I have not had the experience of writing while at the same time balancing my life--with chores, working in my office during regular hours, keeping up on nutritional needs, sleep or exercise and handling things like basic hygiene, beauty maintenance and any kind of socializing.
This is the old picture; I am sitting in my office at 2:30 in the morning not having eaten since noon, taking cigarette breaks at each "finished" juncture, wearing comfortable sweats, a man's oversized shirt (probably without a bra), no shoes on, but that can be easily slipped on in case I need to go out to smoke. I am in this mode of hibernation days in a row, sometimes having never gone to sleep and others, leaving for home when my eyes are crossed and I can no longer think. I am hyped up on a chain of diet coke cans I emptied, hoping that there is one at home when I get there. I will need the "refreshment" and a couple of cigarretes before I get to sleep. I do not answer my phone, I do not talk to my friends and maybe even my children. This is how it used to be. And strangely---oh so strangely, I am getting down on myself for not being in that mode of operation.
When I started thinking about this reasonably I was amused because that picture is so unhealthy and I had sustained it during writing "jags" throughout my working years. It has been two working weeks and I have been drawing circles around a methhods section that will be an appendix in the book. I had a breakthrough two days ago and at least at this time know what I need to say and in which order--that is 90% of the challenge. Yet I flagellate myself for what feels like complacency instead of desperate, driven and work-at-all-hours-mania.
So I've decided to list the things I've done while continuing to work through the writing:
1) I have maintained a (mostly) healthy diet, eaten "on time" for my diabetic body and kept track of my blood sugar numbers while adjusting my two kinds of insulin injections I do four times a day. I have taken the oral medications that go along with that regimen. My numbers are getting better, I am not as sleepy as I was for the past three months or so, and I am surviving the crazy energy shifts that go up and down as my sugars rise and fall with the new management regimen.
2) I got my hair cut and colored because both were about three monts overdue. This week I dispensed with the big barettes that I was using to pull my overgrown hair up, which made the gray hairs framing my face even more obvious.
3) I got my car serviced and new brake pads put in. According to the mechanic, I am good for a couple more years.
4) I sent a donation I had promised to a kids' league in Danville Illinois because it means a lot to me to support a former student of mine in giving back to his community after earning his degree and playing professional basketball around the world over the past few years.
5) I cleaned out my pantry (and my legs were sore the next day), my bathroom cabinets and packed away clothes that had been sitting in piles in my room needing to be stored.
6) I took a small pile of clothes to the dry cleaners that had been sitting around for a few months.
7) I found Eloina again, and she and Oscar came--Eloina to clean and Oscar to dispense with a large "giveaway" pile that was cluttering my kitchen.
8) I bought a de-bugging fogger that I will unleash on the little critters tomorrow before I leave my house because they are boldly biting me whether I am awake or asleep.
9) I picked up prescription medications three times because they never come up for refilling at the same time.
10) I went to a dermatologist for the first time in several years because I am having out of control breakouts and I do not want to live with them any longer.
11) I have stuck to my minimal cigarettes rule during workdays. If at all, I may smoke a half during a go-outside break when I need to hunt up some lunch.
12) I mailed a little care package to each of my daughters.
13) I have been wearing office attire and working during regular hours, leaving it there until the next day. I slipped a bit yesterday on the "looking nice" front--more casual than usual, but am hoping my boss will understand that I have already made a radical transition (but how can he? He does not know my old routine.)
14) I found some fall "transitional" clothes that I have been watching for . . . I needed a black skirt that fits well; I found it after waiting a year and a half to get the right one!! I found a pair of summer-weight pants that will go well into fall because they are grey; they are office appropriate and will supplement the 3 pair I wear regularly now--black, navy, beige. I searched for closed toe flat shoes that are office and administration retreat appropriate because my "flats" supply is limited and I cannot yet wear high heels because of my knee. I bought nothing because nothing was right. I like it when I do that. I finally found two cheap t-shirty tops to wear with the leggings I have but have never worn because I had no shirts long enough to wear with them.
15) I took two large bags of ice to an administrative assistant's home because she had knee surgery.
16) I put away the laundry Eloina did and the dry cleaning I picked up.
17) I found some new (and inexpensive) kitchen curtains because the ones I made myself eight years ago had seen better days. I had passed on others because they didn't seem right. The ones I finally found are. I hung them this week with no expense in window treatment hardware; I decided to let my own little ones stand to save energy and a few dollars.
18) I paid Eloina for her services and for the last time she cleaned for me. She had disappeared for awhile because of no telephone. I am delighted to have her back because she does an excellent job all the way around.
19) I called my sister to find out how my nephew's appointment at Cedar Sinai went on the day it happened.
20) I have maintained a reasonable level of basic hand, face and hair washing, bathing and putting on crisp office wear each morning.
21) I communicated with a new research subject and got necessary contact information while getting a preview of whether or not this person can make a good contribution to my next project. It turns out he can, and I am pleased about that.
