Life on a 3x5 Card

What have I accomplished in life that cannot be captured on a 3x5 card? The list of the things I’ve done is long, the list of the places I’ve been much shorter, but the person I am seems to be one big question mark. By the time I reach my life expectancy, I’d like to be able to write at least one full sentence on that 3x5 card, a sentence that captures who I am, rather than just list what I did.

I am the child of parents who both are dead; I am the sister of siblings with whom I have no contact; I was the wife of a man who is my “ex”; I am the mother of children who live too far away; I am the grandmother of a grandson who knows me through pictures, presents, and infrequent visits; I am a friend to people I've know for many years and friendly to others I've known a shorter time. But when I stand in front of the mirror, who is the person who looks back at me? That is the question for which I have no answer, not even the rough outline on a 3x5 card.

Have I done well in life? Yes, based on the yardstick society uses to measure such things. I am self-supporting; I still work and do at least an adequate job; I maintain my domicile; I pay all my bills on time and usually in full; I am naturally thrifty, turning off unused lights in my home long before it became green; no one will ever remember me as a clothes’ horse or a shoe whore; I have a good sense of humor, yet show kindness to my fellow inhabitants and lend a helping hand where and when one is needed. But are these lists of what I do the definition of who I am?

On my blog, I once wrote that my life is a journey to discover the person within, to figure out who I am and what me, myself and I need to be content with life. When the time comes to look The Big Guy in the eye and answer for the years He has given to me, what will I say? It’ll start with “Man, I have screwed up so many things that I wish I had handled better,” but He already knows that, and I don’t think that is the information He is seeking. There are no excuses, there are no apologies, there are no explanations that change how I’ve lived my life! I’ve tried not to harm anyone intentionally, but even in those earnest efforts I know that I have hurt others I never intended to hurt.

I remember turning 40 and making decisions that many people thought were bad decisions. I knew at that time of my life that I had made so many past mistakes that continuing to live the life based on them would simply not work for the rest of my life, and I did what I could to start over. I hurt people at that time, but sometimes wrenching free does that. A decade later, someone else took everything I thought I was from me, deciding for me what next direction my life would take. I knew the hurt I had given to others from the inside out, and, at times, I did not think that I could make it through the healing process. I did, and learned more about myself and my life in the process.

I know that I have walked away from those who have asked for help from me because I feel that “God helps he who first helps himself,” but I have given far more to people who never asked me for anything because I could give to them that which they needed to do it themselves. I have always believed that what we do not earn by the efforts of hard, honest work is not valued. There is pride in working hard, in trying, failing, and doing it again, a pride that is stripped from us when anyone thinks that we are incapable of achieving it on our own and hands it to us. The effort is the foundation for the achievement: if I do not try, how do I know that I cannot? If I am trying and failing, how can anyone step in front of me, do it for me, and expect me to thank them for taking away the feeling that comes when I succeed? If I truly cannot do what life asks of me, I’ll ask for guidance, for help, but not expect that someone else will do it for me. I need not just to be self-sufficient, but to know the thrill of shouting at the top of my lungs, “I DID IT!”

As I am coming to a significant birthday in my life, I have to accept that I am now at that age when others will want to do for me, to make my life easier because I am … old. My mother always used to say that it’s a shame we cannot put an old head onto young shoulders, that we cannot, when we come to the age where we do know more about life than those decades younger, share that wisdom with them. As a late teen, after my father died, I recall shouting at my mother to let me make my OWN mistakes! I knew then that I may make MY mistakes, but that did not necessarily mean that I would make my mother’s mistakes. Now that I am on the other side of the definition of senior citizen, I still want to live MY life, make MY mistakes, fumble my own way through what is left of the journey begun so many decades ago.

