tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86163691251867829962024-03-13T05:44:00.250-07:00...starts with one...Posts from November 2013-November 2014 are part of The Manzanita Project, a joint effort of Kevin Wiseman and me. Each week, I write a post and he draws a sketch (unrelated). We're trying our hand at co-creation.La Grandotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246478090183573331noreply@blogger.comBlogger431125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-78243435393544823432014-09-01T22:12:00.004-07:002014-09-02T23:16:30.161-07:00Who Knew a Bedtime Story Could F%@k You Up?<b>My 4 1/2 year old son started school last week. He is in Transitional Kindergarten (TK) which is a year of publicly funded Pre-K offered at public schools for children who will turn 5 during the school year. Though it's not even quite kindergarten yet, I consider this the official start of school seeing as he has to be there every day, will be doing everything in a classroom environment on a public school campus, and will attend an after school program at least a few days per week.</b><br>
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<b>I'd known the day was coming for at least 3 years, but ramping up to it in the weeks preceding still filled me with emotion--equal parts anxiety and pride (which pretty much describes the make up of my emotional state during <i>every</i> transition my child works his way through).</b><br>
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<b>The first time I teared up was when I put his TMNT backpack in the shopping cart at Target. I stopped to take a picture of the moment and send it to my mom. When it came to crying at the realization that your baby is growing up, I knew she'd understand.</b><br>
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<b>Then I was fine until the morning of his first day. I lay his first day of school outfit on his bed just before I roused him and teared at the thought: the day has arrived.</b><br>
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<b>Then I teared up again as I held his hand and we approached the school. Seeing all the other parents there arriving with their own children finally drove the point home.</b><br>
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<b>But while these were all moments of excitement and a little bit of sadness, I worked through them pretty easily. Things were moving quickly. You can't just stand there and cry in front of a room full of 4-year-olds who look terrified as it is. You suck it up and move on. Anyway there was work and the everyday moving forward of life to contend with. These emotional moments were fleeting.</b><br>
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<b>What I didn't realize, however, was that something was continuing to brew throughout. And what shocked the hell of me was that it would take a children's picture book to bring it to the surface.</b><br>
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<b>After I picked my son up from school that first day we stopped by the library. Nothing special about that; we do it all the time. While I quickly preview books before we choose them (making sure they're not too long or too short or have shitty illustrations that would irritate me), I never read them through. It's a surprise every time when we get to them in the evenings and I learn what the actual story line is.</b><br>
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<b>So I wasn't prepared for the dark horse that lie within <u>Imagine Harry</u>, a book my son chose and which I hadn't even remembered making into our library bag. It was Wednesday evening, three days into the School Experiment when it made it into the rotation.</b><br>
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<b><u>Imagine Harry</u> seems innocuous enough. Indeed it <i>starts</i> innocuously enough. Little Rabbit has an imaginary friend named Harry with whom he goes everywhere and does everything. Nothing crazy. Neither my son nor I were identifying much with it. Neither of us have ever had an imaginary friend. For the first 2/3 of the book it was simply another tale told with accompanying illustrations.</b><br>
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<b>And then this...</b><br>
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<b>Little Rabbit starts school. Things are changing in his house and in his relationship with the imaginary Harry.</b><br>
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<b>After Little Rabbit has been in school for a while, Harry begins to hang back in the classroom when the kids go out to recess. Harry insists he doesn't need a snack. His needs are diminishing. He begins to fade into the background. (Dear Lord I am tearing up as I type this!!!)</b><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">And then one day, during a particularly fun music class,<br>Harry whispered softly in Little Rabbit's ear, <br>"I'm tired. I think I'll go take a nap."<br>"Okay Harry," Little Rabbit whispered back. "See you later."</span></b></td></tr>
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<b>It was when I read the above page that I started losing it. Oof. Harry begins to understand that Little Rabbit doesn't need him so much anymore. Little Rabbit barely blinks when Harry, who seemed so crucial to him before, begins to distance himself.</b></div>
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<b>Earlier that afternoon I had picked my son up from his after school program. I was so excited to see him and concerned about how he'd been fairing in his new environment with new kids. I was practically frantic by the time I made it into the classroom.</b></div>