So there are twenty one things I have done while working on a writing project. I have only slept about 4-5 hours per night because I stay up late to think or not think. I could use some improvement here. I have slightly increased my cigarette consumption during non-work hours, but understand that it is because of my old writing habits. I will give it up when I finish this last step. I have forgotten my insulin or test strips to take to work, but successfully compensated and got it right the next day. I have maintained my farmville farm and cafe world on facebook because it is a relaxing experience, but I have adjusted my level of involvement. I have spoken with my parents and thought about my kids daily, who were at a family reunion and both have big things going on this week--one is moving to a beautiful new home, the other working toward fitness goals and supporting her husband through job interviews. I will catch up with them soon.
I am going to the (Loyola U.) President's retreat on Monday and Tuesday of next week. Today while my car was being serviced, I started reading a book that is one of several reading materials that have been disbursed in installments throughout the week. I expect to get through them all this weekend.
Tomorrow, I hope to have a successful writing session in my office, wearing office-wear, only smoking half a cigarette at break time and maintaining my "feeding" schedule, which I resent, but the resentment won't help me at all, so I choose to surrender to the current state of things. I am excited that I have the necessary tools to make some headway on my skin breakouts; I have been drinking more iced tea and less diet coke. It's a start. . .
So, I guess this picture is a little different and I am in the process of becoming different, but this thing called "me" seems like a heckuva lot of work sometimes. Thanks for listening, blogland:)
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Love this quote
If you bring forth what is within you what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” Jesus Gnostic Gosepel of Thomas
Monday, July 5, 2010
Been Away from Here
Dear Bloggy readers,
I have been away. . . doing research, seeing family, trying to fill my soul up with summertime sunshine and yes, still managing some health issues that are a ready made prerequisite to doing all else.
It is now time to go into my writing "cave" to finish the last edits of a ten year long writing project that will be actually "finished" when I come out of the cave. I am procrastinating, waiting for inspiration, nervous because I changed the version of Word just prior to needing to do this, and I'm not so familiar with that system. . . arrrgghhhh. This, too is a little hurdle that I will jump.
I spent this weekend preparing to organize my household so that I could feel free when I got to the office tomorrow, and have managed to procrastinate on that, too. I have set two small and "doable" "to-do's" that I hope to accomplish by this evening's end. I expect to be away from this site for another few weeks so that I don't get in my own way (as if I'm already not doing that. . . ha!) Wish me luck, straight thinking and a finished product that I can send off before the month ends.
Here goes. . . .
I have been away. . . doing research, seeing family, trying to fill my soul up with summertime sunshine and yes, still managing some health issues that are a ready made prerequisite to doing all else.
It is now time to go into my writing "cave" to finish the last edits of a ten year long writing project that will be actually "finished" when I come out of the cave. I am procrastinating, waiting for inspiration, nervous because I changed the version of Word just prior to needing to do this, and I'm not so familiar with that system. . . arrrgghhhh. This, too is a little hurdle that I will jump.
I spent this weekend preparing to organize my household so that I could feel free when I got to the office tomorrow, and have managed to procrastinate on that, too. I have set two small and "doable" "to-do's" that I hope to accomplish by this evening's end. I expect to be away from this site for another few weeks so that I don't get in my own way (as if I'm already not doing that. . . ha!) Wish me luck, straight thinking and a finished product that I can send off before the month ends.
Here goes. . . .
Friday, May 28, 2010
Drip Drip. . .
It is Friday evening of the weekend of Memorial Day. I think I have more to say, but the words are not streaming out like a dam just broke and I can't keep up with the water. They are more like little seepages, coming from all different directions. I threw my hat in the ring for an opportunity I'm not sure I want. My researching heart is in Weedpatch, California, full of photographs, music and stories of Oakie migrants. I am full of anticipation, sure I will find a way to tell another story that has not yet been told, but anxious to visit and have conversations on tape as I take new photographs, collect old ones and learn something new about an historical restoration taking place. And with this new project in mind, I am finding it is taking everything I have in me to turn my focus back to getting the final edits done so that my ten year long struggle to finish a book can finally go into production.
My grandmother and mother's heart are with my daughters, one who is in Greece right now, enjoying the final days of her long awaited honeymoon, the other in Oregon, as I await a Crystal Thursday post that may have new grandbaby pictures or Amanda's latest creative project too. I will see them soon, and I need to fill my breath with their presence, re-collect my little family and learn who my priceless little grandaughter is becoming.
My heart as a daughter and sister are loaded with memories and hopes of creating happy new ones when I see the parents who raised me and the extensions of that family, whomever is around. Lately I have been having recollections of playing outside. These days, when one thinks of someone as "outdoorsy", you might think of hiking, parachuting or getting some kind of workout. That is not the content of these memories. I spent most of my childhood outside, and that is probably why I have so much difficulty with the long Chicago winters that keep me more housebound than I would like to be.
I am thinking of jumpropes mastered, footballs thrown, pogo-sticks hopping, metal roller skates scraping, a unicycle ridden, hula hoops swirling, bicycles ridden and a front lawn, driveway, sidewalk, backyard patio, a fruit tree for each family member, Hector the dog, Gomer the duck and a dull end of a broomstick used in the dirt to "plant" watermelon seeds as I played "Johnny Appleseed". I also recall a roll of toilet paper we put in a large appliance box playhouse in case we needed it.