A recent newspaper article included the “fact” that most Americans share an average lifespan of 78 years, which started me thinking not of a bucket list, but of a personal list of pleasures I’ve denied myself that I’d like to indulge before I die. It’s sort of like the gal who decided to cook every one of Julia Child’s recipes one year, but mine is not restricted to cooking. I have already taken the first steps, replacing the window in the guest room with a glass door, bringing the outside in, something I had thought about since I moved into my current home in January 2000. I also traded in my beloved Camry and my truck for the RAV to par down what I have into what I need: a comfortable passenger compartment with lots of load room. I’ve already agreed to buy a friend’s huge sectional couch and replace the two couches I bought about 25 years ago with something else, even though it means that I have never spent the money to purchase my own, brand-new couch. I still want to make a delicious chocolate cake with rich, creamy chocolate icing and a fruit filling, but I’ll save that for the upcoming birthday.

The trip to Greece? I have other places to go and other people to see and other things to do, so we'll see.

Doin' What Comes Naturally

Daisy is sulking. Usually, she sleeps curled up next to me; last night, however, I actually got a good night's sleep, but didn't know why. After I tracked her down, I realized that Daisy slept in the guest room. She rearranged the afghan to make herself a little nest, curled up, and spent the night sulking, a definite sign that she's still upset with me for what I did yesterday.

While I was outside doing a bit of yardwork, I noticed a steady stream of water coming from a pipe next to the house. I called B, who came over to see what was causing the water stream, and it turned out to be a split pressure guage. He fixed it, we played with the dogs, B noticed that birds had made a nest in the eves, and all was well with the world.

A couple of hours later, Daisy sneaked into the house quietly, not her usual flying object approach. When I turned my head to greet her, I noticed that she was carrying a dead bird between her teeth, head down, and steadily moving toward my living room carpet.

"Oh, no! That is not going to happen! Daisy! Drop the bird!"

Sure, that was effective. Daisy planted her front paws, lowered her head even more, and started that low, intense growl that clearly sends the message: step away from my bird. It's mine.

I shooed her outside, but she was determined to keep the bird. I limped along behind her all the way around the house, until I cornered her at the front gate, where we had been working on the broken water line. I was able to fling the bird over the fence into the front yard using a stick, but boy, was Daisy upset. She started leaping straight up, trying to get over the fence, and I actually thought she was going to make it!

After limping all the way back into the house, I went out front to bag the bird and saw that B had left half his tools from the pipe repair, which made the whole bird incident a bit better because had I not gone to retrieve the dead bird, I would not have seen B's tools. And, after depositing her kill in the garbage can, I petted Daisy and told her what a good girl she was, yada yada yada. Made me feel better, but she's still pissed.

Daisy was just doing what her natural instinct tells her to do, but I took away her prize for doing well. It's not easy to hunt down and kill birds, but Mia takes out a pigeon about once a month, and now Daisy is demonstrating that she, too, can provide for her master. As much as I'd love to allow both of the dogs to play with their kills, it isn't going to happen on my watch or in my living room.

So, Daisy is sleeping in the other room, clearly sulking. She'll get over it the next time I haul out the bag of chicken-flavored doggie treats, but every female deserves a good sulk now and then, so I'll wait her out.

Say It Isn't So!

Can you believe it? The ex-girlfriend is now telling the media that Jake (yeah, I know: who????) was only in it for the money! I cannot believe her accusations can be true. Jake obviously went on this season's The Bachelor because he cannot find a girlfriend any other way, and, according to his numerous appearances on the talk show circuit, he looked everywhere! However, after knowing a woman for (let's say) a few weeks and having sex with a whole bunch of other women at the same time he's allegedly falling in love with that special someone, he cannot be so shallow as to only do the gig for the money.

No, I'll bet he was counting on this series to slingshot him into a media career! It's far out, but maybe he could even appear on ... hm, let me think a minute ... oh, got it: Dancing With the Stars!! (Are the dancers the stars or the novices who dance with them? I forget, since I seldom recognize anyone in either role). After all, it worked for Jon Gosselin, and for OctoMom, and for that Jersey gang of social rejects, the Housewives of several different coasts, and anyone who needs to lose weight: why not Jake? Why not put yourself out there, let it happen, escalate the lifestyle, pretend that a reality show is real?