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<b>There he was, zooming around the room with a Candyland game piece in hand, alongside a child about three years his senior. They were laughing and doing voices and I swear if I hadn't finally tapped him on the shoulder he may have carried on for hours without even noticing me. Even when I did so, he merely looked up and said "hi," then continued on his merry way.</b></div>
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<b>Whoah.</b></div>
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<b>This was a big change from the kid who three days previous was still clinging alternately to his dad and me as his TK teacher instructed the children to sit down on the carpet. With a forlorn look on his face he'd taken in the surroundings in a state of semi-annoyed mistrust.</b></div>
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<b>What had happened in those three days?!</b></div>
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<b>These two pages followed:</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">Shortly after the first snowfall, Little Rabbit was invited to an ice-skating party.</span></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">When he returned home, Little Rabbit told his mother all about it.<br>"It sounds like a wonderful party," Mother Rabbit said. "Did Harry have a good time too?"<br>Little Rabbit was startled to realize that he hadn't seen Harry in weeks.</span></b></td></tr>
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<b>Holy shit. This was no joke. Through tears, I kept reading.</b><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">"Harry moved away, "Little Rabbit said. "He's got his own house now."<br>"Oh," said Mother Rabbit, "He's certainly welcome to visit anytime."</span></b></td></tr>
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<b>I couldn't make it through this page smoothly. I had to stop, words stuck in my throat.</b><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: x-small;">But Harry never came back to visit the Rabbits.<br>Sometimes at dinner, Little Rabbit and Mother Rabbit talked about him.<br>"Harry doesn't have a phone at his new house," Little Rabbit said.<br>"And he never learned how to read or write. So I guess we won't be hearing from Harry anymore."</span></b></td></tr>
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<b>This one did me in. I couldn't pretend I wasn't crying anymore, and then I was alternating between crying and <i>laughing</i>. Crying because of course I was relating to this story on a metaphorical level and it perfectly symbolized the feelings I'd been having about my baby growing up and becoming more independent...feelings that had been building all week and were now coming to a head. <i>Laughing </i>because I knew it must have seemed strange to my son that, from his perspective, I was ALL KINDS OF BROKEN UP about Little Rabbit's *imaginary* friend Harry moving away, a plot development that hadn't piqued his emotions in the slightest.</b><br>
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<b>He just lie by my side, unsure how to react, wanting to laugh with me or cry with me but realizing he didn't really get why I was doing either. That quiet waiting on his part was making me laugh as well. And so there I am hysterical in both senses of the word, trying to gain composure when he, with his barely-becoming-apparent comedic timing, chimes in with, "<i>awk</i>waaaaaaaard."</b><br>
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<b>And of course that made me laugh even more.</b><br>
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<b>I kissed his little forehead and, having finally made it through, sang him his bedtime song, snuggled in a for a few minutes, then left him already fallen into the hard, super zonkout sleep that has characterized his first week at school.</b><br>
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<b>Then I retired to the living room.</b><br>
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<b>"This book fucked me UP," I said to my boyfriend, eyes puffy and red, I'm sure. Even in just trying to tell him about it, I was crying again. Then I was <u>crying</u>. Uncontrollable sobs like I haven't cried in years. And then laughing again because I know very well how ridiculous it is to be crying over this book.</b><br>
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<b>But of course it's not about the book. And being a parent himself, my boyfriend recognized this. And so he sat with me and comforted me through the cathartic moment that I suppose just had to happen, however it was going to be brought on.</b><br>
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<b>I'm curious all the time about how things get processed in my young son's mind. I wonder how he sorts all the events he's observing and makes sense of them. The Harry Incident, as I will forever forward refer to it, may be a difficult one for him to grasp. He knows his mom has never gone all whack over a bedtime book before. And a similar book-related incident won't likely repeat itself anytime soon.</b><br>
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<b>Maybe one day he'll come across <u>Imagine Harry</u> again--one day when he is older, maybe a father himself--and he will understand. For the meantime, maybe on one level he'll know it had something to do with love: bold and undulating and sometimes achy but always-and-everywhere-present love, which is of course the best kind of all, and which is worth every tearful moment it may bring about.</b><br>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #bf9000;">Kevin's Sketch</span></b></h3>
