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