tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-221131982024-02-21T00:24:57.382-05:00It's not me, it's youA guide for all those who have ever thought, even for one moment, that they’re the only normal ones left on the planet.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.comBlogger304125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-30507909946176056682014-02-05T10:49:00.000-05:002014-02-05T12:08:53.376-05:00Part 1: a winter poem. Part 2: a snow day activity.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://fleetowner.com/site-files/fleetowner.com/files/archive/blog.fleetowner.com/trucks_at_work/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/blizzard4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://fleetowner.com/site-files/fleetowner.com/files/archive/blog.fleetowner.com/trucks_at_work/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/blizzard4.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
I remember the winter of 1966-67 for two reasons:<br />
<br />
1. The Lehigh Valley (my home in Pennsylvania) received more than 67 inches of snow that season, and one of the storms caused schools to close for an entire week.<br />
<br />
2. I learned that my mother was a writer.<br />
<br />
To this day, I remember almost word for word, the poem she had published in the (former) Easton Express during that endless stretch of more snow / no school / damp kids:<br />
<br />
<i>All during last week, when the snow storm hit our town,</i><br />
<i>I secretly suspected that the schools would all shut down. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>On Monday the kids drove me crazy, Tuesday was even worse.</i><br />
<i>Wednesday was strictly impossible; here it's Thursday and I'm ready to burst. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Of lucky, lucky Daddy, he goes off to work each day.</i><br />
<i>Trudging through the snow drifts; why that's only child's play. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>While poor, poor Mommy, she's worn out to the core.</i><br />
<i>Trying to dry out children can get to be quite a chore. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Well, the day's finally over; the kids are tucked in for the night. </i><br />
<i>The dryer hasn't stopped drying, and Mommy hasn't stopped crying.</i><br />
<br />
<i> And I say a little prayer, without any sorrow:</i><br />
<i>Please God, let the schools open tomorrow.</i><br />
<br />
The most amazing part of this whole memory for me is that with four children (ages 11, 8, 6 and 2), my mother found the time to capture her weary (but no doubt universal) thoughts and send them off to a newspaper. I love the "strictly impossible" phrase about Wednesday and the contrast between a dryer that hasn't stopped drying and a mommy who hasn't stopped crying is perfect.<br />
<br />
For me, writing is one of those things I never really feel comfortable doing. I love it; I hate it. Sometimes it's a mysterious miracle. I spend hours trying to get a phrase or a sentence to work just right (and it never really comes out entirely right but still.) Then: that mysterious miracle. An entire passage flows out like a symphony from an orchestra. It's just that cohesive and sometimes it feels almost that beautiful.<br />
<br />
But every symphony needs to play to an audience to make it really come alive. So do writers. I once heard a quilter describe her passion for her craft like this: "Quilters take large pieces of cloth and cut them into little pieces and then sew them back up into large pieces of cloth again." Much too simple a description to capture the artistry that emerges in every quilt, but the essence of the activity truly is to make something larger and more beautiful out of something much smaller.<br />
<br />
Writing feels like that. You start with an idea, even the most inconsequential thought, and take some words - almost any to start - and somehow rearrange them and piece them together in such a way that you communicate something quite new to the reader, maybe even something beautiful or profound, in a way that no one has before. <br />
<br />
Years ago, the National Commission on Writing in America's Schools and Colleges officially launched a program to improve the writing skills of our nation's students. Apparently, few students wrote with any regularity in schools and we're all the poorer for it. <br />
<br />
This lack of written ability doesn't pertain only to students who end their formal education after high school. The commission's report stated that among college students, 50 percent of the freshman class were unable to produce papers relatively free of language errors or to analyze arguments or synthesize information. Yikes!<br />
<br />
Their report, titled "the Neglected 'R' ", recommended several programs, including the idea that "writing is everyone's business." Teach, practice and celebrate writing in every classroom from history and social studies to math and science. <br />
<br />
Here's # 2; that snow day activity:<br />
The report didn't mention the role of parents in the campaign and that could be an enormous mistake.<br />
<br />
Many parents take up the "read to your children" charge with great enthusiasm. Why not a "write with your children" movement? I can't imagine a more fulfilling memory than an adult reflecting on the time they spent sharing their written expressions with mom or dad.<br />
<br />
With yet another day stretching out in front of us, and nothing but time, parents could try being a child's appreciative audience while he or she conducts original "word music." Parents can write and share their own compositions with their children.<br />
<br />
You never know. With enough practice, someone may compose a masterpiece. reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-31482647066124425232013-12-22T16:26:00.000-05:002013-12-22T16:42:13.436-05:00The difference. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The following little story may make a bit more sense if you
read this <a href="http://www.mariasfarmcountrykitchen.com/the-spirit-of-christmas/" target="_blank">one</a>, first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you choose to read on without checking out the tiny back story, enjoy. </div>
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Chicken breasts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Biscuits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And chips to replace the bag of chips I opened and managed to make quite a dent
in at about 1 a.m. Friday night, and then again yesterday while wrapping
gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I know they’re empty calories. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy, do I know. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But those couple of handfuls were exactly what I
needed Friday as the clock struck 1, and I was – surprise! - not sleeping
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They may not have been what I needed
while wrapping gifts since scotch tape and chip crumbs don’t go together. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t explain that one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, back to my chicken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I pulled into Giant and noticed a couple – their backs were to me –
standing at the edge of the parking area, holding up a sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are they looking for…..” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and I couldn’t read it – going the wrong
direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned into a spot and made a mental
note to find another way out of the lot so I wouldn’t have to pass them and their cause du jour again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bought the chicken and soup. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bought the biscuits. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Replaced the chips. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I stood at the checkout, I contemplated paying with cash or using the credit card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me, to
self: “We used up a lot of Best Buy points in the past month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May as well start building that up again…”
and I handed over my card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the car, thinking that if I get home in about five
minutes and get this chicken in the crock pot, we’ll have dinner at about 6 or
7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do-able.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I can bake the pies and that batch of
cookies; make the dough for the cut-outs and get that in refrigerator, polish
the last couple pieces of silver I didn’t get to Friday night / Saturday morning and
then finally create the outdoor greenery arrangements in our flower pots out front. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Yes, that all works. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m in good shape. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>We’ll decorate the tree tonight; and with one more
run to Target tonight at about 9, I’m done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yahoo!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the…darn it! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fouled this up and took the same route out of
the lot and now here’s that couple again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s holding up a sign; she is simply looking pleasant and hopeful with every passing
car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time, I<i> can </i>read it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Please help us at Christmas; we have two
children.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think that’s all it
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found myself turning back into
the lot, pulling over and tearing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In less time than it took me to type this; in less time than
it will take you to read it, I had every one of the following thoughts flash through
my mind:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do they need permission to stand here? Is this allowed? Are they working?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t one of them working, for God’s sake?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t they save any money for
Christmas..with two kids?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they even
Christian?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look middle eastern; maybe
Indian…she’s wearing a sari of some kind….do they celebrate Christmas?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And who’s watching their kids today?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Answer me that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They must
have family or support of some kind if they’re both standing out in a grocery
store parking lot, without their children, holding up a sign, announcing their needy situation
to strangers who were filling their own pantries, basically asking us to fund
their Christmas day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thought all of that in a matter of seconds. And then I pulled up near them, motioned to the woman, and
handed her the money I had tucked back into my wallet when I used my credit
card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She smiled; the man turned to me and
smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She placed her hands in a position
of prayer and made a slight bow as she said, “God bless you; thank you, thank
you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The man said the same and I was off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t explain why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe because while I was efficiently planning dinner and every lovely Christmas-y thing I
would do for the rest of the day, and thinking about the beautiful tree that would
stand next to our fireplace that night, with my three sons home, by my side, and
filling up my heart with love, this couple was standing out in a grocery store
parking lot, without their children, holding up a sign, announcing their situation
to strangers who were filling their own pantries, basically asking us to fund
their Christmas day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.oldnavy.com/products/res/thumbimg/hooded-military-jackets-for-baby-basswood-brown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.oldnavy.com/products/res/thumbimg/hooded-military-jackets-for-baby-basswood-brown.jpg" width="149" /></a></div>
Maybe it was my way to pay the difference for the <a href="http://www.mariasfarmcountrykitchen.com/the-spirit-of-christmas/" target="_blank">jacket</a>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-34145366525217048582013-10-05T12:07:00.001-04:002014-02-05T12:11:05.118-05:00My (impossible, overly-sentimental, ludicrous) run-dreamI can't say whether or not running inspires genius or if my mind is simply trying to distract me from the activity. It's no doubt the latter but I have had some interesting thoughts occur to me on a run, including this one during today's 3-mile sojourn. It felt magical at the time; admittedly less so now, but here we go:<br />
<br />
Music re-inspires me to keep going every three or four minutes and today was no exception. My playlist is an eclectic mix of my sons' solos over the years (my favorites), classical chorus, and rock, albeit mostly songs that are at least twenty years old. It's also not the most heart-pumping music in the world but that's okay. I'm not setting any pace records; let's just say it works for me. <br />
<br />
So when <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLG91tOLPdQ">Peace Train</a> started, I had this little movie play out in my head: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Scene: Lincoln Memorial.<br />
<br />
Just two miles away: The Capitol Building. <br />
<br />
Imagine that this is the setting for shortest train ride on the planet.<br />
<br />
Driving the train, Pennsylvania's own Charlie Dent, along with Wisconsin Representative Ron Kind. Along with them, the car carries a few dozen representatives from both sides of the tracks, who see the train heading in the right direction and are making the trip.<br />
<br />
As it moves along its very short route to the Capitol, everyone already riding the train reaches out a hand to the legislators lining the route, encouraging them to hop aboard. <br />
<br />
Behind the senators and representatives, the rest of the country stands and cheers everytime one of them joins the train. <br />
<br />
<i>Why must we go on hating? </i><br />
<i>Cause out on the edge of darkness, there rides a peace train<br />
Oh peace train take this country, come take me home again.</i><br />
<br />
I'd be there, cheering collaboration, cooperation and compromise, I swear I would be. Unfortunately, I doubt there would be many officials just waiting for a chance to hop on board. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fWFKVYH_79addYWe2h_sqIr1fJncqSPlzox4qNAedCuYzTkYUPAvOWmSKD1yAOJOa5mlRpGIIXW4dDqBeAaXOqFM29MgMHqe7O8MF8noA0ejnrPiLHP4CDSTTKV77PErLpw/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fWFKVYH_79addYWe2h_sqIr1fJncqSPlzox4qNAedCuYzTkYUPAvOWmSKD1yAOJOa5mlRpGIIXW4dDqBeAaXOqFM29MgMHqe7O8MF8noA0ejnrPiLHP4CDSTTKV77PErLpw/s1600/index.jpg" /></a>One of the annual rituals during our summer vacation is
kite-flying on the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We arrive just
as dusk is on its way out and nightfall is on its way in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For years, we guided the kites our boys held
in anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes we found the
perfect mix of wind, string and nylon that resulted in soaring specks of color
in the night sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other times, we
couldn’t seem to catch the wind, or we pulled too tightly on the string and
crashed the kite into the sand, or we somehow lost the string altogether and watched
it drift away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We still carry on that tradition, mostly for my niece who
is younger than her cousins and enjoys our mini-kite festival every year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Lately, my boys, their dad and their uncles
toss around a football while my sister and I wrestle the kites into the
air.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thing is, even when we’re
successful, and one or more of our kites have reached a high point, we turn to
each other and ask: now what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold that
thought. </div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
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Last week, we moved our oldest child into college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I can’t seem to relax about managing
all the details surrounding situations like this, I spent a lot of time leading
up to moving day checking off lists and times and logistics about the
process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent almost no time checking
on myself and the new place I would move into once our son left home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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So we packed and then unpacked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plugged in and wired up everything, made a
bed, hung up clothes and found a new place for the bits and pieces of his life
that he carried with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We met the
young man - the stranger - who would share the dorm room and possibly share a
lifelong friendship with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We met his
parents, too, and tried to answer, in a matter of twenty minutes, these
questions: who they were, what they believed, how they raised their son and
whether or not they were people of character and principles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I told you I couldn’t relax about stuff like
this.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully, my first impressions
told me the following:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>friendly,
approachable, bright people, who held the same values in terms of education and
love of the arts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They raised a polite
young man, who was clearly dedicated to his studies, and they were committed to
supporting him to help him succeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