Ya don't need talent; ya just need a good publicist and a new vocabulary word: sycophant. It's kinda like your own posse, but you pick up the tab for your sycophants because you're the only one with money and that's all they need from you. But, if it makes you feel better, you can pretend that they really, really like the real you and are your friends -- at least until you no longer can support them in the style to which they have become accustomed, thanks to your generosity and transient fame.

Oops: my bad! YOU call that person a fiancee! Whatever. Make it work, people.

Just Askin'

In CA, all drivers must be both licensed and protected with automobile insurance: it's the law. However, I pay a monthly fee, called "uninsured motorist" coverage, to protect me from motorists who are not insured. Thus, in spite of the law, MY insurance has to pay for HIS/HER failure to comply with the law. If neither party is insured, the public pays for the costs of whatever may befall the unlicensed driver and/or the uninsured motorist, including medical costs, property damage, and funerals.

Rather than taking a step forward, we have nailed one foot to the ground and will continue to go around and around and around, giving the illusion of making progress, but staying in the same place we've always been. The people aren't going to continue to pay for their own medical coverage -- and pick up the tab for those who refuse to purchase medical insurance. The medical institutions aren't going to continue to operate if they have to continue to provide services for those patients who do not have insurance. The doctors aren't going to continue to see patients who refuse to purchase insurance when the law clearly states that every American will have medical insurance. Who's going to defend the doctors, the medical facilities, and the insurance companies when the lawsuits clog the courts because medical services are denied to individuals who do not have insurance?

A person who does not have a valid driver's license still drives, and a person who does not have automobile insurance still drives an uninsured vehicle, so why does anyone believe for even a moment that everyone will purchase medical insurance because it's the law?

Mutant Dog Toys

This morning, the dogs left a pile of toys at the doggie door. Daisy is the one who snatches a toy from Mia's mouth and then runs like the wind, bouncing out the doggie door, to hide the toy in the shrubbery. I'm not sure which of the girls brought the stash to the door this morning, but I've been mending them for about an hour now.

When I see a pile of fluffy toy filling scattered across the living room carpet, I know it's time to put together what remains of another toy. There is no use in spending more money to buy new toys as the dogs can chew them to pieces faster than I can replace them. I've sewn shut the holes where arms/legs used to be, attached rear ends to heads without the missing body, and held Swiss cheese toys together with masking tape. Some toys that began at a foot long are now mere inches, being whittled away as part of the daily play.

I still have a few new toys stashed in the cupboard, which I'll pull out when I can no longer salvage the current crop of chew toys. Meanwhile, I kinda enjoy the display of mutant dog toys!

Beauty Shop Drop-Out

It is my experience that I can usually get one good haircut from a cosmetologist, but seldom two in a row. Since donating my waist-length hair to Locks of Love, I've been looking for my "regular" hairdresser, the one who can actually cut my hair into a style I like, want, and will keep. I've grown it back to collar length, but the last haircut resulted in those darned "layers" in the back and big puffs on top of my ears. I want to keep the length, but restyle the cut so it lays smoother and has some movement.

Friday, I tried another new gal, driving all the way back up the hill on my day off for the consultation and the cut. I chose her because I've seen some of her clients, all of whom have beautifully sculpted hair that flows together and always looks great.

"Tell me what you want in a hairstyle," she encouraged.

"I don't like short hair, or a bob, or that new style where the back is really short and the front still needs to be cut. I hate layers, that look of rows across the back of my head. What I think looks really good is the way men's hair always blends together, seamlessly, into a cut that can be riffled with fingers and still look good. I'm really comfortable with my length, about to my collar, and want to keep the length, but don't like the way the front is much shorter than the back."

She pointed to her colleague in the next booth, turned her around, and said, "See the way the bottom of her hair is shaped? That's what you are looking for, right?" I agreed, especially since that woman's hair was about the length of my hair, and she didn't have obvious layers, just some shaping at the bottom so the hair flows together.

When I recalled Dorothy Hammill and explained that I've always loved the way her hair flows together in pictures of her from back in the day, she said, "Oh, but you don't want your hair as short as Dorothy Hammill wore hers!" I knew I had picked the right person to shape my hair into a style I will like, wear, and keep.

