civil rights movement. I thought of closed borders to keep out the ‘other’ when most citizens here, myself included, are ‘other.’ 

Bumper stickers tell others what clan we belong to. From schools to political views, sports to branches of the military, hobbies to pets, we let others know our allegiances, loves and beliefs, while providing free marketing for universities, teams, organizations, etc. I don’t know what clan the owner of my Saturday encounter really represented, but I know that if I ever do paste one on my car it would be the one - you’ve seen it, with the religious and peace symbols - that says coexist. What’s your clan?

Marilyn

Reunions

A recent piece on NPR told of a family reunited with a dog that had gone missing a decade before. One columnist in the Chicago Tribune has been highlighting the story of an asylum seeking Congolese mother who was wrongly separated by immigration officials from her 7-year old daughter last November. The mother is in California and the child, here in Illinois. Thousands of readers now wait for news of their reunion. Tools like FaceBook now join the media, who for decades have provided us with images of service men and women reunited with loved ones.

We have plenty of opportunities for reunions of all sorts. Holidays or summers can mean big family reunions, but so can weddings and funerals. One friend is regularly engaged in her high school’s reunion activities and another with his college graduating class. Believers and seekers gather for weekly services and may sense a connection to historic saints or ones in their own lives, and through liturgy, prayers, music or communion, gain a reconnection with self and soul. 

Reunions remind us of the passage of time. With the change of seasons, gardeners and farmers wait anxiously to see the results of past labor while the rest of us may change wardrobes. Some reunions generate smiles while many can be painful, or at least bittersweet. If you’ve ever done major downsizing or made a significant long distance move, you’ve had the experience like one friend who recently was symbolically reunited with long gone relatives as she decided whether to keep or donate once treasured items. Each of us has dark corners in our past. We don’t like it when something happens to resurrect that part of ourselves, of our journey, when we were victim or perpetrator, careless or cruel. Just as my friend gave away her brother’s vase, a pie plate from a dear aunt, and a pair of shoes worn on special occasions, we can use those reunion moments to shed light in that dark place within us and seek to find understanding, resolution, forgiveness, grace, or peace. 

Marilyn

Some random thoughts on housekeeping

For two summers of my college years I worked as a maid at the Howard Johnson’s by the Greater Buffalo International Airport. Each morning I was part of a crew that grabbed a green cotton uniform, loaded up a cart, and then headed off to our block of rooms for that day. After semesters of sitting in classes, piano practice and dorm rooms, chapel, and library cubicles, doing something physical felt good.

As #MeToo stories emerged and maids and housekeepers shared some of their experiences, I was not surprised, although nothing happened to me back then. All I had was some audible entertainment from one room as I cleaned next door, particularly on Tuesdays when a certain couple kept their standing afternoon appointment.

One can outsource the tasks associated with maintaining a clean home. Back in my yuppie days, I did that for a while, but for me that was more about status than it was about being practical. That’s because I enjoy cleaning, well, except for vacuuming, so I’m grateful for all the places where I’ve had hardwood floors.

Manufacturers have responded to the increase in our accumulated stuff by offering a multitude of products designed to make the job of cleaning them easier. All that has done is add more chemicals to our lives. Lemon juice, vinegar, linseed oil and borax are probably all that is really needed. Oh, and elbow grease.

The industry standards for my HoJo job were not that different from how my mother had kept house for decades. A sibling or roommate can teach us, however, that there are various levels of comfort regarding dust, clutter, spills and dirt. What passes my white glove test may not pass yours, which is what came to mind the other day when I took a picture off the wall to dust the frame and realized I hadn’t done that since I moved in 18 months ago. I thought, “Oops, time to get back to some basics around here and do some spring cleaning.” Luckily, the Lose It app tells me that one hour of housekeeping burns 203 calories!

Marilyn

Unwinding, with discipline

We all unwind in our own ways and those ways can differ depending on the stress or challenges we’ve been facing. A few weeks ago I realized I needed a break when I knew I’d just committed to something in a conversation with my boss, but had no recollection of what it was. That evening I forced myself to do some online research. Two days later I booked a getaway and just returned from a retreat on walking and wellness with some welcome warmth thrown in since it was in Florida.

As we did tai chi or breathing exercises we were encouraged to be in the moment and try to ignore all the static going on in our brain. Our assignment for one nature walk was to see 5 things, hear 4 things, smell 3 things, touch 2 things and find something to taste. In our discussions on romantic walkers like Beethoven and Thoreau, and Victorian norm-breaking pilgrims like George Sand and Alexandra David-Neal, we explored threads that can connect and inspire us all. Learning about the history of the labyrinth and then completing a couple of meditative labyrinth walks was meaningful.

In this day of multitasking, despite all the studies that show is not effective, it takes discipline to concentrate on something as simple as inhaling and exhaling. It took discipline for me to sit down and find a program that fit what I needed and to then follow through. It takes discipline to remember to build self-care into our busy lives. It also takes discipline to discover what relaxation discipline works best for us. I hope to continue a few of the techniques I learned last week and encourage you to build in some unwinding time every day this week. May we have the discipline to unwind!

Marilyn