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As the moving in ended and the moving on began, my son
and I hugged goodbye – and spent an extra couple of seconds hanging on while we
did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, just eighteen and half years
after he arrived, my oldest son walked away in one direction and I in
another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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A few months ago, I received an email from a friend who
read a column I wrote about my children growing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In it, Joanne artfully expressed the
challenge we all face in raising our children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She reminded me that raising children is kind of like flying a kite:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hold on too tightly, and a kite doesn’t get
very far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Give it too much slack too
soon, before the wind has really caught hold so it can move freely without
danger, and it comes crashing to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But when you can find that perfect ratio of give and take while holding
the string that connects you and the kite, it soars effortlessly into the sky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I tried to calculate the “too much slack vs. too tight”
ratio last week during the move into college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was tough; it almost felt like I’d dropped the string.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d given my son a generous amount of
freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was ready for it; it was the
right time to set him on his own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
took off; maybe with a bit of shakiness at first, but he’s soaring now.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The kite is airborne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Which brings the inevitable question: now what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have that answer yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe we’ll just enjoy the flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll watch the kite flutter, even dive a bit
from time to time, then help keep it moving ever higher, letting that string
out even more; more than I would have believed is possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But never let it go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-32091157399508700032012-12-06T19:00:00.000-05:002012-12-08T07:54:15.542-05:00Not everything was swept away. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojlFjxZmJDC-JI9ZTf1gU9hwZD_zniRCnFNoUb-eR2V46eAWIAxeHzIdEccqNjqo7zr1OjhzdCbzjSajI89C2lQPbmTnvUOzGKeqUqNbgcPXP5lLOmG6Dv115ZiEQModn7cQ/s1600/GetMedia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojlFjxZmJDC-JI9ZTf1gU9hwZD_zniRCnFNoUb-eR2V46eAWIAxeHzIdEccqNjqo7zr1OjhzdCbzjSajI89C2lQPbmTnvUOzGKeqUqNbgcPXP5lLOmG6Dv115ZiEQModn7cQ/s320/GetMedia.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“Broom swept.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">If you’ve
sold a house, or bought a house, you attach a particular meaning to that phrase. As a seller, usual contract terms require that on closing day,
you deliver a "broom swept" house; no more, no less. As a buyer, you can expect to take possession of a home free from dust – bunnies; no more, no less. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Last week, I
played the part of the seller, with broom in hand. So
why is it that when I started at the top of the hardwood stairs in my parents’
home, and swept my way to the bottom, I felt like I was doing so much more than
just prepping for sale? </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Although I
know an actual, definite number exists, it’s impossible to know how many times
I climbed or descended those stairs over the years. But I do know this: some trips were more memorable than
others. Like this one: When my sisters and I were young, my dad complained that we sounded like “a herd of elephants” as
we ran up and down the stairs. We were “young ladies.” To help
us learn what that meant, we had to walk up and down the stairs – quietly, almost
noiselessly, mind you – for about an hour while he and my Mom sat in the
kitchen listening to some very muffled footsteps. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The good
news for us was that the stairs turned a corner at the top and sometimes two of
us took mini-breaks to sit down for a bit while one of us carried on the “lesson”
for Dad. I’m not sure we learned
anything but this happened more than 40 years ago and I remember it very
clearly. Up and down a staircase? For almost an hour? On those little legs? Isn’t that child abuse? Nah. Call off the social worker. Not one of us needed medical attention. It’s what people used to call raising
children. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Here's another staircase story, although I remember this one with much less bemusement than the “young
lady” lesson. One warm summer night, I was sitting on our front porch glider with a
date, probably doing exactly what a young couple would do as they sat together
on a warm summer night on a front porch glider. No doubt we were in the throes of as much
passion as we could muster on a front porch, albeit a dark front porch. Then from inside the house, we heard a bit of
mayhem, some bumps and thumps (like someone slamming into the wall at the
bottom of the stairs, right inside the front door), muffled voices, and then
silence. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Later that
night, I learned that my Dad, while drunk, mostly stumbled down
the stairs, hit the wall, and was just about ready to confront me on the front
porch with as much passionate outrage as <i>he</i>
could muster given his state. My mother
stopped him cold, and the moment passed. I remember my sister telling me, “Mom saved you.” </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Skip ahead
about ten years. I descended those
steps as a bride. A young lady in a satin gown with a long train, I posed for pictures with my parents in the living room. No, I didn’t
marry the guy from the front porch, and no, I didn’t have to confront my Dad’s
alcoholism that day. He gave me the gift
of sobriety for my wedding weekend. (A
few years later, he made the choice daily to live the rest of his life sober,
this time as an unspoken gift to his grandchildren.) </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Final staircase story. The last night my mother spent in her home included a very
labored, exhausting trip up those stairs. One difficult step at a time, she made her way to her bedroom. She left her house
the very next day via an emergency squad gurney, so she never stepped foot on the
stairs again. (For decades, every time
we talked about downsizing out of this too-big-for-her house, she dismissed
us: “They’re going to carry me out of
this house.” She was right.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Despite the lesson we endured, I’m positive my
sisters and I spent years stomping up or down the stairs as outraged teenagers,
and my brother did his version of the same. The wall at the
bottom of the stairs (and the people in house) somehow held up against a number
of drunken bumps over the years. The staircase
showcased a few brides, and new babies being carried up for naps, then older grandchildren
(especially three little boys at once, sounding not unlike a herd of elephants)
running up and down the stairs during visits and sleepovers. This
time, the din went unchallenged by Pop-Pop.
In the end, it posed a formidable challenge to my Mom, who never, ever stopped
loving the house she and my Dad bought all those years ago, without even
looking at the second floor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIJ4CkFLvzesP4zbZyMs2zbwkafDpJdULiL4ibRi4DmRfTB8P8cJW_jMzBYvMgZNtMF6tsft8bXoJqobcPdxcUZQDrez-91FeOnJAzkAo5yNX6bNSdQF21Wb1gDqp6hMALTI/s1600/7mmvx3r9gpc94qp6q7t04v4m25i6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIJ4CkFLvzesP4zbZyMs2zbwkafDpJdULiL4ibRi4DmRfTB8P8cJW_jMzBYvMgZNtMF6tsft8bXoJqobcPdxcUZQDrez-91FeOnJAzkAo5yNX6bNSdQF21Wb1gDqp6hMALTI/s200/7mmvx3r9gpc94qp6q7t04v4m25i6.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">So there I stood at the bottom of the steps, next to a small
pile of dust ready to be scooped up. From
my spot, I looked into the kitchen, then past the living room and the dining room to
the doors of the sunroom. The silence felt overwhelming despite the fact that for me, the life of the house had been
seeping away for months, leaving nothing more than a space, a shell, a
structure to be “sold and settled” as the realtors say. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Except for that day, except for that moment while I gathered
the dust at the bottom of the stairs. Right
then, I gave myself permission to gaze; time to see just about every family moment we created
in that house. Then I checked the lock,
and pulled the door closed behind me.
Walked past the glider – that same one! - and stepped off the front
porch. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I drove away. I teared
up a little bit. And realized this: that broom swept exceedingly clean. With my last look, I saw kinder, more joyful
and more comforting scenes than I would have imagined. Slammed doors went silent. Shrill voices sounded soothing. The only tears we shed were happy ones. The piano was always in tune; the cacophony of music and voices, plus the television and noisy toys was inexplicably harmonious. Even as I saw that very last morning at home with my
Mom – so tired, so tired of everything her illness represented – the lens revealed only
the love, not the despair and desperation that crowded my thoughts, and surely hers, that day. Only the love. <span id="goog_1270503169"></span><span id="goog_1270503170"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">In this empty home, the people are gone. The connections remain. And those can never be swept away</span>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-71107122951342974912012-10-24T20:35:00.000-04:002012-10-24T20:35:21.146-04:00In the words of my ophthalmologist: Better? Or worse??<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine it’s 1980.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’re fresh out of college, degree in hand, and you’re looking for that
great first job that will launch you into the business world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine you find a company that needs
someone with exactly your skills – or near enough – and you secure an
interview.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything seems to be going
beautifully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve answered the “tell
me about yourself” question with a charming, amusing and yes, slightly moving
anecdote about your life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve
indicated that your greatest flaw is that you “care too much about doing a good
job” and they seem to buy it, and you’re just about ready to deliver your
carefully crafted, spontaneous speech about how you’ve always admired the
mission of the place, yadda, yadda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(And
if you don’t recognize the “yadda, yadda” reference, you may be too young for
this post.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine the person interviewing you sums up your typical
work day as follows:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d be
delighted to have you join our company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let
me tell you a little about what to expect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You start every day with about 37 notes stacked up on your
desk that need your attention right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are usually from people who stop by your office overnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re pretty sure you’re not there and can’t
really help them until the next day, but since it felt convenient for them,
they thought they’d reach out to you regardless of your availability. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, throughout the day, you can expect no
fewer than perhaps 159 interruptions – give or take a few dozen - from scores
of people, who poke their head into your office or cubicle and ask for your
help. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes the interruptions will
be substantive and require a lot of your time to fully address.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes they may be from someone who needs one
specific piece of information you have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like
a phone number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a document.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a spreadsheet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a calculation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a contract.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or an opinion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, but not often, these people will be connected and
have similar requests, or build on the previous request.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes, what starts as one request from
one person becomes much more complicated when they leave, but then come back again,
dragging along one person, then another, then another – all of whom have a bit
of insight to share, even if it’s worthless insight -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>until you have about nineteen people stacked
up, all waiting for your response about one topic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But just as often, people who reach out to you will be entirely
disconnected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That means you have to stop
what you’re doing, and instead think about what they want and how you can
accommodate them, and then go back to what you were trying to do before the
last interruption.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except actually - you
can’t, because they’ll be another person at your door in about 78 seconds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One more thing:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not
everyone who needs you will find you by poking their head in your door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of them will come in through the
window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the skylight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or
another entrance you may know almost nothing about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of them will stop by and discover that you’re
busy; so they’ll ask you to contact them when you have a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and don’t worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’ll do a lot more than simply answer the questions or requests you
get from colleagues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll participate
in meetings, and be on the phone daily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’ll have tasks that are entirely your own responsibility to complete,
presentations to write, meetings to arrange, and goals we expect you will
reach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll sometimes be out of the
office on business for a day or more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this is a constant:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>people will continue to need you throughout the workday (and beyond), even while
you’re otherwise occupied or away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ll
just stack up outside your door, waiting for you to return and help them
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sound good?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When can
you start?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Question:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How quickly
would you run?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine it’s 2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re in an office environment, you have not only
accepted that job offer; it feels normal to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We live in that work environment every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But instead of people lined up outside our
offices, the emails they send are stacked up in our in boxes and interrupt us on
a regular basis, around the clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
if they’re not emailing, they’re leaving us voice mail. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if they’re not emailing or leaving us
voice mail, they’re sending a text.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
if they’re not emailing or leaving voice mail or sending a text, they’re skyping
us. And everything is a priority; everything needs our attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it’s an age thing – like so much of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the previous job description has been your
only experience in the workforce, it could be of little consequence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But maybe for people like me, who did go on
those job interviews in 1980, we have one foot in an office environment that’s
almost like ‘Madmen,’ without the Old-Fashions, and another dangling in
cyberspace, which is not an entirely comfortable position to maintain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several exhaustive <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5HlsRQvk-o">studies</a> have been conducted that prove
the ineffectiveness of all this wired communication – particularly email - and
its impact on our productivity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, there is a point of diminishing
return on this time-saving and ostensibly efficient communication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I’m not advocating we stand by the fax
machine (remember those?) for critical correspondence or circulate important
information on memos via interoffice envelopes but isn’t there a middle ground
here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">When I started in the workforce, we had a
few “while you were out” slips on our desks when we returned from lunch, left
there by administrative assistants who picked up our calls. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Now we’re never out, we don’t have admins or (often) lunch.