The childhood memories I have of being indoors are of worry for my brother, who got poison oak and mumps in an order I can't remember, but he was in misery and had to miss a lot of school. I remember the smell of calomine lotion used to soothe his swollen itches and trips to Cooley's pharmacy with Mom to pick up a different kind of salve that could help him get better. They are of my mother, who was laying down one day when I came home from school. She never laid down, so I knew her mother, who had been ill with cancer had passed away. Mom didn't have to say a thing but I hugged her that day and remember the den where she was, the blanket she had covering her, the hurt in her face and my own helplessness. I remember Grandma's sweet, round face that grew more skeletal as her disease overtook her.
Grandma had the prettiest smile and a gentleness about her that even in her sickness, was expressed with her face and soft, loving hands. I remember her beautiful gold hairbrush with the soft bristles, a hand mirror and comb that sat on a vanity in her home. I have always wanted a vanity because of that. It was made of a kind of wood that showed the twists and roots of an old, wise tree. The vanity had a mirror and little seat and a round "box" of powder that had a puff in it. I would sit on the seat, brush my long, thick hair and gently pull open the powder lid to find a soft, round puff and imagine that I was Grandma sitting there, putting powder on my face.
I had a little wooden soldier in primary colors Grandma had given me. It had a red string with a yellow ball on the end that when pulled, little wooden arms and legs went flying up. When I visited Grandma in the hospital with Mom, I felt important because she wanted me with her to "keep her company" when she went to Redlands to see her mother. I remember Polly, the only doll I ever liked except my troll dolls and cave houses because she was passed on to me from my mother's childhood. She lay in a little shoebox, with blue eyes that opened and closed, depending on her angle, and wore a red cotton dress and white bloomers.
Time in my room was reserved for after the street lights went on or I was restricted because I had gotten into some kind of trouble. I remember my room with a pink chiffon bedspread and white furniture that was eventually traded for a bright yellow one to go with the mod sixties style yellow, orange and green daisy wallpaper that covered a room divider built when a family room and extra bedroom were added to our home by a guy named Reg Wood. In that room, I played a few 45's--Englebert Humperdinck, Tom Jones, The Jackson Five, Bobby Sherman, the Osmond Brothers and the one real album I owned, The Supremes' Greatest Hits. In my room, I listened to music, wrote in my diary and played with my troll dolls, crafting clothing for them out of felt. I made vests in every color. I'm not sure if they ever had any pants. In that place I had papered my closet doors with shiny fold-out photographs of idols from Tiger Beat magazine and began for the first time in my life to begin to think like a girl, wondering why all of the sudden, my brother's friends were acting strangely toward me when they had been my companions and playmates all my life.
Everything was changing. The boys began to pull pranks, I spent more time with Vivian, my best friend and smoked my first cigarettes. My mother found half-butts in my top dresser drawer. I started wrangling with Mom over what I could and couldn't wear to school. The social and political climate had changed enough that girls were newly allowed to wear pants to school. My mother liked me to be a lady, so I was only allowed to wear them on Fridays. So I dropped them out my window in the morning and picked them up on the way to school until Joyce from across the street told my mother over coffee what I was doing. I also had an agreement with Mom to wear the shoes with the platform heels I had begged her to buy every day if I got them. I learned soon that they were not so comfortable and didn't go with everything, so I would use that handy window to drop more comfortable ones to pick up on my way to school. That was when I learned that I should not disobey my mother or be dishonest because I was bound to get caught.
It is probably also why to this day I try not to do anything wrong because somewhere along the way I will be accountable. The lessons continued as Mike F. snapped my newly acquired bra strap in the front yard. Mom was watching. I had a long dialogue in a series of notes with Rick M. about meeting in the lemon orchard to "M.O." That was fairly transparent code for "making out". We talked a big game, but never even kissed or held hands, eventually breaking up during a passing period between classes. Rusty had given me a yellow St. Christopher necklace, which at the time was a symbol of "going steady". That "relationship" was about as eventful as my written note dialogue with Rick M. That was a time of big talk, rumors of pubescent development or lack thereof and fantasies that Michael Jackson, who was my age, really would "be there to comfort you", or that Donny Osmond was singing directly to me when he sang, "hey there lonely girl, let me make your broken heart like new". I knew they were singing about something important, but had not yet lived enough to actually know the depth of those lyrics in the totality of my life.
Drip, drip come the memories in patches and images, visions, recollections, imaginings and feelings that started me on a road to womanhood that looks back at those times with amusement at my genuine innocence, sadness for my mother's dramatic loss so early in her life, and happiness for my parents' watchful eyes that taught me a goodness I cherish.
My grandmother and mother's heart are with my daughters, one who is in Greece right now, enjoying the final days of her long awaited honeymoon, the other in Oregon, as I await a Crystal Thursday post that may have new grandbaby pictures or Amanda's latest creative project too. I will see them soon, and I need to fill my breath with their presence, re-collect my little family and learn who my priceless little grandaughter is becoming.
My heart as a daughter and sister are loaded with memories and hopes of creating happy new ones when I see the parents who raised me and the extensions of that family, whomever is around. Lately I have been having recollections of playing outside. These days, when one thinks of someone as "outdoorsy", you might think of hiking, parachuting or getting some kind of workout. That is not the content of these memories. I spent most of my childhood outside, and that is probably why I have so much difficulty with the long Chicago winters that keep me more housebound than I would like to be.