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<b>A quickie...</b></div>
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<b>Bron Aur Sleep.</b></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-7510776263177761602014-08-14T10:11:00.000-07:002014-08-19T09:26:15.143-07:00Weighing in on Body Image<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Last night I wrote a half-joking status update about doing "emergency crunches and lunges" in advance of a weekend trip to the lake. I say half-joking because I was, indeed, doing the crunches and lunges, but I knew they would of course have no observable impact on my bikini appearance two days later.</b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My friend responded with "throw in a few emergency self acceptance exercises too." I dug what she was saying. And I liked that she wasn't saying "instead of" but rather "along with."</b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Finding the equilibrium between accepting one's self (in this case, one's body) as-is and doing what one can do to improve and feel better...it seems to be one of the most pervasive conundrums women face. Sometimes we see a fit body and think 'I would like very much to look like that...I'm gonna step it up at the gym, maybe add in some of that giant rope shit,' and sometimes it's 'fuggit, I'ma eat these BBQ Lays (like, the *whole* bag).'</b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Sidenote: Yes, I know men face this conundrum as well; I will be writing about women because 1) I am a woman and 2) I've had dozens of conversations with women on this topic and very few with men.</i></b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>As I get older, I'm starting to realize that the balance, for me, comes from responding not as much to how I look but to how I feel. Sometimes how I feel is related to how I look, but mostly it's related to what I know I have or haven't done to be good to my body and the extent to which I'm enjoying life as a result.</b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>While I agree that it's important to seek out the positive and to accept one's self, I don't think this should stand in as a substitute for actual health.</b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>When I've felt the worst about my body, it was because I wasn't eating well or I'd fallen into a state of inertia. What's to feel good about in that case?</b></span><b> Sometimes the feeling was exacerbated by the fact that unhealthy behaviors often have observable consequences (i.e. muffin top). Trying on clothes and discovering we've graduated up a size or two is not as thrilling as it was when we were kids; I will THROW DOWN with anybody who tries to claim the contrary.</b><br>
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<b>But physical appearance isn't everything, either. When I'd gained 30 pounds during pregnancy and had power cankles, I actually felt pretty healthy because I was exercising regularly and eating healthy foods (healthier than I did when I wasn't pregnant...tiny humans growing inside can be incredibly motivating!). Our bodies know the difference between healthy and unhealthy, regardless of our size.</b><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>For me a good litmus test is also the question of whether or not I feel sexy. I like to feel sexy (I mean, who doesn't?), and while feeling sexy can have a lot to do with self-esteem in general and the state of one's mind, both of those things are often affected by the knowledge of how kindly a person is treating her body.</b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Women are quick to lambaste men who report not feeling attracted to their wives because their wives have "let themselves go." Fine. It's okay to be outraged about that. But I personally don't feel as excited to get down when I'm feeling like a blob. I think a lot of partners pick up on this mental block that occurs for women when they're not feeling healthy. A woman who <i>feels</i> sexy <i>is</i> sexy. She is comfortable in her skin, magnetic. Rather than simply expecting our spouses to suddenly become attracted to blobs (meaning women who feel like blobs), why not also do what we can to get ourselves out of the blob-like state of mind?</b></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>(Disclaimer...not all spouses. Not all spouses pick up on women's state of mind and respond accordingly. Some just really <u>will not</u> be attracted to a woman who's gained 15 pounds. These partners will have a hard time in life, as will their wives. This is unfortunate.)</b></span><br>
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<b>Finally, for me, becoming a mother has motivated me to strive for the balance I mentioned earlier because I don't want my body image issues to keep me from taking my kids to do fun things, namely things involving water and bathing suits. I was the girl sitting by the pool fully clothed for a full decade of my life (20-30...I should have been flashing strangers at pool parties in Vegas!). </b><br>
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<b>My gym/exercise routines are sporadic, at best. My weight stays within a 5-pound range, but sometimes that extra 5 pounds can feel like a deeeeeply unhealthy 5 pounds. Time to rein it in, get things bank inline, feel better as a result.</b></div>