We’ve come a long way, baby. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-89040313714514907832012-05-24T16:54:00.000-04:002012-05-25T13:41:28.439-04:00The best three minutes of your day: guaranteed.I can't quite explain this. Here's an attempt: it's perfect. <br />
<br />
What I think I love is this: you can never go wrong counting on the creative nature of people. We may be infants when it comes to choosing candidates and running elections. We may be moronic when it comes to elevating individuals to superstar status for specious accomplishments. We may not quite be able to keep marriages together, raise our children well, converse with thoughtful insight and empathy or even do something incredibly simple and satisfying like letting the other guy into our lane. Me, I'm just trying to stop counting the items of the person in front of me at Wegmans, standing in the 7 items or fewer line, and thinking horrible things when I reach 9, for God's sake.<br />
<br />
But we can make videos like this one and my God, I think it's genius. BIG shout out to my Cameron who always finds these kinds of things worth sharing with me. Thank you, honey. Take a look and then come back. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/14190306" rel="nofollow">Marcel the Shell</a> <br />
<br />
Now, I grant you this is all a matter of taste. But then again, I believe this: there are two kinds of people in the world: those who love Marcel and those who can't see the point. Which are you? reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-17457971521739060692012-05-17T12:43:00.000-04:002012-05-17T12:43:36.490-04:00Commencing...your life.As former colleague of mine used to say, and I mean this in the kindest way to every recent graduate reading this column, “Listen to me very carefully.” What you don’t know about life, the workplace, relationships and love is a lot. Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not saying you should. It takes real life, away from school and textbooks and seminars, to teach you. And thirty-five years past my own high school graduation, I’m still learning. But that’s the real lesson here, the real truth that no one seems to ever tell you. No one does. Life itself is a class with multiple instructors, multiple topics, and multiple venues...and it has an unknowable end date. <br />
<br />
Be warned: the description that follows may well be your own path in the years ahead. You wake up, kill a stink bug that looks perfectly at ease perched on the bathroom faucet, rouse your children, tell them again to hang up their sodden towels, then remind them to put the cereal and milk away, and comb their hair before leaving the house. Then you start a load of laundry, drive to work, concentrate as much as possible on the responsibilities for which you earn your wages, and then head home for a dinner that may or may not include all the food groups, or all the family members, then run around in or out of the house completing the next set of agenda items, then fall asleep during whatever you’re watching on Netflix. <br />
<br />
Fascinating, I know. Again, listen to me very carefully. This doesn’t sound all that exhilarating but that’s my point. Unless you’re counting on world renown of one kind or another, with some minor adjustments to the details, you’ll live some version of this life. My husband and I have for the past twenty-five years, along with everyone we know, and our friends and family cover a broad spectrum of ages, household incomes and lifestyles. Regardless of the things that surround us, the demands placed on us or the degrees we hold, we are all living that spectacularly unglamorous life you never see nor read about in the media. <br />
<br />
It’s fabulous and it’s good, and terrible, and then great and then pretty hard and then very sad and then funny and then its okay and then it makes you crazy again. Jobs come and go. They can give you an enormous sense of accomplishment or an enormous source of stress, sometimes simultaneously. People move in and out of our lives for reasons we may never fully understand. You lose touch; you reconnect. Children arrive and turn a couple into parents overnight. Families and friends leave us, and we all figure out a new way to interact with each other that will never really be the same. What I hope you’ll take away from this is that life is not one unending upward trajectory toward what most people see as their goal, that elusive commodity called “success.” <br />
<br />
Through it all, it’s unlikely you’ll remember the speech you heard at your graduation. You’ll be busy creating a life, a home, maybe a family. I hope you’ll live in surroundings that bring you comfort and a bit of sanctuary. You’ll pay your bills (or figure out how to juggle them) and walk the dog and plant some flowers and match up the socks that come out of the dryer and hug your kids and put away groceries and take out the recycling. Once in a while you’ll read an outstanding book, or see a memorable movie or play, or attend an amazing concert or take a memorable trip. You’ll laugh and cry with friends and family. You’ll forgive and ask forgiveness. You’ll feel angry, or disappointed, or bereft, or enthralled or hundreds of other emotions over the years. You may become a parent and raise your own children. If you’re fortunate, one day you realize that you’d like them even if they weren’t your kids. You may find some time to give back to your community, and share your own unique gifts with others. Quietly but relentlessly, the days will become the weeks that become the years that become your life. <br />
<br />
One more time, listen to me very carefully. Please don’t spend the next twenty or thirty years thinking or saying things like this: Once we buy a house, or a bigger house, everything will be better. Once I own that car, it will be better. Once I get a raise or a promotion or a better job, it will be better. Once we take that trip to Europe, it will be better. I just need the 1000 thread count cotton duvet / the spa vacation / the projection home theater and it will be better. <br />
<br />
It won’t. That will never happen. Please don’t waste time waiting for life to get better because of an event or a purchase or an activity. Not one of those things will make a difference to your long term happiness; not one. Know this: everything that makes life “better” and fulfilling and worthwhile can be found within you, and in what you say, what you do, and the person you are to yourself and those around you. <br />
<br />
Once you learn that, you will have achieved success by any measure.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-73662700046144372792012-04-03T09:20:00.000-04:002012-04-03T09:20:33.078-04:00Somewhere, someone is asking this question: What's a watch? And who gets a gold one?I'm getting really old. And cranky. This <a href="http://www.more.com/entertainment/humor/how-not-act-old-work">story</a> is tongue-in-cheek humor, I get that, but days after I read it on More.com, it’s still annoying. (And by the way, I absolutely act old on my cell phone. I really, really miss landlines and being able to hear every word on every call and never having a battery die mid-sentence. There. I said it.)<br />
<br />
I re-read it and wondered if I could substitute the words “like a woman” for “old” but then I realized that wasn’t the problem. The piece was aggravating because apparently being “old” at work is also code for “responsible” and “authoritative” and “focused” and “reliable.” Clearly, these are attributes few people value in an employee these days. It's aggravating because there is some portion of the workforce that actually agrees with every single point in the article because they are, well, not "old." <br />
<br />
You know I'm right. Who has time for such mundane things like punctuality, planning and learning from experience in our status-updating, tweeting, checked-in everywhere we go, pinning our latest fancy, youth-obsessed world? I ask you: Why go to work if it isn’t fun, or at least a little freakin’ awesome every day? <br />
<br />
What follows are the “rules” about how NOT to act old at work, with my comments following each. Once again, I get it: it's humor, and it's directed toward people of a certain age. Fine. Lovely. But somehow this feels like the joke could be lost on an entire generation, which troubles me. <br />
<br />
<b>How Not to Act Old at Work <br />
Hint: Don’t bring the donuts.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Don’t arrive at the crack of dawn and make everybody feel guilty for not being there as early as you. If you’re bushy-tailed and at your desk by 6:35, at least have the good grace to keep your mouth shut about it.</b><br />
<i><br />
Translation:</i> How to act young and awesome: Stroll in just about on time and make everyone feel great about putting in just about 40 hours a week. I mean, we don’t live to work, right? How very “like your parents” of you to arrive early and stay late. <br />
<br />
<b>Don’t bring the donuts. You don’t need to be Mommy or Daddy to the entire office, showing up with coffee, remembering all the birthdays, making sure everybody signs the card.</b><br />
<i><br />
Translation</i>: This one I almost agree with. My overall feeling is this: we all have one birthday a year and we all get to choose exactly how much of a spotlight we want to shine on it at work each year. Once we all agree on this, we get to think about one birthday in the office: our own. If you want to display balloons and offer cake to the team that day, by all means start the party. On the other hand, if you want to let the day quietly come and go: fine by me. Or mix and match the options: keep mum about your own day but send a greeting card to everyone in your group or in your company if you want. Lovely. <br />
<br />
But then again, having someone in the department who likes remembering co-worker birthdays and coordinating the celebrations means they’re probably just organized and nice. Why does that make them “old?” When did that happen?<br />
<br />
<b>Stifle the self-aggrandizing anecdotes. Reminiscing about the year you almost won the Pulitzer or that time you saved the company a million dollars won’t convince people you’re cooler than they already think you are.</b><br />
<br />
<i>Translation</i>: “…Cooler than they think you are?” How about more accomplished? How about they may help younger co-workers realize you may just be able to teach them something about the business? When did accomplishments have to make you "cooler?" I get the feeling that anyone who has done anything at all noteworthy shouldn’t reveal it to younger co-workers because that will somehow diminish the feeling of awesomeness among them. No one likes a braggart but working with brilliant people? I like that. <br />
<br />
<b>Don’t be tough. The young gestalt is much softer and less direct. People ask questions and seem to defer to others even when they have a strong opinion. And if they want to do it their way anyway, they’ll just go ahead without discussion or confrontation.</b><br />
<i><br />
Translation</i>: This is almost too much to bear. “Much softer and less direct” means everyone is right and no one knows more than anyone else. Don’t be too demanding; don’t make anyone feel unprepared or uncomfortable or challenged. Remember: everyone is a winner and everyone can do anything they want to do. <br />
<br />
Look, I respect and learn from the young people I work with every single day. They are bright, energetic and talented. But the idea of not being “tough” when the work calls for strong direction, leadership and yes, authority, because their sensibility is ‘much softer and less direct’ is ridiculous. This isn’t a support group. It’s an office. <br />
<br />
<b>Don’t stay glued to your chair. Rolling everywhere, avoiding getting up and walking across the room, and sitting there till your ass grows around the cushion is definitely acting old—and won’t do much for the way you look, either.</b><br />
<br />
<i>Translation</i>: Go hang out in someone’s office; or in the break room, or in the conference room, or in the cafeteria, or wherever you’re not doing any work. Too much time in your office makes you no fun and feels too much like you’re trying to show up everyone else. <br />
<br />
<b>No long-range planning. Looking too far ahead, wanting firm commitments on times and places far (i.e., more than a day or two) into the future, is definitely an old thing. If you simply must plan (I know I must), do it in secret and be flexible if things change.</b><br />
<i><br />
Translation</i>: Awesomeness of any kind may be right around the corner and how could you be expected to commit to a Thursday morning meeting on a Tuesday afternoon? And if you think keeping your calendar up to date and informing coworkers of your schedule is polite and efficient, you’re wrong. It’s acting ‘old.’ <br />
<b><br />
Don’t be a human archive. There may be value in having someone at a company who can detail the résumés of everyone who has held a job there since 1981, who can remember what year manual typewriters were upgraded to electrics and when secretaries were replaced by voice mail. But there isn’t much value in letting that person be you.</b><br />
<br />
<i>Translation:</i> Your experience is worth nothing. Anyone who doesn’t acknowledge that business is cyclical; that everything old is new again; that lots of smart people have come before you and, in fact, done some pretty successful things is thinking “young.” Let's face it: for some people of a certain (young) age, nothing is real until they've done it, right? What good can be gained from experience or tapping the knowledge of your older co-workers? <br />
<br />
So what have we learned? If you've been in the workforce for more than one presidential term, and want to be perceived as young as awesome, keep your experience to yourself and /or risk coming across as too “tough.” Watch what time you show up in the morning and how much time you actually spend in your office (later and as little as possible are the correct options.) Don’t make any commitments to things like quarterly forecasts or God forbid strategic plans that outline the approach you'll take with the business over the next five years. <br />
<br />
If these are the new rules of business, we’re doomed. Gold smart phone, anyone?reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-62163217761907048972012-03-27T23:11:00.000-04:002012-03-27T23:11:08.338-04:00Note to self: how are you?Sometime in early January, I put a note on my calendar; specifically a note on March 28th that read as follows: "How are you?"<br />
<br />
March 28th marks three months since my Mom died. Like many people, I have picked up the daily responsibilities that don't go away, no matter how numb I feel. I've rejoined the workplace and have found equal measures of distraction and panic there over these past three months. <br />
<br />
I've felt bereft and heartbroken. I've wanted time to pass quickly so the loss would feel softer and more distant; I've wanted time to stop completely so I could just sit quietly with my sadness and give it its due. <br />
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So, Renee, how are you?<br />
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I've wanted to call my Mom just about every day; sometimes several times a day, and many evenings when I had time on my hands and knew she would enjoy a story about something that had happened that day. I've wanted to give her extremely good news and have her celebrate with me; I've wanted to share frustrations and feel her comfort. I wanted to hear about her day; her stories about her lifelong friends she saw regularly; her updates from her many visits to half a dozen doctors. <br />
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Events that are coming up, including Easter (when she still insisted on coloring eggs every year and putting out baskets of candy), my son's senior recital that would find her bursting with pride, and the births of two babies that are due to join our family this summer, will all be missing one tiny scrap of happiness for me because she won't share them and take absolute joy in in each of them. <br />