I am thinking of jumpropes mastered, footballs thrown, pogo-sticks hopping, metal roller skates scraping, a unicycle ridden, hula hoops swirling, bicycles ridden and a front lawn, driveway, sidewalk, backyard patio, a fruit tree for each family member, Hector the dog, Gomer the duck and a dull end of a broomstick used in the dirt to "plant" watermelon seeds as I played "Johnny Appleseed". I also recall a roll of toilet paper we put in a large appliance box playhouse in case we needed it.
The childhood memories I have of being indoors are of worry for my brother, who got poison oak and mumps in an order I can't remember, but he was in misery and had to miss a lot of school. I remember the smell of calomine lotion used to soothe his swollen itches and trips to Cooley's pharmacy with Mom to pick up a different kind of salve that could help him get better. They are of my mother, who was laying down one day when I came home from school. She never laid down, so I knew her mother, who had been ill with cancer had passed away. Mom didn't have to say a thing but I hugged her that day and remember the den where she was, the blanket she had covering her, the hurt in her face and my own helplessness. I remember Grandma's sweet, round face that grew more skeletal as her disease overtook her.
Grandma had the prettiest smile and a gentleness about her that even in her sickness, was expressed with her face and soft, loving hands. I remember her beautiful gold hairbrush with the soft bristles, a hand mirror and comb that sat on a vanity in her home. I have always wanted a vanity because of that. It was made of a kind of wood that showed the twists and roots of an old, wise tree. The vanity had a mirror and little seat and a round "box" of powder that had a puff in it. I would sit on the seat, brush my long, thick hair and gently pull open the powder lid to find a soft, round puff and imagine that I was Grandma sitting there, putting powder on my face.
I had a little wooden soldier in primary colors Grandma had given me. It had a red string with a yellow ball on the end that when pulled, little wooden arms and legs went flying up. When I visited Grandma in the hospital with Mom, I felt important because she wanted me with her to "keep her company" when she went to Redlands to see her mother. I remember Polly, the only doll I ever liked except my troll dolls and cave houses because she was passed on to me from my mother's childhood. She lay in a little shoebox, with blue eyes that opened and closed, depending on her angle, and wore a red cotton dress and white bloomers.
Time in my room was reserved for after the street lights went on or I was restricted because I had gotten into some kind of trouble. I remember my room with a pink chiffon bedspread and white furniture that was eventually traded for a bright yellow one to go with the mod sixties style yellow, orange and green daisy wallpaper that covered a room divider built when a family room and extra bedroom were added to our home by a guy named Reg Wood. In that room, I played a few 45's--Englebert Humperdinck, Tom Jones, The Jackson Five, Bobby Sherman, the Osmond Brothers and the one real album I owned, The Supremes' Greatest Hits. In my room, I listened to music, wrote in my diary and played with my troll dolls, crafting clothing for them out of felt. I made vests in every color. I'm not sure if they ever had any pants. In that place I had papered my closet doors with shiny fold-out photographs of idols from Tiger Beat magazine and began for the first time in my life to begin to think like a girl, wondering why all of the sudden, my brother's friends were acting strangely toward me when they had been my companions and playmates all my life.
Everything was changing. The boys began to pull pranks, I spent more time with Vivian, my best friend and smoked my first cigarettes. My mother found half-butts in my top dresser drawer. I started wrangling with Mom over what I could and couldn't wear to school. The social and political climate had changed enough that girls were newly allowed to wear pants to school. My mother liked me to be a lady, so I was only allowed to wear them on Fridays. So I dropped them out my window in the morning and picked them up on the way to school until Joyce from across the street told my mother over coffee what I was doing. I also had an agreement with Mom to wear the shoes with the platform heels I had begged her to buy every day if I got them. I learned soon that they were not so comfortable and didn't go with everything, so I would use that handy window to drop more comfortable ones to pick up on my way to school. That was when I learned that I should not disobey my mother or be dishonest because I was bound to get caught.
It is probably also why to this day I try not to do anything wrong because somewhere along the way I will be accountable. The lessons continued as Mike F. snapped my newly acquired bra strap in the front yard. Mom was watching. I had a long dialogue in a series of notes with Rick M. about meeting in the lemon orchard to "M.O." That was fairly transparent code for "making out". We talked a big game, but never even kissed or held hands, eventually breaking up during a passing period between classes. Rusty had given me a yellow St. Christopher necklace, which at the time was a symbol of "going steady". That "relationship" was about as eventful as my written note dialogue with Rick M. That was a time of big talk, rumors of pubescent development or lack thereof and fantasies that Michael Jackson, who was my age, really would "be there to comfort you", or that Donny Osmond was singing directly to me when he sang, "hey there lonely girl, let me make your broken heart like new". I knew they were singing about something important, but had not yet lived enough to actually know the depth of those lyrics in the totality of my life.