The huge smile accompanied her confirmation: "I know just what to do. Let's get started."

An hour later, after stopping the process a couple of times to express concern about the direction my hair was going, I realized that she's a key word person: short hair, like a man's cut, that only requires finger-fixing. Lost in translation were the other key words: collar length. Because I had mentioned that my current cut was much shorter over the ears than it was in the back, she took the word "ear" as her hair length. The end result is that I have everything in a haircut that I really hate, except there are no layering lines across the back! I'm not sure if that's the good news or the bad news because there isn't enough hair to cut into layers.

Whatever happened to the confirmation that I did NOT want my hair cut as short as Dorothy Hammill's famous wedge, I'll never know. Believe me, I'd love to have hair as long as her hair was back then, but that's going to take a while.

After I donated my hair, I knew that I would have to wear really short hair for a while, but went with the "it'll grow back" philosophy. It did -- and it will again.

Taking a Knee

Last Thanksgiving, as I was working on the upgrades to my home, I knelt to pick something off the floor of the bedroom closet. My knee contacted the metal door track, made a noise like a gunshot, and felt for several days as if I had hit my funny bone, not in my elbow, but in my knee. However, the pain was not funny, but persistent.

In January (do you KNOW how hard it is to see a doc during the holidays?), I saw a knee specialist at the world-renowned ortho center. It was pouring rain, the office was 2 hours behind on appointments, and I heard the conversation outside the exam room re: let's clear these patients out so we all can go home. When a doctor wants to run on time -- or ram patients through the exam process -- it's done. With his focus on the x-rays, not on me, he explained that there is nothing wrong with my knee. When I objected to that conclusion, he asked me what I had been doing since the accident. I told him icing it, heating it, elevating it -- and hurting like hell.

"Well," he told me, "continue what you are doing. If it's not better in 4-6 weeks, make another appointment." I assured him that was not going to happen and left.

It has not improved, only worsened, including constant throbbing pain and continuing loss of motion. My knee cap feels like it's sitting on jelly and the back of my leg is numb from the kneecap up my thigh. I am crabby, crabby, crabby because I'm in constant pain and not sleeping well either.

After calling my family physician several times, only to be put on hold for a full 10 minutes, hanging up, calling again and repeating that cycle randomly over the course of 4 days, I finally was able to make an appointment for this past Wed. After a physical exam, the PA told me that my knee is hot, swollen, and loose, which means an MRI is in order. I had that Thursday and received the results Friday: a torn meniscus that requires surgery to repair. I have the contact info for the recommended knee specialist, but his office closes at 4:00 on Friday so the office staff can complete administrative duties.

There is a window opening this Friday that allows me 10 days to have the surgery and get back on my feet. I'm going to call the knee guy Monday and see if we can make this happen.

The I-10 Speedway

Accidents are a daily occurrence on the I-10 freeway through the Coachella Valley, racking up an alarming annual fatality rate. Another tangle with an 18-wheeler at a merging on-ramp involving 3 vehicles was received with dismay by most of the bloggers today, who commented on both the frequency and the severity of the accidents. As good, concerned citizens, they also included the warning to drivers to be vigilant behind the wheel and heed the posted speed limit of 70 mph.

Amazingly, another driver took a different approach, chastising all the old people driving the posted speed limit and creating road hazards for those who don't hold their speed to 70 mph. As the blogger put it, "The road was built for speeds up to 100 mph, so if you aren't willing to drive the freeway the way it's meant to be driven, get the hell off the road."

The thought occurred to me that perhaps the I-10 was designed for speeds up to 100 mph, but not so the human body.

Make New Friends, but Keep the Old

Tucked into the little private places of my heart are dear friends, people I’ve known for either a really long time or people who have become special in a short while. Although I often worked with co-workers, I more often worked with friends, those who came into my life through our mutual employment but remain there because they fill one of the little spaces.