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But really, how are you? <br />
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I'm a little different than I was three months ago. I've lost a touchstone of sorts; a person who could be my rock, my cheerleader, my sounding board and my challenger, always accompanied by unconditional love. The new me has one less lifelong friend in the world; someone who knew me like no one else does.<br />
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In between the meetings with the attorney; or my niece who is selling Mom's house; or the insurance companies who never seem to request everything they need from me at one time, I try to separate the pile of paperwork from the emotions that pile up and then crash from time to time. I've apologized to my husband and sons for being distracted and upset about "estate" things that tend to take over my life from time to time; and have thanked God for their understanding. <br />
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The questions don't seem to stop. Unanswerable, of course: questions like why I didn't do one thing or another for her, why I didn't insist on doing one thing or another instead of accepting her resolute nature about what she could do on her own. <br />
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Some of the questions are specific: why didn't I go clean her house once a week? Why wouldn't I have made it my job to pick up her groceries and run her errands? Why didn't I help her organize her basement while she and I could have laughed together about the chaos that my Mom preferred to think of as temporary until she could "get to it." <br />
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Why didn't I ever buy her an amazing hat and take her to the Kentucky Derby, her favorite sporting event of all time?<br />
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Not one of these things was on her list of "things Renee didn't do for me." It's all on me; I know that. But they're all part of my answer to the original question: how are you?<br />
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I'm hanging in. Doing what needs to be done. I'm laughing; I'm crying. I'm not great but I guess I'm okay. I miss her.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-56515974543378311572012-03-22T11:39:00.000-04:002012-03-22T11:39:45.599-04:00Remember these outrages? Yeah, well - we're still all worked up, all the time. Just about different stuff now.<b>NOTE: I've been reading about how people want everyone to take a break from the outrage swirling around us daily and thought about a column I wrote - in 2005. There may well be no new stories; only new details filling in the same old story. <br />
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Read on for the column and feel free to substitute the 'apologist / offended party du jour.' It's kind of fun. </b><br />
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I’d like to propose a new official day for the public’s general approval. Let’s make every other Wednesday “give no apology / demand no apology” day. That wouldn’t be too tough, would it? <br />
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I’ve about had it with apologies being demanded by everyone from everyone else these days. I’m going to guess that the human race has been offending each other for centuries but it seems like the outcry we hear for apologies has never been more prevalent than it is today. <br />
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I did a very brief search of people making news with their demands for an apology over the past few months. Believe me, there were scores of them to choose from. Here’s a very quick list: <br />
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Al Sharpton demanded an apology from Vincente Fox, President of Mexico, for his comments regarding jobs held by illegal immigrants in this country<br />
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The G.O.P. has demanded an apology from Nancy Pelosi for her verbal attack on President Bush<br />
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Hillary Clinton has demanded an apology from Karl Rove and the G.O.P.<br />
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Islamic groups have called from an apology from evangelist Pat Robertson for his remarks that disparage American Muslims<br />
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Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist has demanded an apology from Senator Dick Durbin for his comments about prison conditions and treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay<br />
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Billionaire George Soros has demanded an apology from House Speaker Dennis Hastert for implying that at least some of Soros’ money comes from illegal drug operations <br />
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Brooke Shields wants Tom Cruise to apologize for his remarks about depression and prescription drugs<br />
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Both North Korea and Iran have demanded apologies for different reasons from the United States<br />
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Estonia has demanded an apology from Russia<br />
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High school graduate Thomas Benya has requested an apology from his school’s officials after they withheld his diploma because he wore a bolo tie to his graduation ceremony. <br />
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My plea for ‘Give no / Get no apology Wednesdays’ won’t get very far. If you want to make headlines, you can try one of two things these days: do or say something that deeply offends someone or be the offended party that responds to it. I may as well join in. As the offended party, I’d like to demand the following apologies, even if they don’t earn any headlines: <br />
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From Anna Nicole Smith - I want an apology from both you and your agent for your “appearance” at the Live 8 concert in Philadelphia. <br />
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From Justice Sandra Day O’Connor for announcing her plans for retirement and giving our esteemed representatives in Washington a whole new reason to get up in the morning and snipe at each other from across the aisle in the Capitol Building. You’ve also opened the door for a whole new level of pundit diatribes for a few months. Thanks. <br />
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From Marina Bai, a Russian astrologer - <i>an astrologer</i> - who is suing NASA because their probe’s crash into a comet has “deformed her horoscope” and caused her “moral suffering.” Her lawsuit is causing me moral suffering. She’s asking for $300 million to restore the order in her life. <br />
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From Mark Felt - Am I the only person in America who kinda liked not knowing who Deep Throat was? What’s next? The singers from <i>The Archies</i> will come forward and claim responsibility for “Sugar Sugar?”<br />
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From Hyoung Won, inventor of the “fetus phone” - a device that acts as a cell phone and a portable monitor. A pregnant woman can capture and upload photos of her baby moving, and record the heartbeat while he or she grows. Just stop it. Right now. Can’t we bond with our babies without creating a website about them for God’s sake? <br />
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I can only quote French mime Marcel Marceau to try to put an end to all these pronouncements of moral outrage and the indignant requests for apologies for the same: “It’s good to shut up sometimes.” If only more people took his advice.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-35003100285354156072012-03-08T00:08:00.000-05:002012-03-08T00:08:03.318-05:00One woman's dream: we all polish in peace. It could happen, right?Thanks to my friend Karen, and a story she posted on Facebook, I was reminded of two incidents from my past. Yes, once again – these are flying stories. <br />
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After reading the report of this woman’s <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/woman-arrested-fight-southwest-airlines-flight-attendant-nail-polish-article-1.1034511">arrest</a> and detention, I can only thank God I emerged from my own civil disobedience with my non-arrest record intact, and not all that long ago. I chalk it all up to good old-fashioned civility. Read on and let me know if you agree. <br />
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This story happened more than ten years ago; well before 9/11. As passengers, we were pretty far from the myriad restrictions and constant high-alert most of us are accustomed to these days. On this particular day, I was one of the first people on the plane for an early morning flight to Chicago, courtesy of my frequent flier status. (Attaining “elite” status earned me “priority seating,” and I could board the plane before many of the other passengers. In other words, frequent fliers get the privilege of spending more time on the plane than non-frequent fliers. This is what airlines consider a reward.) <br />
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So picture this: I’m sitting on a nearly empty plane with nothing but time plus a lowered tray table in front of me. That meant one thing: time to polish my nails. Bear in mind I had done this dozens and dozens of times before in exactly the same situation. I was also well aware of the fact that the aroma of nail polish isn’t entirely pleasant, and could possibly aggravate allergies in some passengers. But because I was usually seated early, patiently waiting for the entire plane to board, I had time to start, finish and recap the bottle well before everyone was seated and the doors were closed. While traveling, I usually opted for a pale pink to minimize obvious strokes or visible mistakes. <br />
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Everything was going as planned. I had finished nine of my fingers when a female flight attendant stopped next to me and said, “You can’t polish your nails on a plane.” I thought she meant I couldn’t do it because of turbulence or some other kind of impediment, so I cheerfully replied, “Oh, it’s no problem. I do it all the time.” But I heard her wrong. She didn’t mean “can’t” because I wasn’t skilled enough. She meant “can’t” because she wouldn’t allow it. She was clearly worked up because she said again, just a bit more (read: much more) forcefully, “You can’t polish your nails on a plane.” Now, as I said, I had done nine. I had one pinky finger left. <br />
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Nope. She would have no part of this anarchy on her watch. I capped the bottle and put it away. Note that not one passenger had complained about this activity. And also that the doors weren’t closed for at least another 15 minutes. I simply complied with her ridiculous rule, but not without registering at least a little annoyance. <br />
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Once I was in the cab in Chicago, I did the last nail. Whatever. <br />
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I am nothing if not resilient. I am not a quitter. And, in the language of the grade school play yard: “She’s not the boss of me.” Which meant that the next time I took an early morning flight – same airline by the way – I again boarded early, dropped down the tray table, and started my touch up ritual with the pale pink polish.<br />
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Oh no – not again. This time, a male flight attendant stopped by my seat and started in on what I anticipated would be “the speech.” I cut him off and said, “You’re not going to tell me I can’t polish my nails on a plane, are you? Because honestly, I’m just about done here.” He seemed surprised at my response, then smiled and said, “No, I was just going to say, ‘Nice shade.’ ” <br />
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I loved him. And this little exchange taught me two things: At least back then, this kind of “no polish” rule was completely arbitrary and random. And that the female flight attendant hated working with the public. Or hated female passengers. Or hated female passengers who used their downtime on a plane to do a little grooming.<br />
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All I know is that no one detained me when I exited the aircraft. No one questioned me or arrested me because I disagreed with the flight attendant and spoke sharply to her. <br />
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I realize times were different in 1997 or 1998. I realize the world has become a scarier place with scarier people, at that’s not even counting everyone outside of Washington. But here’s the thing: can’t we all please just have one moment of sanity, clear-thinking and common sense when it comes to this kind of faux outrage and hysteria over something as ridiculous as this story? Nail polish? She was arrested over using nail polish and having an argument with a flight attendant? Are you kidding? Are you f--king kidding me? <br />
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Everyone needs to just get the hell over themselves. The only person who thinks about you every day, and worries about everything that happens to you, and is concerned that everyone treats you fairly and honestly and kindly and nicely, and will always, always, always see your side of things, and thinks that you are absolutely right in all ways about all things at all times … is you. And possibly your mother. <br />
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But I guarantee you that even the mothers of this flight attendant, the polish-wielding passenger, and the airport security officer would tell each of them to settle down and try being polite for a change. What a concept.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-90886189118664923562012-02-14T16:07:00.001-05:002012-02-15T02:48:19.942-05:00Swimming to Antarctica...and other other thoughts on this Valentine's Day.When Lynne Cox was a little girl on her swim team in New Hampshire, she never wanted to get out of the pool. She wasn’t the fastest on the team and she rarely won races but that didn’t matter: she was always the last to get out of the water. <br />
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In her book, <i>Swimming to Antarctica</i>, she tells the story of one particularly blustery morning. All the other eight-year-olds on the team were complaining loudly and energetically about the cold water, the cool air, the ominous sky and the discomfort they felt in the pool. Their coach, reluctant to give up on the practice entirely, offered them a trade: they could get out and dry off if they spent extra time on calisthenics in the locker room. They took him up on it and scurried inside. Everyone except Lynn. She asked him if she could keep swimming. <br />
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Turns out that her slower strokes, and her naturally buoyant body allowed her to remain at a comfortable temperature in cold water longer than almost anyone else. As each of her teammates would pass her and complete their laps, they’d stop swimming and linger by the side of the pool. Because of their inactivity, and because most didn’t have as much body fat, they would quickly begin to cool down. It wasn’t until one of her coaches recognized Lynne’s ability to withstand the cold and simply endure being in the water longer than most swimmers that she began to understand that her pace and her body type were assets, not liabilities. She drew on her natural gifts to train for the more challenging, longer, colder swims she came to love. Starting at age fifteen, Lynne Cox began a career where she would set and break numerous cold-water swim records. She documents the natural accommodations her body seemed to make to the water temperatures and many of her incredible achievements in her book. <br />