Drip, drip come the memories in patches and images, visions, recollections, imaginings and feelings that started me on a road to womanhood that looks back at those times with amusement at my genuine innocence, sadness for my mother's dramatic loss so early in her life, and happiness for my parents' watchful eyes that taught me a goodness I cherish.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
I'm Not Sorry Unless I Am
I have spent too much of my life apologizing and an equal amount of time thinking that those two little words, "I'm sorry" would go a long way to acknowledge that some situation, little or big left a mark on my heart. I do not wait for the words because I am not one to hold out for expectations that are likely to disappoint me. But I do pay attention to others' actions because they speak much louder than words, and I am bound to accept them as an equivalent if they do not repeat, and therefore salt the wounds of a familiar situation.
Yet I believe that being able to say I'm sorry is an important life skill. It doesn't cost much and requires only a little bit of empathy. It is not an "admission of wrongdoing", but an acknowledgement of another's shared humanity. For example, "I'm sorry we had a misunderstanding that left you feeling like that" is very different from "I am wrong, and therefore feel sorry". It is also not the same as pity, which is "I feel sorry for you". That is an insult added to an injury already there. It surprises me that in some cases, a person resists those words at all costs because it feels like it is giving away some part of a person's soul. I have never felt like I am giving away a part of myself if I have apologized in all sincerity. Who wants to continue the effects of a hurt that is unnecessary?
In my more neurotic states of mind (where I feel like everything is my fault either because I am a little delusional about my own importance or because I was well trained to believe that I had probably done something wrong, even if I didn't know what it was), I have apologized too much. In this little bloggy journey I am taking, I am also making a commitment to be a little more discerning about when I say I'm sorry. It will be a good test for me because if I do apologize, I want it to come from a place of sincerity, and as well, because I think that my actions or words may have caused harm to another, whether intentionally or not.
Intentions have little to do with whether or not an apology is warranted. Being an optimist, I think that most folks have fairly good intentions toward others, but sometimes human priorities come into conflict with others. Yet because of that, there may be a need for an apology out of inattention, neglect, trivialization of another's feelings and/or an ignorance (in the sense of "not knowing") of the importance of something to another.
The cost to another of an inability to say I'm sorry is a distortion of the other person's perceptions--e.g. pretending what happened really did not, walking away from a situation leaving the other person standing thinking, "am I crazy?" or was that really cruel, insensitive, thoughtless? Or, it makes the other person alone responsible for how a relationship goes, despite the reality that it takes two people to create a difficult situation and both of their attention to resolve it. This is especially true in cases where one is not actively aggressive, but passively neglectful--"what? I didn't do anything". The issue really doesn't go away. It may shrink in importance in the larger scheme of things over time, but a lack of resolution or "closure" for both parties having worked through a conflict leaves a mark on hearts that could otherwise use the salve of two simple words to do a world of healing.
I don't believe it's ever too late to apologize, and it's only too early if the apology is not sincere. Some of the most important people in my life have never said they're sorry to me. I have come to accept it as "their way," but being the marshmallow hearted being I am, it is something that confuses me. It does not make me love them any less, but it does make me wonder if they know how much it would mean to me if they could.
Yet I believe that being able to say I'm sorry is an important life skill. It doesn't cost much and requires only a little bit of empathy. It is not an "admission of wrongdoing", but an acknowledgement of another's shared humanity. For example, "I'm sorry we had a misunderstanding that left you feeling like that" is very different from "I am wrong, and therefore feel sorry". It is also not the same as pity, which is "I feel sorry for you". That is an insult added to an injury already there. It surprises me that in some cases, a person resists those words at all costs because it feels like it is giving away some part of a person's soul. I have never felt like I am giving away a part of myself if I have apologized in all sincerity. Who wants to continue the effects of a hurt that is unnecessary?
In my more neurotic states of mind (where I feel like everything is my fault either because I am a little delusional about my own importance or because I was well trained to believe that I had probably done something wrong, even if I didn't know what it was), I have apologized too much. In this little bloggy journey I am taking, I am also making a commitment to be a little more discerning about when I say I'm sorry. It will be a good test for me because if I do apologize, I want it to come from a place of sincerity, and as well, because I think that my actions or words may have caused harm to another, whether intentionally or not.
Intentions have little to do with whether or not an apology is warranted. Being an optimist, I think that most folks have fairly good intentions toward others, but sometimes human priorities come into conflict with others. Yet because of that, there may be a need for an apology out of inattention, neglect, trivialization of another's feelings and/or an ignorance (in the sense of "not knowing") of the importance of something to another.
The cost to another of an inability to say I'm sorry is a distortion of the other person's perceptions--e.g. pretending what happened really did not, walking away from a situation leaving the other person standing thinking, "am I crazy?" or was that really cruel, insensitive, thoughtless? Or, it makes the other person alone responsible for how a relationship goes, despite the reality that it takes two people to create a difficult situation and both of their attention to resolve it. This is especially true in cases where one is not actively aggressive, but passively neglectful--"what? I didn't do anything". The issue really doesn't go away. It may shrink in importance in the larger scheme of things over time, but a lack of resolution or "closure" for both parties having worked through a conflict leaves a mark on hearts that could otherwise use the salve of two simple words to do a world of healing.
I don't believe it's ever too late to apologize, and it's only too early if the apology is not sincere. Some of the most important people in my life have never said they're sorry to me. I have come to accept it as "their way," but being the marshmallow hearted being I am, it is something that confuses me. It does not make me love them any less, but it does make me wonder if they know how much it would mean to me if they could.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Got to Be There, And She's on My Mind . . .