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<b>And then, there IS this part: There are times when I just have to go with the self-talk and say, 'No, I don't look exactly like I want to look, but I'm not gonna be a hermit about it in the meantime. I am not hideous. My cellulite does not define me. I will own what I've got and, most importantly, HAVE FUN. Just go out there and LIVE, and shake my booty if it makes my young son laugh and let my boyfriend grab my love handles (or <i>lonjas</i>, the Spanish slang I've taught him and which he uses with much affection) and know that it's the laughter and the memories that we are forming that are what is important. SHAME on me if I let it be about my lack of perfection.</b></div>
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<b>And then...yes, be healthy, as healthy as you need to be in order to <i>feel </i>healthy...and keep on keepin' on...</b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-14270682870848505752014-08-11T00:47:00.000-07:002014-08-11T00:47:36.154-07:00On Inviting in Challenge...<div>
<b>Today I watched in abject horror as a little hourglass--meant to depict some kind of behind-the-scenes action--ticked off moments on my computer screen at an agonizingly slow pace. My mouth had been dry for at least 45 minutes at that point, my heart racing with impatience and fear.</b></div>
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<b>I'd just finished taking the 2nd in a series of 3 banking-related exams I'd been in the throes of studying for during the previous 4 1/2 weeks, and I was awaiting my score. It couldn't have been more than 10 seconds (was likely only 5), but it was the <i>longest</i> 10 (5) seconds.</b></div>
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<b>When the result came up, (PASS--yay!), I stared motionless for a spell before finally releasing the breath I'd been holding for longer than what is probably healthy.</b></div>
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<b>Comfort did not arrive quickly. I filled out the optional survey about the testing center just to get my sea legs before standing up. I texted my honey and my boss and then emailed my licensing coordinator to report the news. Then I drove to the nearest beach (which, luckily, was about 7 minutes away) to decompress.</b></div>
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<b>As you may have imagined based on the high drama of my description, a lot was at stake. I'd already been out of my branch for over a month. Failing would mean more time away, the loss of the bonus I'll receive only if I pass all three tests the first time, the added drain on my company's/branch's resources (which actually matters to me), and, most of all, the disappointment I'd feel at having failed. I'd be wondering where I went wrong, wishing I could have a do-over, worried I wouldn't be able to pass the next time either.</b></div>
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<b>Passing was as much about feeling relieved as it was about feeling a sense of accomplishment. </b></div>
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<b>Possibly more. This was not exactly a personal goal I set for myself and then achieved. It was a sink or swim kind of thing: Do this or you'll be looking for another job at some point.</b></div>
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<b>It was a challenge, but not the warm and fuzzy rewards kind of challenge.</b></div>
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<b>It did, however, get me thinking about challenges in general, and about setting personal goals in the first place. I didn't used to do it at all. Any goals I managed to accomplish were sort of pre-formed for me by virtue of the fact that I was a student or held a job. I put forth my best effort in those areas and was pleased when the outcomes were favorable. Until I was about 1/3 of the way through <a href="http://www.monkeygal2.blogspot.com/2010/12/gga-project-day-1.html" target="_blank">my year-long GGA blogging project</a> a few years back, I truly wondered whether I was even capable of seeing a personal goal through to the end. What a sad thought; I was already 32 years old!</b></div>
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<b>I now know I'm capable, but I haven't done a lot with that knowledge. These recent exams made me realize I missed the feeling of achieving something difficult. The exams were akin to the sort of challenge I'd have faced in school--just thrown down there for me, do it or don't. But the experience made me long for the greater-reward, more meaningful sense of accomplishment I know I feel if, unrelated to anything already expected of me, I decide to put myself up to the task of achieving something difficult.</b></div>
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<b>What was stopping me?</b></div>