When I close my eyes, I can still smell the delicious odor of lentil soup that greeted me when I opened the door to the Career Center, where I worked with a woman who, to this day, is my friend. She is German in her heart, a proud, strong woman who shared more than one career with me. I first met her when we both wrote for the local newspaper, she as a full-time staffer and I as a sometimes stringer. I was drawn not just to her friendliness, but to her self-assuredness, a person who knew what had to be done and then did it, a Nike role model long before that brand made the slogan “just do it” popular.

We next crossed paths in the Career Center, where I supervised the Work Experience Education program and she commanded the Career Center tech desk. We recognized each other at once and forged a friendship that endures today, although our paths have crossed less frequently over the years. The lentil soup was an employment perk, a treat she made for her son’s German class (back in the day, most high schools offered instruction in several languages, including German, French and Latin, as well as Spanish). My stomach growled and she relented: I savored the first serving of the soup, rich in spices and floating bits of ham. Seldom have I enjoyed a bowl of soup more than I did that one, and I’ve never had a bowl of soup as delicious.

Together, we planned a Career Day the likes of which we both doubt anyone has seen since. Because we both are hard workers and know how to get the job done, we invited 125 different presenters to the campus, as well as a dozen different interactive displays, including a helicopter, military equipment and personnel, law enforcement, the medical profession, a ferrier, musicians, and beauticians who gave free haircuts! It was a festival of opportunity for students to sample potential careers, an event of which both of us were proud, but which degenerated within a week to those cutting remarks about how “your Career Day” took away from those teachers’ instructional time. They refused to acknowledge that the event gave students a pathway from their classroom to their futures, a lack that astounded both of us.

We both lost a piece of ourselves as the naysayers picked away at our accomplishment, rather than sharing the experience with us. Neither of us could figure out why so many of our colleagues were so petty, but we finally accepted that it was their issue, not ours, and moved on. I applied for an opening at another school site and left the lack of gratitude where it belonged, while my friend worked for another few years and then retired.

Her life has been filled with extreme joy and devastating sadness, including the sudden death of her beloved husband a few days before their youngest son’s wedding. Of course, I attended the wedding, and it was beautiful, but when I talked with my friend about the day a couple of years later, she confessed that she remembers little, if anything, of that time. She knew that the family had to conduct the wedding, that her deceased husband would have wanted that to be their decision, but her heart was over-flowing with sadness that her beloved husband was not there to share it with them.

When I returned to CA after a brief absence, I called my friend and visited with her, but as it always does, time has a way of passing before our minds come back to that place. Last night, one of my students asked me if I knew a woman, gave her name, and my face lit up. Of course, I told her, we worked together … and so much more. My student told me that my friend misses me, so I called her this morning. Her obvious joy at hearing my voice reminds me how much she has meant to me over the years, and when she admitted that she recently celebrated her 90th birthday, I was momentarily stunned. To me, she is still the vibrant, slightly older woman with whom I shared parts of my life! She is sharp as a tack, recognizing my voice before I revealed my identity, and recalling exact details from our shared experiences. How can she be 90??

I’m picking her up next week for lunch at one of the old inns in the desert. We’ll share some stories, catch up on one another’s lives, and enjoy each other’s company again, although probably not a bowl of lentil soup. I can’t wait!

Dying for Publicity

Any publicity is good publicity, particularly for an aging teen idol whose name no one recognizes and whose career no one can recall. However, I’m not so sure that the 30-somethings who are dying from drug overdoses realize that once they over-dose, they will not be around to enjoy the sudden spate of media attention.

No one can handle the unsupervised use of drugs: no one, but most especially a person who is addicted to that kind of drug. It is a matter of time before the drug leads to an over-dose, the majority of which are fatal. Michael Jackson used drugs to cope with his life physically, mentally, and emotionally. Because he had walked that line for so many years, he probably thought that he would be the drug-dose death exception, but instead he became yet another drug-dose statistic. Tragically, he is no longer around to enjoy the resurgence of his career, as well as the financial benefits of his death for his children’s future. Death is the ultimate price to pay for trying to cheat it.