I got a call from my youngest daughter tonight. She is a newlywed, hard worker and radically grounded person. She also holds every little stress inside until she bursts forth with all the things that are getting to her. She has never had a life without challenges to handle; she has just been hyper-responsible about trying to take them on all by herself. This is not good for her, but it is her way. I have learned over the years that when things are hard for her, she turns inside of herself and goes quiet until she is ready to talk. Then a world of the sources of her challenges or hurt come out in real, frank, candid ways as she expresses herself in very clear terms. I feel so fortunate to know who she is, to wait patiently for those moments because she lets me know when they are, and I never want to ignore them. This is the thing about connecting with others--it is not taking advantage of others' good will, but at the same time being able to fully trust that they will not let you down when it really matters.
At this time in her life, she is in a radical transition from a person in a committed relationship to a wife. She is learning how to negotiate that role because she has always been independent and self-sufficient (maybe even to a fault). She nurtures others till she has little left to give. She remembers everyone on birthdays and other holidays and checks in regularly with family members, taking comfort in their support and love for her.
But my life as her mother has taught me that not only does she need someone who knows her well to listen and accept her, but also, when she is ready to talk, I've got to be there. She reaches these tempests at inconvenient times sometimes, but I don't care. We have managed successfully to speak to each other as adults as she has grown into her young professional and personal life. She has always been grounded, self-motivated and generally expected too much of herself, standing aside at times to a point of invisibility in order to allow other priorities to be addressed by others around her. In her marriage, she cannot make herself invisible to a husband who loves her like crazy. She is also interdependent, and that gives her a feeling of vulnerability because she cannot always lead and as well, knows it is not fair to wrap herself into that tight cocoon of inaccessibility.
Those are strategies she has always used to help her function and take the next step forward. She also has superwomanish expectations of herself. But I know that she needs soft places to fall and relief from her hyper-responsible shouldering of all that matters to her. It is hard to be so far away, but when we see each other, we make the most of the time together and have a lot of fun--she cracks me up. She's generally not chatty, but when she is, I know for a fact that she needs someone to care and listen. Other family members have helped me so much in that regard and stood in as surrogates through the miles, and I am grateful for it.
Here's how it also goes. After she has worked up every possible "mother concern" I can imagine, she "figures things out" and will call later sounding strong and sure. But that's just part of being her mother, and I am grateful to be held in that kind of esteem and trust by her. Ever since she was a little girl, she liked to be certain, to know what was coming the next day, whether it was for a school lunch or a new situation. When she was about eight, I had given her 12 hour Contact for a cold in the morning. We were driving in the car that evening and she asked me what time it was. I told her, and she said, "well that means in about 17 minutes my nose will start running." That is her through and through. Uncertainty and "newness" is hard for her until she works at something long enough to feel steady-footed.
She used to dread every birthday because she liked being nine and didn't know what it would be like to be ten. She used to dislike and mistrust her new elementary school teachers for the first two months of the new school year, and then in the last month, not want to go on to the next grade because she liked her teacher. She was always the "quiet", "on task" kid in the class and teachers would always seat her next to the rowdiest and hard to control child. After awhile this got to be a little old, and I finally discussed it with her teacher. She has a calming effect on everyone around her because she is so grounded; but she does this at her own expense because it appears as if she has no needs--for approval, love, concern, care, help with tasks, conversation and worries. Yet those who are closest to her can tell when she is beginning to unravel from that tight cocoon she has woven to protect herself from disappointment or challenges that lie ahead.
This is my youngest daughter, my beloved child, who when she hurts, I hurt, when she worries, I worry because I know that despite her strong habits and practicality, she is as human as any of the rest of us and has needs to be recognized, cared about, accepted and listened to. (Of course I feel the same way about my other daughter). Yet she and her husband have planned and budgeted and waited for the honeymoon of their dreams. She is facing circumstances that will not make the trip as carefree as it might otherwise have been when the planning began because she is facing some uncertainties. I hope she is able to relax and enjoy the relief from daily pressures she and her husband deserve, and that others will also recognize that she, too needs support.
At this time in her life, she is in a radical transition from a person in a committed relationship to a wife. She is learning how to negotiate that role because she has always been independent and self-sufficient (maybe even to a fault). She nurtures others till she has little left to give. She remembers everyone on birthdays and other holidays and checks in regularly with family members, taking comfort in their support and love for her.
But my life as her mother has taught me that not only does she need someone who knows her well to listen and accept her, but also, when she is ready to talk, I've got to be there. She reaches these tempests at inconvenient times sometimes, but I don't care. We have managed successfully to speak to each other as adults as she has grown into her young professional and personal life. She has always been grounded, self-motivated and generally expected too much of herself, standing aside at times to a point of invisibility in order to allow other priorities to be addressed by others around her. In her marriage, she cannot make herself invisible to a husband who loves her like crazy. She is also interdependent, and that gives her a feeling of vulnerability because she cannot always lead and as well, knows it is not fair to wrap herself into that tight cocoon of inaccessibility.