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So what does this have to do with love? In a word: nothing. But in another way, I keep thinking about love and marriage and Lynne and her determination to stay the course. My parents were married nearly fifty-two years before my dad died. Many of their friends have also been or will soon be married fifty years as well. I like to think of them as the long distance swimmers of love, if you will. Maybe all those couples decided, consciously or not some five decades ago, that their marriages would withstand even the coldest of times, because that’s what marriages did. <br />
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Seems to me that staying together is a choice couples make every day, year in and year out, whether they acknowledge it or not. Sure, you may have repeated the “in good times and in bad” pledge with sincere intentions but who ever imagines what “the bad” could possibly be over the next few decades? Some years, it feels so very easy to remain true to that commitment. Some days, it feels very impossible. No one ever tells you that. And even if they do, you think they can't possibly mean it. <br />
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But I’ll bet if someone asked my parents or their friends about "the bad times," they’d say, “Of course it’s hard! You have your good and your bad and that’s your marriage. It’s called being a human being; being imperfect. It's called life. Why would marriage be anything else?”<br />
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And yet, many marriages do break apart. Many of them should. They’re toxic; they’re hurtful and debilitating. The thing us, ending a marriage, even a very harmful one, is a sad time. I’ve never met a couple who were thrilled to divorce. Somewhere inside, even the most hostile partners must somehow mourn the end of their one-time hopeful story of what might have been between them, even when they know it will never be. It’s a loss for everyone around them, too. <br />
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Couples like my parents and their friends, or couples who simply stay the course, through tide and weather, and count on smoother waters ahead understand so much about marriage and partnership and loyalty and “getting through.” Maybe they know exactly what many of us haven’t figured out yet. Maybe it’s this simple: sometimes people choose to stay together because they promised they would. That’s it. Sometimes that’s enough. A strong partnership outlasts the bad times - even the bad years – because all the good they share, especially when it feels like a dim memory, is so very worth it. These champions of long time love never jump out of the pool because of a cool breeze or a cloudy sky. They don't start looking for more comfortable surroundings or another way to keep warm when they begin shivering. <br />
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They just keep swimming.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-3872087881577033362012-02-03T12:50:00.000-05:002012-02-03T12:50:30.023-05:00The shriek du jour is over. Nothing to see here; move along.I think I have this straight now. <br />
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The definition of “giving in to pressure:” Acting in a way that contradicts liberal sensibilities. <br />
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The definition of “doing the right thing:” Acting in a way that supports liberal sensibilities. <br />
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[Before we go further, let me say this: Of course! The right-leaning among us could be painted exactly the same way. Just substitute 'conservative' for 'liberal' and there you have it. Done. This is my point, by the way. But please read on.] <br />
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On one end, we have three decades of service to women fighting breast cancer by the Susan G. Komen Foundation, an organization that raised and distributed nearly $2,000,000,000 (that's BILLION) toward for their cause. Research accomplished, lives saved, treatments developed, families supported, educational materials developed. The list goes on. <br />
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On the other end, we have Foundation cutting $680,000 in funding to Planned Parenthood. <br />
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Let me understand this. Today’s outcome is the greater good? The past two days have shown us a dedicated and vocal attempt by those opposed to the Foundation’s decision regarding their funding choices; attempts that could well destroy 30 years of work and hundreds of millions of dollars in research and support because SKG chose not to support an organization the group supports. That was never stated aloud but let’s be honest: wasn’t that one of the possibilities here? Destroying an organization along with a boycott of the companies who support it? Dissent and debate: yes. All for it. It was certainly their right to do so and as of today, those outraged by SGK have achieved their goal: PP funding has been restored. <br />
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But with the battle won and the "right-wing pressure" (inaugurated by a Republican serving on a government committee who began an investigation about fiscal allocations)defeated, it might be proper to take a moment here, please. There has been a lot of outrage and shrieks of “shame on you” thrown around for the past 48 hours. All directed outward. With a moment’s clarity, perhaps at least a few of the outraged individuals will turn inward for the next 48 or so, and see what all of this has really accomplished. <br />
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Just what we need: more divisiveness. Awesome.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-36135699244043976702012-02-01T22:23:00.001-05:002012-02-02T08:14:57.297-05:00Race for the OutrageI’ve read dozens of Facebook posts of outrage today about the Susan. G. Komen Foundation’s decision to end their affiliation and contributions to Planned Parenthood, because according to their own standards, they will not support nor continue to support an organization undergoing federal investigation. <br />
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The outrage doesn’t surprise me because many people often take whatever opportunity possible to denigrate a political party or group for whom they feel nothing but contempt. In this case, the outrage has been directed toward a conservative politician who requested the records and reports from Planned Parenthood regarding their practices to determine if public funds were improperly spent on abortions, not cancer screenings. <br />
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His investigation has been called “politically motivated.” Well…yeah. He’s a politician. The investigation was apparently encouraged by an anti-abortion group. Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t it have been? Regardless, he is an idiot – what else could he be? He is, after all, a Republican. What does surprise me is this…well, several things to be honest: <br />
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First: Last time I checked, organizations like Planned Parenthood accept donations from private citizens. So by all means, support the non-profit groups of your choice, including Planned Parenthood. I know that’s not quite as easy as buying yogurt with a pink top but writing a check isn’t that hard, either. <br />
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Second: This isn’t a difficult a concept to understand: people who don’t support abortion on demand also don’t support organizations that do, and they really don’t want to see their own tax dollars supporting them, either. I know, I know, I know, I know - they’re all morons who hate women and they need to stay out of my body and they don’t care about any child once it’s out of the womb. And now they want women – especially women who are on the outside of the insured health care model - to be stricken with breast cancer. <br />
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Dear God. Isn’t that all just a little ridiculous??? Regardless of your personal beliefs, isn’t it reasonable to expect we have different points of view and understand that we’ll hold to them dearly? <br />
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Third: No one wants to watch more women suffer from breast cancer. It’s idiotic to twist this Komen decision into that conclusion. <br />
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Fourth: According to <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=146158331">NPR</a>, Planned Parenthood conducted something like 4 million breast exams over the past 5 years, and almost 170,000 of them were funded by the Komen Foundation. That’s about 4.25%. It’s not 0% - I’ll grant you – but can we stop with the hyperbole about how all women who are served by Planned Parenthood are going to be refused screening? If the NPR numbers are correct, 95.75% of them will get breast exams. <br />
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I know. That’s not 100% and women and their families will suffer as a result. But now that we have a hard-fought health care plan, maybe we can have our country’s health care providers cover that other 4.25%. <br />
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Fifth: The accounts I read indicated that the Komen Foundation donated $680,000 to Planned Parenthood last year. (Planned Parenthood lists <a href="http://issuu.com/actionfund/docs/ppfa_financials_2010_122711_web_vf?mode=window&viewMode=doublePage">net assets</a> of $900.3 million and liabilities of $184 million in their 2009-2010 Annual Report.) That means the Foundation contributed .08% to the operating capital of Planned Parenthood. <br />
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As I write this, the signature count on the petition posted by <a href="http://signon.org/sign/susan-g-komen-for-the.fb1?source=s.fb&r_by=2250466">MoveOn.org</a> numbers stands at 19,852. So basically, if everyone who signed it would send Planned Parenthood $34 instead, they’d be covered. And that doesn’t count every other petition out there and the people who signed those as well. In fact, this may turn out to be the biggest fundraiser Planned Parenthood ever had. Now wouldn’t THAT show those right-wing nutjobs!!!!<br />
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My point here isn’t to try to convert anyone from one side of the aisle to another. God knows there is no more pointless task on the planet. But what I’d love to see is an end to this mindless, relentless shrieking about why everyone who doesn’t agree with this set of standards or that type of political persuasion is nothing short of an abomination to mankind, deserving of scorn, ridicule and yes, hatred. <br />
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Enough. Rodney King posed the right question, although I haven’t heard anyone answer him yet.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-24332766021127992932012-01-04T20:43:00.000-05:002012-01-04T20:43:31.210-05:00To have even half the joy and love my Mother had; what a blessing that would be.<i>I shared this at my mother's funeral on Saturday, December 31. An unseasonably warm day to say goodbye to warm woman who will forever claim a corner of my heart.<br />
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After the funeral, several people remarked, "How could you get through that?" Or, "I don't know how you did it." <br />
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My only answer - even now, days later - is "I guess it's because I couldn't not say it. It's my Mom." <br />
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I hope in some small way you feel her joy and kindness in every word. Please hug your Mom tonight, or call her or write a note. If that can never be, just think of her with all the love you can. I'll do the same. <br />
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</i><br />
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You may not know these two things about my Mom: her bathroom closet contains dozens and dozens of bottles of lotion. A kitchen drawer has a plastic bag that holds hundreds of twist-ties. I know both of these facts seem kind of random and unimportant but you never know: she definitely has more than enough for the entire neighborhood to be well prepared for any kind of hand-lotion or twist-tie emergency. <br />
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I share this because it’s exactly what made my Mom laugh. We would come across these kinds of things from time to time and begin to comment about it and I can just hear her: “Don’t make fun!”, or “Go ahead! Make fun!” laughing while she said it, knowing that we loved her all the more for little habits like this. She made us laugh but was always in on the joke at the same time. <br />
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One of the many reasons my Mom was so easy to love was her sense of humor. Beyond her ready smile, her laugh, and her kind disposition, her good-nature meant that she accepted with incredible good-humor the teasing we all dished out to her, especially when we teased her about her household. <br />
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Look around her home for the small testaments to the woman she was and what gave her joy. A small Boyd’s Bear in a Marine Corps uniform stands at attention in her bedroom. Her jewelry box holds six or seven rosaries. Into a framed photo of her and my Dad, she had tucked a few smaller pictures: her engagement photo, my dad at about age 18 and another of them on the 50th anniversary. An entire lifetime on display with just a couple of snapshots.<br />
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But you don’t have to look very hard to see her piano. Having the piano in our home, or hearing my mom play it, even during afternoons of mayhem according to my Aunt Kay, meant her love of music found its way into the lives of each of her children. The only thing my Mom loved more than music: her family and friends. And when she could combine the two – music and people she loved – she was in her glory. She loved playing for us; playing with us, and sharing her music with friends. She adored playing Christmas music and listening to carols; she loved the concerts at the beach house every summer. <br />
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We looked at the piano this past week and noticed the stack of music nearby, about a foot high, made up a few books but mostly of single song sheet music pieces, many of them seventy years old. I like to think about my Mom buying a new song every week and then learning it and playing it for family and friends. When she bought the Marine Corps hymn, I can imagine how excited she was to play it for Dad. <br />
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I looked at that stack of music and thought:<br />
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For every sheet there, she made so many people smile throughout her life. <br />
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For every sheet, she helped scores of people feel welcome and loved in her home. <br />
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For every one, she offered friendship to strangers. Over her decades on Ferry Street, neighbors moved in and found a second mother, or second grandmother when they met my Mom. I guarantee you she hugged them goodbye the first time they met. <br />