A poem dedicated To an Athlete Dying Young (A.E. Housman) memorializes the loss of life far too soon for an athlete:

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay, 10
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose

The poet’s point is that dying young avoids dealing with the issues of living too long: the acclaim comes at a young age (early though the laurel grows), but it dies too soon (it withers quicker than the rose). In today’s society, we expect a childhood career to become a lifetime of work, but that does not happen more often than it is accomplished.

Today’s stars are far more often tomorrow’s has-beens. Getting through the intervening years is seldom accomplished by any other than the most gifted, the most talented, the most determined media stars. Donnie and Marie are huge today, as they were during the younger years, but even they had to weather the “forgotten years,” when it was, “Oh, yeah. Weren’t they TV stars back in the day?” To push past the loss of brand recognition and re-establish a career is the exception, not the rule, because there are far more new faces standing in line waiting for their chance to hit the big time – and willing to do so at beginning wages, rather than superstar megabucks. For any star who thinks s/he is one-of-a-kind and irreplaceable, just look at Idol, where a new face takes the center stage every year, while last year’s winner becomes a distant memory.

Or recall Jon Gosselin, who thought he was going to be at the top of the food chain because he believed his own hype. His wife and children were the best part of his life, but he was too near-sighted to see that. He lived the publicity-hounded life that he thought would make him a star, but he became the butt of his own paparazzi posse. As quickly as he took himself to the top, he bottomed out, and everything he thought he wanted is gone. When we believe our own hype, it hurts even more to realize that no one else does.

Far too many of us live our lives at the highest income bracket of which we are capable, forgetting that old adage to save for a rainy day. When we are young, we are especially impressionable, particularly when we are paid huge amounts of money and can afford to live however we want to live. The cast of Jersey Shore is a good example of this syndrome: they have each created a new persona, a self that is a media star now, but what happens when next year’s cast replaces this year’s cast? How long can this group of young people milk the people’s gullibility and acceptance of their lifestyle, their language, and their portrayal of stereotypes of what many others want to outgrow? Once this cast is living their new lifestyle, they have to maintain it, and where is the money going to come from even a year from now, much less five years down the road? They are living a niche they have created, by definition a small, restricted space, not a career.

What’s cutting edge technology today is passé tomorrow as the new quickly becomes the old and we all go looking for another new.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers 15
After earth has stopped the ears

Big Box Break-through

Friday mornings, I leave b'fast with "the girls" and head for the big box all-in-one that's on the way home. My goal is to get the basics bought and pick up the oft-used smaller items at the local market. The problem, however, with shopping at 7 am is that, although there is always a greeter guarding the doorway, the cashiers apparently don't arrive until 8 am. Thus, I am forced to use the self-service scanner system, aptly named because each time I approach the monster, I hiss -- SSSS!

Usually items with a barcode scan -- eventually. When I get a price result on the first try, I scream as if I've won the daily lottery!! Other days, I get the "Step away from the scanner" reaction, with flashing lights and tones to alert the person manning the supervisory station at the head of the scanners that someone is not respecting the equipment. A yell in my direction, "Stop! I'll be there in a minue," alerts me to the fact that I may have to begin anew not through any fault of mine, but because the machine knows that I have no clue what I'm doing and likes to screw with me.

As elitist as this sounds, had I wanted to be a super-store cashier, I would have majored in scanning. Put me in front of a classroom filled with terrifying teens and I'm in my element; make me use the self-service scanner system and I drop to my knees, defeated.

This morning, it was the produce that threw me for a loop. I begged the service rep at the supervision booth for directions, which she kindly provided: "Just key in the code." Yes, that was ... helpful ... if I knew which code (not one piece of my produce had a code) and, of course, how to "key" it in. I tried the zen philosophy of check-out, stilling myself into my calm place and waiting for the code and the key process to present itself, but, alas, that system doesn't work at the SSSS.

