Santa and the Tree

When I was four Santa brought not only the presents but also the tree.  And then he stayed and decorated it!  When I came downstairs that Christmas morning, the grown-ups waiting to watch my amazement and wonder at the transformation of the living room included my parents, grandma and her cousin Jenny, and Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Bob.  I hope that my reactions met their expectations.   My only memory of the day is my mother saying, “Santa only does this once for every child.”

By the following Christmas, the year I got my Annie Oakley outfit and a Japanese doll sent by my brother who was stationed there, things had changed.  A kindergarten classmate had spent her minute at Show & Tell really telling.  By the next year Grandma was gone, my brother was married and living in DC, and I was old enough to begin to understand and look forward to some traditions.

Four has got to be the perfect age for the magic of the season.  As an adult I can appreciate all of the work that went into that one evening, as the family lovingly created a corner of wonder for a child.  I hope there was laughter amid the stress of “more lights on top” or “too many red ornaments together,” that music was playing, and that those elves retained fond memories of that holiday night.

My four-year-old self remembers one other thing about Christmas that year.  The anticipation.  There is no picture of me sitting on Santa’s lap, but there is this, the picture of me that Christmas Eve, innocence, ready for bed and looking forward to the surprises ahead.  This season may we all find that piece of ourselves that can relate to wonder.  Whether for you the surprise is the babe in the manger, the need is the promise of a fresh start in a New Year, or you enjoy the camaraderie of peace on earth symbolized by time with relatives rarely seen, I hope you are able to approach the end of 2013 with a childlike view in some parts of your life.  

You may be amazed at what that child truly finds.

Marilyn

When Words Lose Their Meaning

Author John Updike wrote, “Our brains are no longer conditioned for reverence and awe.”  I wonder if that is because for most of our waking moments we are bombarded with words.   The invasion is constant. The content consists of diverse and divergent images and marketed and imposed feelings.  I think we’ve become immune to some words’ intended impact and meaning.

As an author I love words.  I love learning new things about words.  Did you know that a flock of buzzards is called a ‘wake,’ a group of eagles is a ‘convocation,’ and a gathering of wrens is a ‘chime?’  I relish joyful situations where ‘words are not enough’ and grieve those circumstances when ‘there are no words.’  We all chuckle at some Old English, wonder what Shakespeare really meant, and marvel at poets whose concise language evokes intense images and feelings.  I cringe with misuse, shake my head at the ‘word of the year, and wonder what Daniel Webster would do with some modern language. 

Three things converged to raise this issue.  I just spent a week with someone who continually used ‘awesome,’ a word that has evolved from its original use of ‘causing feelings of wonder and fear with a sense of reverence’ s far back as the 1500s, to being slang for ‘excellent.’ 

The second thing is that the world lost an awe-inspiring leader this week.  To call Nelson Mandela awesome is appropriate, and, I will grant that even today’s definition of excellence applies; however, the overuse of the word makes it inadequate and I long to use it in his memory. 

Finally, this is a time of year when I think the original meaning and modern definition are both called for.  Hanukkah and Christmas are seasons of miracles.  I’m hoping for the miracle of good will from all to all around the globe.  Now, wouldn’t that be truly awesome?

Marilyn

Football and Charlotte's Web

On a recent business trip my choices for dinner were limited.  The hotel shuttle would take me to any of the few places on the Island that were open and the driver recommended a local grill for good burgers or seafood.  That’s how I ended up in a sports bar on a busy Saturday night, extra busy because the local team was playing.  As I sat alone watching the activity projected on the 10 screens visible from my vantage point indoors and listened to the enthusiastic fans all around me, I thought about the first time I ever ate alone in a restaurant.   It, too, was a Saturday, but I went out for breakfast since that was the suggestion in one book on being an independent successful woman. 

Now, this was 40 years ago, a time when going out to eat as a form of entertainment and connection (“let’s do coffee”) was just becoming a norm, and the National Organization for Women wasn’t even a decade old.  After parking my blue bug (nicknamed Sapphire) down the block, I confidently walked into Tiffany’s, a restaurant on Park Boulevard in Glen Ellyn.  When the hostess asked, “How many?” I croaked out, “One.” 

I had picked that place because several coworkers and I went there frequently for lunch so I was familiar with the layout, atmosphere, and menu.  I followed the hostess to my table for two, one of four tables for two lined up by the front window.  First dilemma – do I sit facing the interior of the restaurant or look outside?  Either way, everyone, of course, will be looking at me sitting alone.  Do I want pitiful fleeting glances from those walking by or constant stares from fellow diners?  I actually opted for facing in, sat, and she took away the other place setting, the true symbol that I was alone.  