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For every song, someone can tell a story about her endless optimism and positive thinking about almost any situation. It was remarkable. How many of us heard this? “I have faith. You’ll see. It will all work out.” <br />
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I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation as a wife or as a mother and she would say, “I have faith in him. And in you. I do. Everything will all be okay.” <br />
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I’m positive many people here today did the same with my Mom for the same reason. <br />
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It’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me daily. You could call this her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, an inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer reasons for good cheer. You could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere. <br />
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Or does it? When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, she broke down quietly with me and said, “I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.” Then she moved onto new doctors and new procedures and what could be. And also filled those two months with concerts and shows and family visits, parties and holidays. <br />
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But it was her time. She did leave us. As Rob said so beautifully on our last afternoon with her, “You’re in your living room, Mom, looking at your beautiful tree and all the lights and decorations you loved. Everyone is with you and we’re all fine. We’re safe, and together and happy. When you’re ready, turn off the lights and go to sleep. We’ll all be okay.” <br />
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Despite the enormous emptiness in our lives, in thousands of ways, she’s here and always will be. In her children and grandchildren, in the family and friends who felt her love and kindness. I’ll feel her in every fall day she used to love. I’ll find her in every concert I attend; in every bit of music that I know would bring her joy. <br />
<br />
If there’s a celestial piano somewhere, I guarantee you God led her to it and sat her in front of the keys. And everyone who was waiting for her looked up with great joy and said, “Marge is here! Let’s start the party.”reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-60033626448219284662011-12-24T18:20:00.000-05:002011-12-24T18:20:31.913-05:00Love you, my Mom. Merry Christmas.I think it’s fair to say that there is some part of me that never quite detached from my mother. That’s not to say I didn’t leave home in my early twenties; marry a few years later, have children of my own and lead a life that included a mostly healthy relationship with her and with my Dad. I did. What I mean by not detaching is that I’ve never lost sight of the fact that no matter what I had weighing me down or causing my anxiety, I could tell my Mom and she would listen. No question. <br />
<br />
I’m positive that over my half century + in her life, I haven’t been all that she hoped for in one way or another. Couple of highlights: The day I told her that my boyfriend and I were quite committed to each other and no, I wasn’t still a virgin – that must have kept her up for many a night, and worn out a rosary along the way. The day I told her I wasn’t going to be married in ‘The Church,’ also not a celebratory moment in her life, I’m sure. Announcements like these distressed her, and she shared that emotion honestly but kindly. But I never felt any coldness or withdrawal from her when I let her down in some way. And after my own twenty-plus years of motherhood, I call that miraculous. Because honest emotion without judgment has to be the hardest thing ever with children, right? Loving them unconditionally sure; but not holding any resentment or sadness or even anger about what they’ve done or not done; about choices they’ve made in their own lives? I know that’s hard for me. <br />
<br />
I can’t count the number of times I’ve sobbed on the phone or in her kitchen, dumping many of my life’s challenges into her always accessible lap. I wasn’t quite looking for answers or advice, although she often offered insight I valued. No, somewhere along the line I’ve discovered that I did it for one reason: To hear her tell me, “It will work out.” The days I would cry about some situation with one or more of my sons and she would say, “I have faith in him. I do. Everything will all be okay.” <br />
<br />
As much as we’d all like to believe in nothing but happy endings, things that trouble me may or may not “work out” as she always claims they will. But it’s her certainty and her faith that inspire me. I feel certainty about almost nothing these days but I am just a little suspicious of anyone who exists in a relative sea of calm. That is; toward anyone – except my Mom. <br />
<br />
If I wanted to take a more cynical approach to her attitude, I could call it her view through “rose-colored glasses” or quite frankly, her inexplicably and relentlessly positive point of view, when almost none of the facts would seem to offer her reasons for good cheer. I could say that choosing to believe in one good scrap of promise when the reality of a situation is telling you something quite the opposite gets you nowhere. <br />
<br />
Or does it? Here’s what I do know – and part of me will always have a girlhood point of view on this, that can’t be helped: She married a complex but loving man with his own personal sadness and demons to fight, and never, ever gave up on the good person he was born to be. She saw the loving man he truly was despite the many aspects of his young life that were a challenge as he grew to adulthood and found his way into the world. During the worst periods of my dad’s alcoholism, she was the one steady, reliable force in our home daily; the parent my sisters and brother and I knew we could rely on for everything, everyday. <br />
<br />
My sister and I talked recently about the response many reasonable, intelligent people would understandably have to discovering and then enduring life with an alcoholic spouse who had yet to reach sobriety. Anger, resentment, fear, withdrawal, bitterness, unfairness, anxiety, sadness, and abandonment come to mind. Add children into the marriage and quadruple all those reactions. <br />
We felt none of them from my mother; a testament to the strong woman she is. I expect she spent many an evening crying to her own mom who, according to the stories I heard, listened but then reminded her of my dad’s many good qualities, of the man my grandmother knew was buried inside him, trapped under decades of abuse of one kind or another. She reminded my mom that her love and support was absolutely required if anything positive was to come about. [After my dad died, I learned only a few of the sad stories about his childhood and young adulthood and knowing only a few is quite enough, thank you.] <br />
…<br />
<br />
I started this post a few days ago and my idea here was this: My Mom read every single word I ever wrote, and cut my columns out of the newspaper for almost ten years, saving them in an album. When the column ended, she lamented her “unwired” condition and as a result, couldn’t read my blog posts or online pieces easily. My goal with this piece was to help her understand how much her life and outlook has influenced me and given me a perspective I know I wouldn’t have had otherwise on many, many things. My plan was to read it to her, or at least print it out and share it that way. <br />
<br />
When she learned of her cancer just two months ago, and the bleak prognosis, she broke down quietly with me and said, “Renee, I’m not ready.” We held each other and I just cried along with her because if I spoke it would have been to say. “I’m not either Mom. Don’t leave me.” <br />
<br />
But because she was who she was, her next thought was, “What’s next? What do we do now?” And she moved on. To new specialists, a new hospitals and the procedures and a surgery that would arrest her condition. <br />
<br />
Except it didn’t. And for the past five days, she has been in an intensive care unit, with no fewer than seven machines doing something for her. The yellow, blue, red, and turquoise lines that march across those screens look not unlike the rollercoaster I’m on inside. <br />
<br />
She’s stable. <br />
She’s slightly, just slightly in the littlest way improved.<br />
We can’t expect much at this point. <br />
She’s very, very sick. <br />
She’s hanging in there.<br />
She’s holding her own.<br />
You need to be patient. <br />
Let her know you’re supporting her.<br />
Be positive. <br />
<br />
We’ve heard these and more like it with all the best intentions from the medical people we talk with every day. All of them are some code for this: God knows. Truly: God knows what will happen here. <br />
<br />
I’m tired of doctors asking me what I want to “do.” I want to talk to my Mom again. I want to hear her voice. I want to look at her, have her look at me – really see me – and smile at her. I want her to be comfortable. I want to tell her just one more time: I love you, and have her hear me. <br />
<br />
I want her to be here. For a little while longer.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-16138822462054366682011-12-17T11:19:00.000-05:002011-12-17T11:19:58.591-05:00Saint Monica would be weeping all over again. And I wouldn't blame her.Let’s start today’s incrankulous thoughts with some context, shall we? <br />
<br />
From <a href="http://www.santamonica.com/visitors/about-santa-monica/history/">Santa Monica.com</a>:<br />
1769: Father Juan Crespi -- a Franciscan in Gaspar de Portola’s expedition party -- inspired by a free-flowing natural spring names the area after Saint Monica, who wept for her wayward son.<br />
“The city of Santa Monica's story began when a Franciscan monk, inspired by the region's natural springs, named the area after Saint Monica. The rest, as they say, is history, and a rich history at that.” Ho Nguyen - Santa Monica Historical Society<br />
<br />
From <a href="http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/10482a.htm">The Catholic Encyclopedia</a> and <a href="http://www.marypages.com/SaintMonica.htm">marypages.com</a>, and I’m absolutely paraphrasing here; the prose the sites offer is much more complete and sober. But this is a blog, after all: <br />
<br />
Turns out, St. Monica (b. 333) was a never-say-die kind of woman. The kind who refused to give up, no matter the circumstances. She and her husband, Patricius, had two sons, Navigius and Augustine, and a daughter, Perpetua. Old Pat, he was a pagan, an explosive man who wasn’t a complete joy let’s just say. Oh, he also despised Christians. As a bonus for Monica, her mother-in-law was not unlike her son in temperament. For thirty years, (that’s three zero) Monica lived with this tyrant/husband, always praying for his conversion. <br />
<br />
Her example and piety finally prevailed. Patricius eventually converted to the faith, then up and died a year later.<br />
<br />
Monica, not unlike other widows, said, “Never again” regarding marriage and moved in with her son Augustine in Italy. Now Augustine, being extremely bright and a young man of a certain age, had abandoned the faith of his youth and “subscribed to Manichaeism.” (Nope, of course I didn't know what that was either. According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, Manichaeism is a religion founded by the Persian Mani in the latter half of the third century. It purported to be the true synthesis of all the religious systems then known, and actually consisted of Zoroastrian Dualism, Babylonian folklore, Buddhist ethics, and some small and superficial additions of Christian elements. The theory of two eternal principles, good and evil is predominant and gives color to the whole. Manichæism is classified as a form of religious Dualism.)<br />
<br />
So there was Monica. Devout, but sadly tormented. First by a husband who treated her like crap for thirty years before he turned over a new leaf, largely as a result of her never losing faith in him and the man he could become. Then by a son who turned to the new age religion of the day while away at school, and eventually moved in with his mistress, disappointing her in a different way. <br />
<br />
Like any mother would, she tried to find help for him. When the Bishop himself intervened but struck out, he basically told Monica, “Sorry, he’s pretty stubborn. You better just keep praying.” More on the record, he encouraged her by saying something like, “It is impossible that the son of so many tears should perish.” Much more poetic, right?<br />
<br />
So she did. She prayed and never gave up, and just seventeen short years later, it paid off. Augustine was baptized at the age of 28, and went on to become a priest. <br />
When Monica died at the age of 56, Augustine had returned to the faith and her daughter had become a nun. (No word on Navigius. He may have been the boring but faithful son who never got headlines.) <br />
<br />
Why this walk down St. Monica lane today? Because of the <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2011/12/atheists-hijack-christmas-nativity-display-in-santa-monica-critics-say.html">story</a> in the news about the atheist group in Santa Monica that has prevailed this year and gained exposure for their philosophy this Winter Solstice Season in Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. Through a city lottery, they earned 18 of the 21 plots available to city groups for seasonal displays. The remaining three spots contain one Jewish display and two Christian ones. <br />
<br />
Truthfully, none of this makes sense to me because it would appear that for at least 45 weeks a year, the Jewish and Christian groups in and around Santa Monica don’t angle for space to display scenes or symbols of their beliefs. The idea of offering space to them at this time of year makes sense to me but I’m not an atheist. In fact, I’m even going to allow that if I were, it might bug me to see enormous displays of something I believed to be fantasy on public display. <br />
<br />
But here’s the part of the story that made me insane. According to Annie Laurie Gaylor, co-president of the Madison Wisconsin based Freedom From Religion Foundation, “[Christmas displays are] littering – literally littering – these spaces…[and are a] territorial attempt by Christians to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Christians are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.”<br />
<br />
Well…yeah. If you’re not a Christian, Christmas decorations and celebrations are irrelevant, and yes, possibly offensive, to you as an observer, although ‘imposing beliefs’ sounds a bit much to me. <br />
<br />
In fact, it’s possible the displays feel not unlike the billboard from atheist.org that feature images of Poseidon, Jesus, and Santa Claus and labels them all as mythical figures. Wouldn't the same standards apply here? One could say “it is a territorial attempt by atheists to impose their beliefs in this season. That creates an atmosphere of intimidation. Atheists are the insiders, and everyone else is an outsider.” The billboard might very well offend Christians, or followers of ancient Greek religion for that matter.<br />
<br />
We could go back and forth all day here so I'll move onto this: The other insane moment in the article I read was courtesy of Santa Monica atheist, Damon Vix. He remarked that the display “defines Santa Monica as a Christian city, and I feel excluded by that.” That’s unfortunate but at least his feelings are confined to the Christmas season. <br />
<br />