Those are strategies she has always used to help her function and take the next step forward. She also has superwomanish expectations of herself. But I know that she needs soft places to fall and relief from her hyper-responsible shouldering of all that matters to her. It is hard to be so far away, but when we see each other, we make the most of the time together and have a lot of fun--she cracks me up. She's generally not chatty, but when she is, I know for a fact that she needs someone to care and listen. Other family members have helped me so much in that regard and stood in as surrogates through the miles, and I am grateful for it.
Here's how it also goes. After she has worked up every possible "mother concern" I can imagine, she "figures things out" and will call later sounding strong and sure. But that's just part of being her mother, and I am grateful to be held in that kind of esteem and trust by her. Ever since she was a little girl, she liked to be certain, to know what was coming the next day, whether it was for a school lunch or a new situation. When she was about eight, I had given her 12 hour Contact for a cold in the morning. We were driving in the car that evening and she asked me what time it was. I told her, and she said, "well that means in about 17 minutes my nose will start running." That is her through and through. Uncertainty and "newness" is hard for her until she works at something long enough to feel steady-footed.
She used to dread every birthday because she liked being nine and didn't know what it would be like to be ten. She used to dislike and mistrust her new elementary school teachers for the first two months of the new school year, and then in the last month, not want to go on to the next grade because she liked her teacher. She was always the "quiet", "on task" kid in the class and teachers would always seat her next to the rowdiest and hard to control child. After awhile this got to be a little old, and I finally discussed it with her teacher. She has a calming effect on everyone around her because she is so grounded; but she does this at her own expense because it appears as if she has no needs--for approval, love, concern, care, help with tasks, conversation and worries. Yet those who are closest to her can tell when she is beginning to unravel from that tight cocoon she has woven to protect herself from disappointment or challenges that lie ahead.
This is my youngest daughter, my beloved child, who when she hurts, I hurt, when she worries, I worry because I know that despite her strong habits and practicality, she is as human as any of the rest of us and has needs to be recognized, cared about, accepted and listened to. (Of course I feel the same way about my other daughter). Yet she and her husband have planned and budgeted and waited for the honeymoon of their dreams. She is facing circumstances that will not make the trip as carefree as it might otherwise have been when the planning began because she is facing some uncertainties. I hope she is able to relax and enjoy the relief from daily pressures she and her husband deserve, and that others will also recognize that she, too needs support.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Commencement 2010
Commencement means a beginning rather than how it is commonly thought of as an "ending" of jumping through a lot of hoops to get a piece of paper. Tomorrow evening at 7:30 I will get to read the names of about 200 graduates and hope that I will not butcher them. So I practice. This is our second year as an independent school at the institution where I work. We have the responsibility of educating about 800 students in communication arts and technologies. It is our "second" independent commencement, so the initial "honeymoon" year is nine months beyond us.
It was a difficult semester because I literally "limped" through it, setting aside household management and other things to continue along the trail of quitting smoking and healing a bad knee. Today I spoke with an unhappy father whose student had not told him the whole truth about why he is not graduating. It happens much more frequently than one might think. Last year, a whole family came from Ghana to see their loved one cross the stage, ignorant of the six credit hours she has to complete in order to receive her diploma.
I answered e-mails from three of my students who were unhappy with the grades they received, spelling out the things they earned credit for and areas where assignments were not completed or were done inadequately. I really like these students, and it is not a happy occasion for me to deliver unfortunate news, but I am not doing them any favors if I am not honest about their performance according to the criteria that were laid out for them in the beginning. I understand they get distracted, do things hastily, have other commitments (some of them work as many as 30 other hours a week), and have assignments for other classes.
But it would be a form of patronization and ethical betrayal to not let them know where they stand. This is the hard part of teaching. I have another situation where I am pretty sure the student bought or "lifted" a paper from some online site. The jury is still out on that, and I do not enjoy playing detective. But if I close my eyes, again I am not being fair to other students in the class who turned in work they had actually done themselves. Another situation that came my way in the last week was a student who turned in the same paper for credit for two different classes. This is not okay. So I am responsible for confronting the situation on behalf of the dean's office and doing so in a firm, but supportive way. I always ask two other people to read what I have written or discuss the thing I think is appropriate to do to make the situation go away fast (rather than to blow it up into a big storm).
I have learned a lot by being the "point person" to handle these things and frankly, enjoy the challenge. While I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, I think I am better at delivering it than others might be. Sometimes I have to clean up a grade mess that would not have become one if the instructor had just been responsive to the student. Students usually get the maddest if they are ignored or harshly criticized in an undiplomatic manner. In those cases, it's never really about the grade.
Teachers have to develop a tough skin because whether students like you or not, they will tell you what they think about you, your class and what they learned (or did not) at the end of every 14 week semester. I have developed a ritual for reading those evaluations. I look at them once, see if there are any common negative responses and make a note of it for "next time". If they write comments as if I am the Messiah, I take those with a grain of salt too. I am most interested in thoughtful feedback about the course materials, organization and structure. As well, I am concerned about whether or not students thought they were treated fairly and respectfully.
What's so strange is that this is where parenting comes in. I want to treat my students in a manner that I would want any other teacher to treat my daughters. I don't want them "judged", given "hopeless" messages or singled out because of a personality conflict. Teachers work hard and students can be brats sometimes, but teachers also do stupid things (that also find their way to my office--e.g. swearing at a student unless it's some kind of demonstration of a concept, not starting or ending class on time, changing the goal post after having given students one set of criteria, droning on to a point where the students have no possible chance of learning anything because they will all be asleep, or giving a whole class with a power point presentation entirely in the dark for nearly two hours, rushing through a lecture to "get through all the material" instead of genuinely answering student questions, or treating questions like a bother).