The second dilemma came after ordering the French toast.  I had brought a book, which was another suggestion from the authority on dining out.  Well, I discovered that small tables for two are not really conducive to reading, so there I was with my prop and no way to use it.  I put it on the table across from me so it was still my companion.  I felt awkward but I made it through the meal listening to the conversation of the two guys next to me who were planning a camping trip and thinking about how walking into and sitting alone here was so different than at school or college. 

Since then I’ve eaten alone at hundreds of restaurants around the globe and mostly enjoyed those times.  But I had to make that first uncomfortable step.  For those of a younger generation, I hope you understand what a big deal that actually was for me and also that it was symbolic of one small freedom women were struggling for.  I’m sure guys can feel out of place in the same situation and I don’t mean to minimize anyone’s break out behavior, but society – then and in some cases even now – frowned on a woman dining alone.

Anyway, back to the title of this musing.  On nine of the 10 screens in the sports bar I was in last month there were several games of football being broadcast, but on the tenth one, way at the end of the bar, there played the movie Charlotte’s Web.  I found it all comfortable and charming.

Marilyn

Substitutions

One year a friend and I were going out for Thanksgiving dinner.  She called a couple of restaurants and asked if they were serving real turkey and made reservations at one that said yes.  When our meal arrived, it was rolled turkey loaf, that meat equivalent of plywood.  We asked for the manager, who, when we explained that our meal was not what we expected based on the phone conversation, apologized but stated that what they were selling was indeed real turkey, just not carved from a bird.

We come to understand the concept of substitutions in elementary school when faced with a different person standing at the head of the class.  It’s not fair, but we somehow interpreted that ‘substitute’ did not mean ‘equal’ and first graders long for their ‘real’ teacher to return.  Unfortunately, that concept has been strengthened by a bad experience with ‘fake,’ be it fake fur that did not keep us warm, or someone who turned out to be a fake friend.

We’ve gotten used to a lot of food substitutes – sweeteners in small packets, whipped cream in a can, imitation butter in a plastic tub.  There are hydrated potatoes and onion flakes and reduced fat cheeses.  Silk flowers and replica art pieces adorn mantles.  Unbreakable plastic dishes sit in cupboards.  Synthetic materials hang in our closets.

Some of these alternatives are actually healthier plus they may save time and money or even our environment.  Our tastes can shift and we actually prefer diet drinks to regular, low sodium salami, and light mayonnaise. We’ve heard stories or seen All About Eve where the understudy gets a break and becomes a star or watched a game where the 2^nd string athlete is sent in at the last moment and makes an outstanding play.

Many of us will gather around a table this Thursday to celebrate with family.  For some, that family will be substitutes, our family of the heart, because distances of all kinds separate us from relatives.  For some, the substitutes have become real through adoption or blended and foster families.  Some of us may simply settle in front of the TV or monitor or curl up with a book, alone by choice or circumstance, creating our own substitution for the feelings the Norman Rockwell Freedom From Want painting represents.

However you spend Thursday, may you experience one genuine connection, and may that connection remind us all that there is no substitution for our relationships with one another.  For those I am most grateful.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Marilyn

Two for the Road

What good is the warmth of summer without the cold of winter to give it sweetness? John Steinbeck

By the time I started kindergarten I knew there were boys and girls and that Santa put kids into two categories: naughty or nice.   A couple of grades later friends fell into one of two activities – dance or music lessons.  The families in my neighborhood were Protestant or Catholic and some of us were good at sports and there were non-jocks. 

Through high school and college we experienced the ‘study all along’ vs. the ‘cram for exam’ groups, encountered friends who were of the ‘on-time’ or ‘always-late’ variety, and came to know who were morning or night people.  Then there was perhaps the hard lesson that there are givers and there are takers.  We learn compromise when one is a neat freak and the partner a casual housekeeper.  Financial advisors bridge a gap between spenders and savers.  We enjoy talking books with both fiction and nonfiction readers.

When I was a consultant and led workshops on leadership I would include a section on understanding other ways that we are wired differently and how such diversity can benefit one’s life and the workplace.  Now, as a mentor, I try to pass on these tidbits I wish I’d known about earlier in my life and career.  Some of them we can control or change.  For example, I might ask a young colleague how they want to be known – as someone who blames others or one who takes responsibility and stands accountable?    However, most of these other ways in which we are opposites reflect how we process things or view the world.  These characteristics reflect who we are, so while we may not want to – or be able to – control or change them; it will truly help us in our relationships if we understand ourselves and the natural tendency of others to be different.

ü  Some people think-to-talk and others talk-to-think.  One cannot lead a brainstorming session nor have great discussions without taking this into account.  Otherwise we talk-to-thinkers take over and half of the team remains silent. 