Or are they? If he wants to feel excluded 52-weeks a year, I would respectfully direct Mr. Vix to SantaMonica.com, where he can stop on the history page. The city itself welcomes visitors to the site with references to a Franciscan monk and a Christian saint. Maybe the local atheists should leave the Hanukkah display and Christmas tableau alone and contact the city webmaster if they have a problem with the town, its tolerance of religion and its presence in their lives. I think their concerns go back almost 250 years.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-11277806239142831262011-12-14T22:13:00.000-05:002011-12-14T22:13:35.486-05:00I made it. So why do I feel this way?I've been neglectful of my running tally and the ongoing virtual journey to Toronto. The good news is it wasn’t for lack of progress. Quite the opposite. In fact, Thanksgiving Day turned out to be auspicious. <b>It was the day I reached my goal: 450 miles on the record this year, which places me somewhere north of Ontario, Canada. <i></i></b> That means I made it. I did it. With my usual clarity and forethought, I based this whole program on exactly nothing and completed the journey one month earlier than I had planned. <br />
<br />
The numbers look something like this (so far):<br />
Average mileage per month: 42.5<br />
Average mileage per run: just under 3 miles<br />
Average number of days run / month: slightly more than 15<br />
<br />
I found myself looking at the number at the end of November and thinking: well, I can’t stop now, right? I can run about 49 miles in December and hit 500, right? Right? I had logged that many miles (and more) in a month already. I could do it again, this time for the big payoff; the ‘extra’ mileage I never imagined I’d be able to claim. <br />
<br />
Well, I might. But I might not. The month started off slowly and I have another 30 miles to go before the ball drops in Times Square again. Sure, I could do it. Sure I could.<br />
<br />
The good news is I can always fall back on my “go to” movies to make the time pass more comfortably on the treadmill. For the record, these movies make my all-time, top eleven, always watchable, always distracting list. That means I’ll stop on them, knowing them well enough to not need every word; knowing they will engage me to the point where I can disengage from the numbers that are moving way, WAY too slowly on the mileage tracker or the timer, depending on how I’m running that night:<br />
<br />
11 The Hangover<br />
<br />
10 The Break Up <br />
<br />
9 Leap Year<br />
<br />
8 Tropic Thunder<br />
<br />
7 The Muse <br />
<br />
6 Rudy<br />
<br />
5 Wedding Crashers<br />
<br />
4 Along Came Polly<br />
<br />
3 Forgetting Sarah Marshall<br />
<br />
2 The Princess Bride<br />
<br />
1 Groundhog Day<br />
<br />
Three Vince Vaughn and two Jennifer Aniston? Why not – never said I was looking for deep while I run. I can barely manage it when I’m sitting still. <br />
<br />
The thing is: I should be celebrating this accomplishment with a little more enthusiasm than I feel right now, shouldn’t I? Maybe it’s because my right knee is starting to ache a tiny little bit. (It does, really.) Maybe it’s because I wish it all felt more effortless than it did a year ago. (It doesn’t. Really.) I think it may be because I want to feel like a runner and I don’t. I’m not even sure what that means. Or maybe – and this is closer to my typical truth about lots and lots of things in life – actually accomplishing something might just mean it couldn’t have been that hard. More positively stated, I could say that my passion lies in the journey, not in the arrival. <br />
<br />
The support I've felt – from personal friends and blog friends - all year long has inspired me to keep it up; to keep moving; to keep believing this is not at all insane. I can’t explain the kindness of so many, who wanted to help me succeed and meet my goals. Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it but thank you. You were my virtual pace group, keeping me on the road and focused. <br />
<br />
So here I sit, or run, as the case may be, just about 31 miles away from hitting a total of 500 for the year. I have about 15 days to do it but let’s face it: they’re in the second half of December, when I just happen to have a couple of (dozen) other things to do. So I’ll aim for a nice round 475. That’s only six more miles. And then 480. And then, well, who can’t find time for 20 miles? Honestly, who? Me, probably, but you can see where this kind of thinking has gotten me: Just 468 miles from Allentown in eleven short months. <br />
<br />
Who would’ve believed it? Certainly not I.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-24631704009151656962011-11-26T12:05:00.008-05:002011-11-29T07:57:35.779-05:00Kind and generous doesn't do this reunion justice. But it's a start.The only thing more surprising than having a 35th High School reunion – that feels like it can’t be true, but it is – was learning that not only did our class have a “theme song,” apparently we sang it at graduation. No memory of that. Zip. It was the almost inevitable “You’ve Got a Friend,” a title that will always aggravate the English major in me. <br />
<br />
But my legendary, terrible memory skills aside - and they were in full view last night as I said at least a dozen times to various friends, “Sorry, I have no memory of that. Nope, don’t remember that either. What? We did that? We went where? How can you remember that?” - seeing everyone last night was a gift. These friendships, formed so many years ago when we had our entire lives filled with dreams, when we were facing decades of discovery about just who we would become, felt renewed, fresh and alive, even as we’ve all indisputably entered what I’ve heard someone call the youth of old age. Yes, we’re all 50 + but we’re also the ‘kids’ in AARP. <br />
<br />
Seeing someone after thirty-five years: how do you even begin that conversation? First, you get past that nano-second in your brain going, “Name? NAME? <i>NAME!!</i> Oh – got it…Hi!!! How are you? Whew.” (Maybe that was just me because everyone else knew everyone else immediately. See the notes about memory or lack thereof above.) But back to the conversation. Sure, a glass of wine helps, just as it helps with many things in life. And in a way, I felt very humbled and blessed to have many old friends already feel a connection because of my writing over the years. We inevitably caught up on kids, marriage(s), jobs, and life. I loved hearing about the paths we’ve taken, and meeting their partners, who, like my own, played heroic and indefatigable “good sport” roles by patiently meeting dozens of people and then nodding, smiling and saying where they were from or what they did for a living dozens of times as well. <br />
<br />
But what I really wanted to say was something like this: ‘Remember us? Remember when we were 17? Remember what we thought was important or life-altering back then? We’re different now but then again, maybe we’re not…in a good way. Maybe we’re still almost exactly who we used to be in the hundreds of small ways that really matter, and despite everything that’s different about us and who we've become, we can still share a hug and a kiss, a smile, a kind word.’<br />
<br />
I didn’t, of course. <br />
<br />
Seeing old classmates, vibrant, fun, accomplished and caring people, was a moment of restoration for me. These last few months, which have been some of the most challenging in my life, took a back seat to the realization that friendships from our youth may grow hazy but they never quite leave our consciousness. They make up huge parts of the ‘glory days’ Springsteen sings so energetically about in his song. They’re part of us - of who we turned out to be. It’s impossible to know whom we would have become without the people who sat right beside us, everyday in our classes, our clubs, our activities, some of whom we’ve known almost our entire lives. Yes, decades have passed and yes, we’ve long since ‘grown up.’ But some part of us still imagines each other as we were, standing on the brink of our lives; waiting to join the adults and really begin our lives. <br />
<br />
And thirty-five years ago, not one of us could have predicted what that would mean. The intervening years may have seen some of us grow wealthy or fulfilled by a career. They have included heartache and pain as a result of lost marriages, long walks down Green Day's boulevard of broken dreams or challenging circumstances of many kinds. We’ve lost spouses, parents, siblings, and children. We’ve lost some classmates. But for those of us who gathered for the evening, we rediscovered this one true thing: we're here; and we’re all better people for having known each other. I believe that now, maybe more than I ever could have imagined in 1976. <br />
<br />
So like everyone there, I shared my story and listened and just loved the moment. The unassailable fact is that we will always have our history as classmates. We can live six blocks from our childhood homes or across the world, and we’ll always be part of that group of people who formed a little community for that particular moment in time. <br />
<br />
I joined the circle of my classmates, holding hands and singing along with James to close out the evening. But as the song played on, I sang more softly and just looked at the group, thinking: this is one of those images that will linger; the legendary tie that binds. But not a heavy, cumbersome chain; more like a strong silky thread that connects us; loose and flexible but unbreakable. <br />
<br />
I’m not a poet but Natalie Merchant is and the lyrics of <i>Kind and Generous</i> seem more than appropriate here. To the Class of ’76, I thank you for who you were then, who you are now, and for sharing the ride. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5ZjrGdlNDohttp://">Kind and Generous</a><br />
<br />
You've been so kind and generous<br />
I don't know how you keep on giving<br />
For your kindness I'm in debt to you<br />
For your selflessness, my admiration<br />
And for everything you've done <br />
<br />
You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it <br />
<br />
You've been so kind and generous<br />
I don't know how you keep on giving<br />
For your kindness I'm in debt to you<br />
And I never could have come this far without you<br />
So for everything you've done <br />
<br />
You know I'm bound...I'm bound to thank you for it <br />
<br />
I want to thank you for so many gifts you gave with love and tenderness <br />
I want to thank you <br />
<br />
I want to thank you for your generosity<br />
The love and the honesty that you gave me <br />
<br />
I want to thank you; show my gratitude<br />
My love and my respect for you; I want to thank you <br />
<br />
I want to... <br />
Thank youreneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-57793961074698503842011-11-23T10:58:00.000-05:002011-11-23T10:58:42.936-05:00Appropo of nothing: one women's perspective on men.I was looking for an old email and came across this one instead. It started out as an internet note that was passed from person to person for fun - you remember those days; in the time before everyone posted everything that crossed our path or our minds on Facebook or sent tweets every nineteen minutes?<br />
<br />
So without much further ado, and with great affection for the many wonderful men I know and love, while you're feeling properly grateful for those you love, here's a little perspective on why men and women might not ever quite sync up. And why that's mostly funny, not fatal.<br />
<br />
Note: The list is the original email list; my comments on the list are in italics below each item. <br />
<br />
Here are the rules from the male side. Please note: these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!<br />
<br />
# 1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down. <br />
<i>Maybe that's because you'd feel pretty uncomfortable trying to....oh , never mind.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. Sometimes we are not thinking about you. Live with it. <br />
<i>OK, that makes sense. But I guess most of us would like to believe you'd be thinking about us at least twice a year, say - on our birthday or anniversary without us hitting you over the head???? See # 1 below.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. Sunday = sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be. <br />
<i>Fine by me. What day of the week is our day? I forget. </i><br />
<br />
# 1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way. <br />
<i>Except when we're shopping for electronics.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it! We'll get it for you, but just LET US KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!!! <br />
<i>We want men who ignore these rules.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. We don't remember dates. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on the calendar. Remind us frequently beforehand. <br />
<i>We don't remember the last time we put oil in the car, or when your next dentist appointment is, or what time the cable guy is supposed to come, or when the permission slip and field trip money is due, or when the dog needs to go to the vet. I guess we should write it down. Please remind us frequently. </i><br />
<br />
# 1. Most guys own three pairs of shoes. What makes you think we'd be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with your dress? <br />
<i>Just trying to please the one we love. </i><br />
<br />
# 1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question. Please pick one. <br />
<i>Please see the question #1 below about being fat. The answer is NO. Use it please. </i><br />
<br />
# 1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.<br />
<i>And apparently, they're also to help us find something to do on Sundays. </i><br />
<br />
# 1. A headache that lasts for seventeen months is a problem. See a doctor.<br />
<i>A cold is not necessarily life threatening. Take a Tylenol. </i><br />
<br />
# 1. Let us know about that funny noise in your car engine as soon as you hear it. <br />
<i>And put that new roll on as soon as the old one is empty.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. Anything we said six months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days. <br />
<i>Except the wedding vows, right?????</i><br />
<br />
# 1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us act like soap opera guys. <br />
<i>We might if we got the right answer to the next question.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us. We refuse to answer, but still love you.<br />
<i>See above re yes and no questions.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.<br />
<i>We did, too.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.<br />
<i>Got it. It would probably be something like: I'm leaving to go shopping with my girlfriends and talk about our relationship, get some sympathy and celebrate my birthday. And by the way, the car is smoking a little bit every time I hit the brakes and your mom’s birthday is on Tuesday.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we. <br />
<i>Yeah, but he was on his way to India for God's sake!! He ended up somewhere else as I recall.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends.<br />
<i>You don't have to tell me! I live here, remember? Besides, didn’t you just tell me that's what my girlfr….forget it.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what Mauve is. <br />
<i>And we have no idea what "special teams" do and why if they're on every football team on the planet they're so freakin' special to begin with.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.<br />
<i>Except on Sunday, right??</i><br />
<br />
# 1. We are not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you. <br />
<i>How come everybody knows what Lee Corso is thinking?</i> <br />
<br />
# 1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really, you look fine!! <br />
<i>Change "fine" to "beautiful" and you've got a deal.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. NASCAR is as exciting for us as handbags are for you.<br />
<i>Handbags??? Try SHOES.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. I AM in shape. ROUND is a shape<br />
<i>Me too.</i><br />
<br />