With a line building up behind me, I again asked for assistance, this time adding that there were no codes for me to key in. "Sure, there are," came the confident reply. "They are on each piece of produce." I assured her that MY produce had no such codes, and after forcefully locking her work station, she sauntered in my direction, sharing that look of "oh, for crying out loud" with the patrons lined up behind me. I felt vindicated when she discovered there were no codes (and almost wanted to use the "na na na na na" happy dance), but she recovered quickly. "Just look them up!"

That works if one, I know the look-up process and two, I know what's in the bag. Ever notice how peaches and nectarines look alike? Or cucumbers and zucchini? Or several different kinds of potatoes, the specific names of which I don't know because "white" or "red" have always been enough information. I honestly don't know where the potatoes are grown, but some of them have regional names! I got the bananas on the first try, but no points for that small success.

Thankfully, she finally understood that the machine was winning this war and it wasn't pretty. She "helped" me to look up the codes, input the codes, wait for the machine to accept them, then handed me the product to put into the bag. When I asked her to wait a sec because the bags were full and I didn't know if I was allowed to remove them from the pressure sensor without setting off yet another alarm, she explained that "IF I had placed the items on the conveyor, we wouldn't have to ask that question." Grudingly, she allowed me to put the filled bags into the cart, but when "we" tried to input another item, the register locked up, a common occurrence in my experience -- but I hadn't caused it this time. Hurrah!

My credit card went through lightning fast, the only part of the experience that was positive. Now that I've been personally trained in how to use the SSSS, perhaps I can get a job at the Big Box store, standing at the supervisor's booth and showing off my scanning superiorty to other technologically challenged senior shoppers.

Thinking About Thinking

It is easy to think in the "no duh" realm, but challenging to break out of that box and think for one's self on a higher plane, thoughts that, perhaps, no one else has had. For me personally, this week has been challenging as I don't believe in putting all my eggs into the skill 'n drill basket at the college level. The textbook is the jumping off point, not the end of the rainbow. Students, on the other hand, need the security of knowing that if they read the textbook and complete all the assignments therein, a "good grade" will result.

If it were that easy, there would be no self-help books on the bookstore shelves as everyone would own a dozen!

Thus, when I work with writing students, I spend fully a third of the semester on the thinking process, encouraging students to come up with several ideas, discard those that won't work, keep what might work, and then do the hard work: create an outline that clearly delineates a beginning, a middle, and an end. If a student cannot visualize the basic structure or realize what the main idea of the entire essay is and where it's going to end, no amount of writing time, effort, and energy is going to turn the idea into anything worthwhile.

In one of my current reads, J.D. Robb's latest, Fantasy in Death, Roarke makes the following observation: "You never know what you might find when you're looking for something else, do you?" (317) Of course, this one sentence captures my writing philosophy: instead of living in the land of I Can't, how about visiting the land of What If once in a while? What if you pick up the pen, the pencil, the laptop and just start writing? What if you think of 8-10 potential ideas from within, rather than limiting your choices to one from the list in the textbook? What if you dare to live differently, think differently, respond differently than the other students and stand out by being outstanding? What if you just do it, instead of talking yourself out of it?

College is about going beyond where you are; if you are content to replicate past school experiences, both the successes and the failures, why waste the time, the money, and the energy to attend college? You already have failed the course if all you can do is what you've always done. At the college level, students are more often rewarded for original thinking than they are for playing it safe, but safe is so much easier! Most of us feel far more comfortable on the well-traveled path than we do taking the unknown road through the woods (thanks, Robert Frost, for allowing me to bend your words to suit my needs).

Adult students are more inhibited by the fear of failure than younger students because youth allows us to make mistakes, laugh at ourselves, and then move on. At the adult level, fear of being judged inadequate by a classroom instructor can be devastating, especially if the student has always been successful in the past, both in the classroom and in a career. There is a deep-seated resentment of the college professor, the "know it all" who thinks s/he can tell an otherwise successful adult that on this paper, s/he needs to rethink, rewrite, and resubmit for a better grade. Students seldom realize that before one becomes a college professor, the individiual first has to spend quality time in the classroom as a student; after all, very few college professors do not earn both a bachelor's degree and a master's degree, and it is becoming more common to also complete the requirements for a doctorate. You can't walk away from too many classes that are too hard and still achieve those higher levels of educational accomplishment.