ü  Some people are what and others are how.  Big picture and idea people need the balance of those who are process and strategy.

ü  Some people talk facts while others talk feelings.  Even being a writer and knowing the importance of details, my natural inclination is the essence of the story not whether the man’s shirt was red or orange or the if amount was $22 or $22.22.

What other learnings about our differences do you wish you’d known earlier in life?  Let’s take a minute today to celebrate – viva la difference!

Marilyn

The Gift Exchange

Part of me misses the holiday shopping I saw going on in stores this weekend.  I used to enjoy the hustle and bustle, the search for that special item. These days my friends and family and I give each other the gift of time, a shared outing, or donation.  One reason we no longer do presents was that we came to know that often we weren’t satisfied with the gift and would exchange it.

I wonder what life would be like if we could exchange one of our talents for something we truly desire.  I’m not talking about when we successfully make radical changes.  What I mean is, what would you and I do if offered the opportunity for a true gift exchange?  Would you trade in your math skills or your ability to play the guitar for a chance to be a great photographer?  Would you give up being a mediocre cook to be a famous chef?  Perhaps you’re tired of being good at or the best at golf and want to master watercolors or crochet. 

Other things that one can argue are gifts in our lives are our circumstances, persona, viewpoint, body, and soul.  What if the gift exchange were extended to those?  I cling to the hope that in the next life I’ll be tall and willowy, but I don’t know that I would give up my early years as a musician just to experience that here and now.  Well, perhaps I would change out being able to give myself a decent manicure for a few more inches and fewer pounds.

What do you consider your greatest gift?  Patience?  Being a loving friend or mother or father?  Would you give that up in order to have a dream?  Notice that I’m not playing fairy godmother and suggest all you need to do is to ask for your heart’s desire.  This gift exchange fantasy calls for sacrifice, for one thing we all know about the best gifts we give ourselves is that we work for them.

Having given thought to what gifts you might like in exchange for something you do have, let’s close with a thought from Gian Carlo Menotti: “Hell begins on the day when God grants us a clear vision of all that we might have achieved, of all the gifts that we have wasted, of all that we might have done but did not do.”

Let’s celebrate and use the gifts we have.  We live in a country that allows us to do that.  Thanks to all who serve who have made that so.

Marilyn

Equal Time

After commenting on last week’s blog about my father, a friend pointed out that I rarely have written about my mother.   “Hmmm,” I said.  “I’m sure you’re right.”

I believe that my experience is not unusual, that a parent and child can struggle a whole lifetime and never truly understand one another. They can each long for that special bond that is supposed to be there.  They can work very hard to either continue to search for ways to find that deep connection or develop masks that say to the rest of the world it is there while knowing it is not.  They can develop a love that makes a relationship, but, if they do not accept and embrace and work on that relationship rather than the one they wish they had, it is never enough.

All relationships contain dichotomies and interesting contradictions. On some days it is the differences that spark the right amount of tension but on other days it is what the two people have in common that provides strength.  While my mother would have never called herself a feminist, she was one. Well, an early one, who had ambition, worked outside the home, even for a little while after she married, in an era when most women did not.  When a guest speaker at her church circle had them start off an exercise by simply writing their name at the top of a piece of paper, she was one of the few who understood the facilitator’s point when it was revealed that 100% of them had written “Mrs. Husband’s First Name Last Name.”  She tried to not limit or define herself by dad’s name after that.

She was a lifelong learner, was good at most things she tried, and had an opinion about everything.  She valued her friends and loved nature.  Her competitive streak developed early in her life and continued even when she couldn’t speak or shuffle the deck but still wanted to play cards.  It was over cards we had the best times.  Somehow that shared activity provided a venue for talk and laughter.

You know how some things tickle your fancy and in trying to describe what is so funny, it just gets lost?  This is one of those stories. My mother’s and my biggest laugh came on a summer day in 1962.  We were returning home from a picnic with relatives at Niagara Falls.  Growing up in Buffalo, trips over the Peace Bridge connecting the US and Canada were common and easy. That day we picked up Aunt Alice and Uncle Reg from their apartment in Fort Erie and had a lovely afternoon.  Later, at customs the Canadian officer asked what was on the back seat.  “Just the rest of our lunch and some berries I saw,” my mother said. 

He waved us on.  About halfway over the bridge we started to laugh at that description, both of us laughing until there were tears.  Up to the week she died we could mention that afternoon and both of us would smile.

Memories can warm or chill.  I’m glad my friend encouraged me to find warmth from a different source for this week’s musing.  Wishing you courage to find an old smile as well.

Marilyn