I have spent much of my time this year putting out these kinds of little fires, hoping that they don't become forest-sized. I get the teacher's point of view and generally know who our best teachers are. There are also teachers whose work would be enhanced by making a few minor tactical changes. I get the students' right to have clear answers to questions, adequate time to complete assignments, realistic expectations, given the information and direction they've been given in class, and basic human respect whether they're the brightest bulb in the group or someone who really needs a little extra help. And frankly, I try to forget about a student's performance on one thing before they turn in the next. These days that is pretty easy because I can only hold so many things in one brain. Yet in the end, I do hope that something I've said or taught sticks with even one young person because over the course of 23 years of teaching, it might make a difference to the world when that "one" begins to become a more conscious citizen, more informed opinion maker, or just a better person. I never expect the "matter" of my class to be memorized, but the ability to write, read and speak to be enhanced in a way that is more thoughtful than when they walked in. In return, my students give me the feeling that I have something to say, experience to share, and knowledge that may be of importance someday.
It was a difficult semester because I literally "limped" through it, setting aside household management and other things to continue along the trail of quitting smoking and healing a bad knee. Today I spoke with an unhappy father whose student had not told him the whole truth about why he is not graduating. It happens much more frequently than one might think. Last year, a whole family came from Ghana to see their loved one cross the stage, ignorant of the six credit hours she has to complete in order to receive her diploma.
I answered e-mails from three of my students who were unhappy with the grades they received, spelling out the things they earned credit for and areas where assignments were not completed or were done inadequately. I really like these students, and it is not a happy occasion for me to deliver unfortunate news, but I am not doing them any favors if I am not honest about their performance according to the criteria that were laid out for them in the beginning. I understand they get distracted, do things hastily, have other commitments (some of them work as many as 30 other hours a week), and have assignments for other classes.
But it would be a form of patronization and ethical betrayal to not let them know where they stand. This is the hard part of teaching. I have another situation where I am pretty sure the student bought or "lifted" a paper from some online site. The jury is still out on that, and I do not enjoy playing detective. But if I close my eyes, again I am not being fair to other students in the class who turned in work they had actually done themselves. Another situation that came my way in the last week was a student who turned in the same paper for credit for two different classes. This is not okay. So I am responsible for confronting the situation on behalf of the dean's office and doing so in a firm, but supportive way. I always ask two other people to read what I have written or discuss the thing I think is appropriate to do to make the situation go away fast (rather than to blow it up into a big storm).
I have learned a lot by being the "point person" to handle these things and frankly, enjoy the challenge. While I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, I think I am better at delivering it than others might be. Sometimes I have to clean up a grade mess that would not have become one if the instructor had just been responsive to the student. Students usually get the maddest if they are ignored or harshly criticized in an undiplomatic manner. In those cases, it's never really about the grade.
Teachers have to develop a tough skin because whether students like you or not, they will tell you what they think about you, your class and what they learned (or did not) at the end of every 14 week semester. I have developed a ritual for reading those evaluations. I look at them once, see if there are any common negative responses and make a note of it for "next time". If they write comments as if I am the Messiah, I take those with a grain of salt too. I am most interested in thoughtful feedback about the course materials, organization and structure. As well, I am concerned about whether or not students thought they were treated fairly and respectfully.
What's so strange is that this is where parenting comes in. I want to treat my students in a manner that I would want any other teacher to treat my daughters. I don't want them "judged", given "hopeless" messages or singled out because of a personality conflict. Teachers work hard and students can be brats sometimes, but teachers also do stupid things (that also find their way to my office--e.g. swearing at a student unless it's some kind of demonstration of a concept, not starting or ending class on time, changing the goal post after having given students one set of criteria, droning on to a point where the students have no possible chance of learning anything because they will all be asleep, or giving a whole class with a power point presentation entirely in the dark for nearly two hours, rushing through a lecture to "get through all the material" instead of genuinely answering student questions, or treating questions like a bother).
I have spent much of my time this year putting out these kinds of little fires, hoping that they don't become forest-sized. I get the teacher's point of view and generally know who our best teachers are. There are also teachers whose work would be enhanced by making a few minor tactical changes. I get the students' right to have clear answers to questions, adequate time to complete assignments, realistic expectations, given the information and direction they've been given in class, and basic human respect whether they're the brightest bulb in the group or someone who really needs a little extra help. And frankly, I try to forget about a student's performance on one thing before they turn in the next. These days that is pretty easy because I can only hold so many things in one brain. Yet in the end, I do hope that something I've said or taught sticks with even one young person because over the course of 23 years of teaching, it might make a difference to the world when that "one" begins to become a more conscious citizen, more informed opinion maker, or just a better person. I never expect the "matter" of my class to be memorized, but the ability to write, read and speak to be enhanced in a way that is more thoughtful than when they walked in. In return, my students give me the feeling that I have something to say, experience to share, and knowledge that may be of importance someday.
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