Believe me, the college professor who has all A's is a rare individual because we all have our individual strengths and weaknesses. We choose to enhance our strengths and turn them into earnings potential, but to get there, we also have to conquer our weaknesses. For me, it's always about the math! I know I would understand it better were math to be taught in English, but using mathology to teach the subject is as effective for me as using ancient Hebrew! To accomplish my professional goals, however, I had to include successes in the math department, and I did. I grew up believing in whatever it takes is what it takes, so that's how I live my life.

It's the half-way point of the semester. Far too many students are walking away from the weeks they have invested in the coursework and the list of reasons for that decision is long. In the land of What If, the approach would differ: What If I worked with a tutor? What If I showed up for office hours? What If I dedicated two uninterrupted hours to learning what I don't know? What If I did whatever it takes to make it to the end of the semester, rather than giving up on myself?

As the stress enters the stratosphere, it is time to rethink, to think outside the box, to burn the box and see what happens without the usual safeguards. Take a step forward: you never know what might come of it.

Working Hard at Love

Jake chose Vienna. Prior to that revelation, he had to send Tenley on her way to what lies ahead for her life. She wanted to know why, why, why … because she loves him so much and would do anything for him. Therein lies the problem Jake could not put his finger on. He knew that he loved Tenley, but there was something, that little niggling thought in the back of his brain that something didn’t fit. As Jake explained his decision, he said that there is just something about Vienna that completes him, that encourages him just to be who he is and makes him feel alive – an absence that he felt with Tenley, all the while knowing that she should have been perfect for him, a war between his head and his heart.

Love is the absence of doing anything for another person; it is, however, the joy of doing it with him/her. When one person in a relationship will do anything for the other person, it becomes a tally sheet: I did this, this, and this, while you? Well, you didn’t do as much as I did, so you must not love me … enough. Once that mindset exists in a relationship, there is nothing that the perceived slacker can ever do to balance the “how much” scale because it will never be enough. The relationship has been defined in terms of deeds, rather than thoughts and feelings.

Business relationships must be defined in terms of what employees do, how hard an individual works to earn the salary that goes along with the job. Seldom is it true that the harder one works, the more salary one earns, but it is usually true that if it is perceived that an employee is not working hard enough by someone who shares the space, that perception becomes the workplace reality, often a perception created by a casual comment here and there, water-cooler chatter, girls’ room gossip. When it comes time to find a scapegoat or downsize a position, the one who is labeled with the perception of inequality is let go, while the one who may be simply protecting his/her own failure to have confidence in the ability to perform well for a sustained period of time remains on the job.

The problem with this dynamic, with this personal ethics system, is that the good worker is now gone, so the person who equates how hard s/he works as a reason to be retained, rather than how well, has to find another target in order to continue to guard the secret that s/he may not be the best worker, but the best manipulator.

In a marriage, this unevenness tears apart the seams of the relationship because there is always a competition to see who deserves to stay married based on how hard each partner works to keep the relationship alive. With this kind of performance pressure, a marriage partner can only survive for so long. Marriage should be effortless, a balance that allows each individual to thrive, not just strive. It doesn’t take too many years together before each partner realizes that no matter how hard one of the two works, it will never be enough. The spouse who unknowingly signs a performance contract, instead of a marriage license, soon realizes that the relationship is doomed and goes looking for something to replace it.

In real life, it is not how hard anyone works to get the job done, but the product that results from the hard work. Working hard is simply nailing one foot to the floor, leaving the other foot to expend energy in endless circles. At the end of the day, there may have been a lot of motion, but no real movement. In a marriage, the constant motion becomes a subterfuge for real feelings. Anyone who has ever been in a relationship knows that it’s the feelings that matter, feelings that occur naturally, effortlessly, and with complete freedom to be whatever they are. It isn’t hard work to love someone, it’s the absence of hard work, and if anyone ever has to work hard to convince another person to “pick me,” the relationship is doomed.