# 1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight, but did you know we really don't mind that? It's like camping. <br />
<i>We don't mind, either. We get the remote in the bedroom.</i>reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-35125386192883842372011-11-04T08:24:00.000-04:002011-11-04T08:24:23.776-04:00Just say no, thank you. And send Kim down the street to the next house.An Open Letter to every book publisher on the planet: <br />
<br />
Please, for the love of everything we hold sacred, take a breath. I guarantee you – absolutely guarantee you – that if none of you choose to publish Kim Kardashian’s soon to be shopped around tell-all about her 72 days of wedding hell, you won’t receive nor read even one letter, email, tweet, fax, facebook post, text or voice mail from the book-buying public, demanding that you give poor Kim the platform she needs to tell her story. <br />
<br />
To publishers who have all the money and confidence in the world that book will rack up record-breaking sales, please put the money to better use. Take the advance you were going to pay Ms. Kardashian to bear her wounded soul to the world and donate it to women’s shelters, reforestation efforts or your favorite rehab center. It may do some actual good and reach people or causes that need financial support. <br />
<br />
To the editors who have held meetings since Wednesday about how to approach Kim’s very busy agent and put together the best deal for everyone: please stop right now. Promise yourself that if anyone in your entire building is still talking about Kim and the seemingly inconsequential Kris in two weeks, you’ll make that phone call and begin negotiations. Wait – make that one week. <br />
<br />
To marketing teams who apparently have pictures of endcaps, table displays and book signings that are all but scheduled dancing in their heads, stop being so lazy. Commit to marketing good but unknown writers who have an actual voice and talent. Use all your efforts and good old-fashioned sell-in skills (remember those?) to help them find the readers they deserve. <br />
<br />
I don’t expect this will make one bit of difference to anyone who makes these decisions. Times are hard and easy money is easy money. But what I will never understand is how the same publishing industry that participates in the erudite <a href="http://www.nationalbook.org/aboutus_history.html">National Book Awards </a>annually and nominates mostly obscure, literary writers for lofty awards and virtually dismisses “popular” fiction as too base and tawdry for consideration, could also be the same publishers who compete for a book from the likes of Kim or any number of “famous for being famous” people like her. It makes no sense. Who are you? <br />
<br />
Once again, the genius of Ricky Gervais / Andy Millman on “Extras” rings true. To update his final episode, brilliant observation slightly, I have to agree: “The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it’s called Kim Kardashian or Lindsay Lohan or Snooki or Chaz.” <br />
<br />
God help us, we’re still lining up for tickets. The question is: do we blame the ticket seller or ourselves?reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-72438816705704879342011-10-24T22:13:00.000-04:002011-10-24T22:13:37.011-04:00Why no! You won't be surprised to hear my costume isn't ready.<strike></strike>I just read a study that reports the following:<br />
<br />
<b>Top 5 US Holidays</b> according to a survey of American men and women:<br />
<br />
1. Christmas<br />
2. Thanksgiving<br />
3. Well, let's hold on this one for a moment...<br />
4. Independence Day<br />
5. Easter<br />
<br />
Number Three is the tricky one here; that's where the survey takes a bit of a turn. In fact, depending on who is answering, the list changes from group to group. <br />
<br />
For a few groups (Echo Boomers, age 18 - 34; Generation X, age 35 - 46 and <b>women</b>), HALLOWEEN ranks third. <br />
<br />
For Baby Boomers (47 - 65), Matures (66 +) and <b>men</b>, INDEPENDENCE DAY comes in third. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-4tAWN-U8fGTqE9u037-ArGxgWkjZbygTcodGU-R6Tx8PS_5oRP4Y5bUqOQBMeKsDJyOWSK-M45J1Nav_1H46mtreOEfjk1tBSfLTwuoqd2jRYmCueeSa0skY2gSbqA6KRs/s1600/harris-fave-holiday-groups-oct-2011%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="178" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-4tAWN-U8fGTqE9u037-ArGxgWkjZbygTcodGU-R6Tx8PS_5oRP4Y5bUqOQBMeKsDJyOWSK-M45J1Nav_1H46mtreOEfjk1tBSfLTwuoqd2jRYmCueeSa0skY2gSbqA6KRs/s320/harris-fave-holiday-groups-oct-2011%255B1%255D.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Let's translate, shall we?<br />
<br />
Women are fans of gifts (giving and receiving), food (preparing and eating) and candy + costumes. <br />
<br />
Men appear to be fans of gifts (giving and receiving), food (preparing and eating) and food + fire. <br />
<br />
I guess many women feel this way: if I get to buy and eat candy and dress like a slutty nurse or a witch while I do, well, that works for me. Personally, I can't quite relate because while I am an enormous fan of candy of almost any kind, dressing up for Halloween never did much for me. In fact, regular readers of my now departed newspaper column will remember that every single year, I was always the mother who was stunned year after year when the end of October arrived and it was Halloween again. Not only was I the one who bought the boys' costumes from catalogs, I paid FedEx for overnight delivery. <br />
<br />
Thankfully, they had their dad. He could somehow coordinate three reasonably good costumes for them out of nothing in a matter of hours; I'm not kidding. Give him an old coat, a tennis racquet and a hardhat and he'd turn random accessories into costumes that were somehow pretty good. God knows how he did it. <br />
<br />
Back to the survey: It's not that women don't like celebrating Fourth of July; we do. It's just fifth in a list of five. You'll note it comes in after another religious-with-heavy-candy-overtones-holiday: Easter. <br />
<br />
Number 5 for men? New Year's Eve. <br />
<br />
Personal sidebar: Yet another holiday that never did much for me. Over-rated; too many expectations. When I was younger and single, I either worried about the date I had or the date I didn't have. When I was younger and in love, I appreciated the sure-thing-of-it all. When I married and realized I'd never have to think about New Year's Eve in a certain way again, I was relieved. These days, the holiday arrives and it's become the perfect opportunity for me to brood about the year that has passed and the year to come. <br />
<br />
Many men - not all certainly - may like Thanksgiving and New Year's because of the football games that take place on those holidays. That means food, drink and sports. Some might call it the trifecta of a perfect day. (I wouldn't, but some might.) <br />
<br />
Maybe men also think this on December 31: festive party + drinks = maybe I'll get lucky. With my wife. Maybe. <br />
<br />
You know what women are thinking? Only about six weeks until another national holiday built around candy.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-46296120618196958462011-10-09T19:19:00.001-04:002011-10-09T20:56:05.859-04:00G'night everybody! Tip your waiters and waitresses!!!Sometimes it takes one comment from one reader to remind me that it’s not all a drag. That not everything is as bleak as I might imagine it is, and that’s on my good days. Thank you, c.c.! <br />
<br />
Coincidentally, I just finished a book called <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/heidegger-and-a-hippo-walk-through-those-pearly-gates-thomas-cathcart/1102082344">Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates</a>, by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein. Now, before everyone gets worked up, I fully admit I’m not nearly smart enough to understand at least two-thirds of this book but in terms of philosophy, debating philosophers and trying to figure out why we’re on this planet, it’s about as close as I’ll ever get. <br />
<br />
And in that spirit, I share the following with you. Made me smile and once again, reminded me that a little perspective and a good dose of humor can really help smooth out a path that feels a little rocky these days. Enjoy. <br />
<br />
<b>So Heidegger and a hippo stroll up to the Pearly Gates and St. Peter says, “Listen, we’ve only got room for one more today. So whoever of the two of you gives me the best answer to the question, ‘what is the meaning of life,’ gets to come in.”<br />
And Heidegger says, “To think Being itself explicitly requires disregarding Being to the extent that it is only grounded and interpreted in terms of beings and for beings as their ground, as in all metaphyics.”<br />
<br />
But before the hippo can grunt one word, Saint Peter says to him, “Today’s your lucky day, Hippy!”</b>reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22113198.post-251682839842811942011-10-03T07:08:00.004-04:002011-10-03T08:04:48.793-04:00Grimsby Ontario feels anything but grim.I made it I made it I made it I made it. On screen anyway. <br />
<br />
I've "arrived" in Canada and am now near a town called Grimsby, Ontario. As of September 30, I'm in pretty good shape to complete my virtual run from Pennsylvania to Canada, which may put me significantly ahead of my goal of running 450 miles this year. If I keep up my pace, I'll complete about 500 miles for the year. In fact, September was my best month ever. I ran about fifty miles, and on several days ran longer distances than I had run previously. <br />
<br />
For those who need the numbers (AKA Capricorns):<br />
375 down<br />
75 more to go<br />
3 months to do it...<br />
which means...<br />
25 miles a month<br />
or about 6.25 miles a week<br />
or about 1.5 miles / run, 4 times a week<br />
<br />
Since my monthly goal at the outset was 37.5 miles, you can see where I may, in fact, overshoot Toronto. <br />
<br />
No, I have no explanation for that. <br />
<br />
No, I would have never anticipated that come the beginning of October, I would still find myself on track to reach my goal. The fact is I can’t quite believe I’ve been running every week for about a year and half now. <br />
<br />
As I think about this, it occurs to me that I can’t remember the last long term commitment I made to anything. That’s kind of troubling. I’ve made plenty of false starts and plenty of resolutions about doing something differently, trying something new, or even believing in something more fervently than I ever had before. All resolutions that meant something to me and flickered brightly for a short time and then burned out. <br />
<br />
So what's that about? When I find myself in this kind of mood I think about the speech Andy Millman (the character Ricky Gervais brilliantly embodied in his show, <i><a href="http://screenagers.me/2010/07/14/youtube-amazing-scene-from-extras-christmas-special/">Extras</a></i>) gave when he described his lack of initiative or dedication on camera: <i>“I would have loved to have been a doctor. Too hard. Didn’t want to put the work in. I’d have loved to have been a war hero. I’m too scared. So I go [referring to his career as an entertainer]: ‘Oh, it’s what I do.’ ”</i><br />
<br />
I’m not saying I wanted a medical or military career and that I am sorely disappointed in myself. It’s more about the frustration I often feel about trying to be ...hmmmm...more than I really am? Or maybe a better version of myself? In my head, I’m always open to new ideas and new experiences; open to the ways I can explore what's possible and where that might take me. But in reality: not so much. <br />
<br />
I'm going to stick with my "professional" life for now and list a couple of the plans I make in my head regularly to give you a sense of my immobility. <br />
<br />
Today is always the day I’m going to register that amazing domain name for the website I thought about starting something like nine years ago. Which means that by now it should probably be an app, not a website. Which would mean so much more to me if I ever used any apps. <br />
<br />
It’s the day I’m going to begin writing the business plan for the Shoe-of-the-Month Club (and idea I had circa 1995) that it's now too late to do: Kim or Khloe or some other Kardashian attached her name to the idea already and it's up and running. <br />
<br />
It’s the week I’m going to start submitting weekly columns to the websites who have published my work. (Immediately following this resolution, while staring at a blank screen, I begin to wonder how in the world I wrote and submitted weekly newspaper columns for something like eight or nine years.) <br />
<br />
It’s the week I’m going to find a new agent and figure out how to refresh the well-received but unpublished book that sits on top of the trunk in my bedroom. (Summary of every rejection letter my now retired agent shared with me: "Love this!! Love the writing, love the voice. Who is she?? Does she have a show on NPR, CNN, MSNBC, a national column, a reality show appearance or a syndicated deal??") Note to self: find a place for that manuscript and put it away. <br />
<br />
Oh wait, no, it’s the day I’m going to figure out that “i-universe” thing and self-publish the book.<br />
<br />
And one more, semi-professionally related:<br />
It’s the day I’m absolutely going to call my old therapist and beg him to see me. (Luckily, this would be an easy appointment for him. As you’ve already no doubt concluded, not much has changed since the last time we spoke.) <br />
<br />
I’m ignoring the list of the day-to-day projects large and small I seem to think I’ll begin any minute now, but don’t. In reality, describing myself as someone who is ‘risk averse’ is like calling Tiger Woods someone who flirts a lot. The positive spin is to imagine that I’m basically “content.” Another word that springs to mind: lazy. And yet another: fearful. God knows. <br />
<br />
I envy – okay, I admit it – I envy the energy and activity I see so many people exhibiting in so many parts of their lives. Friends who are discovering their Act 2, or even Act 3 in some cases; trying something kind of scary but rewarding. They believe in something I would quietly see as “impossible” and then they make it possible, and positive. <br />
<br />
How does everyone else do this? How do you ignore the small but relentless voice inside that says with enormous conviction, "You can't do this," without succumbing to the b-s voice that cheers and screams, "You're awesome! You can do anything you want!!!" Is there a middle ground, where realism meets creativity? <br />
<br />
Maybe all of this reinvention and resolve to drive ourselves to the next level of success is a technology-driven phenomenon. As I've said before, we're way beyond Thoreau at this point: we're living lives of strident desperation. We seem to want to be seen, heard, and adored by everyone. Our parents seemed to live satisfying lives. They were mostly content to be the co-stars of their own stories; to be part of an ensemble cast in the local theater company. These days, many of us want to be the star on a worldwide tour. <br />
<br />
As Andy Millman put it, "The Victorian freak show never went away. But now it's called Big Brother or American Idol...." This may be one of those "careful what you wish for" moments. <br />
<br />
All this to say, my partial paralysis in so many parts of my life is probably the only reason I’ve refused to give up on my annual resolution. I've stated my intentions and am determined to see it through. Given my history, it’s a minor miracle that I actually started the run and it's even more astounding that I’m still on it. I’m proud of my tenacity. I’m almost to the point where even I believe I’m going to make it and feel proud of taking on the challenge and meeting it. <br />
<br />
Now I just need to figure out how to translate that into the rest of my life, without entering the freak show.reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11045339757296785832noreply@blogger.com2