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<b>Well, that's easy. It is just so, soooooo much more comfortable to humdrum along and pretend there is nothing more satisfying to be done in this world than to successfully feed a family and get children tucked in for the night. Like having just finished folding the last load of laundry were an orgasmic experience and walking away from day #119 of the 265 days I will spend at work this year were an alarmingly triumphant accomplishment.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>No.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>This is called getting by. This is maintaining.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Do you realize that while I sit here thinking and writing about how little I challenge myself to do, people are forming foundations, launching innovative products and ideas, overthrowing asshole governments, designing and perfecting and administering and truly stretching the limits of their known skills and abilities? They are running ridiculously long races and researching the shit out of shady goings-on to keep the rest of us informed. They are adopting children with special needs and writing entire albums of songs, working 2 and 3 jobs and figuring out new ways to put together and cook ingredients, rendering the mundane act of nourishing our bodies an unforgettable, transcendent experience.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>They are. They are doing those things and so many other things that to simply think about makes me feel tired.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>So maybe I don't need to change the world in a sweeping gesture next week. But I need to remember this feeling. This feeling, in words, translates this way:</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>There are things I can do if I try. I will likely not be able to do all the things I try to do. If I <i>were</i> able to, the things I was trying to do weren't interesting or challenging enough. They were not pushing my limits or causing me to grow. But <i>all</i> the things I dare myself to do will leave me knowing more on the other end than I did before. They will stretch my experience and grow my knowledge, if even just a little bit and even if (especially if?) I fail at them.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>They will all be worth more than 100 days spent doing what I know is easy and predictable and comfortable.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>So then...what's next?</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<h3>
<b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Kevin's Sketch(es)</span></b></h3>
<div>
<b>Speaking of challenges! Tonight we did a 30-minute Manzanita challenge...I was finishing up my blog and Kevin did these two sketches in that time. Can you guess which one he did with his eyes closed?</b></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-10228512802385812822014-07-31T07:17:00.001-07:002014-07-31T14:38:50.315-07:00What is the Danger in Loving Too Much?<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Yesterday, when I dropped my young son off at preschool, he immediately walked up to another boy in his class and said, "Neel, I like your shirt." His voice inflection went up on the word "shirt," cheerful and excited.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Neel did nothing by way of response. He blinked and then followed the teacher's just-issued directive to sit on the carpet for a story. My son did the same.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Just before I walked out, I turned back to see my son talking to his friend, smiling like he always does. I couldn't help but feel a little sense of worry, a protectiveness. I wondered if the kids in his class smile at him the way he smiles at them. I wondered if they return his kindness and his giving </b></span><br>
<b style="font-family: inherit;">nature.</b><br>
<b style="font-family: inherit;"><br></b>
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<br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I recognized in him my same propensity to love, big and vulnerable.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="http://www.anthemexposition.com/2012/04/series-and-if-it-takes-two-year-old-to.html" target="_blank">I've written before</a> about being protective of my son's feelings. This is something every parent experiences and must learn to manage. We wish we could shelter them from pain. We know we can't. We attempt to bridge the resulting gap.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It was two years ago when I last visited the topic, and though my son's sweetness was apparent by then, I didn't know just how big a part of his personality being kind and supportive and loving would be. He is a shirt-off-his-back kind of person.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I wish I could claim some sort of credit for his generosity, but I know I can't. This sort of thing is either in one's nature or it isn't.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Last night I watched him sleeping, spent from a day of playing at preschool and again later with his grandma. I swept the sweaty hair off his face and thought about the name his father and I gave him. His name means "friend," and it's a name we gave him very much on purpose. Last night I thought about how thoroughly he lives up to that name, and how I hoped he will have a life full of friendships with people who show him the same goodwill he so naturally extends to others. I have never once seen him do or say something unkind to another child. I've seen him endure plenty of rejections and acts of thoughtless cruelty of the kind only kids--genuinely unaware of the effects of their actions--are so free with; he always responds with more kindness, more openness, makes attempts to understand. </b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I thought about his future relationships, wondering if he will fall into an often-painful pattern of being the one who loves more, who gives in, the extender of unanswered good faith, the forgiver...the sucker.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I thought about something I'd read the day before--one of those "words of wisdom from a woman married 70+ years" kind of articles often posted and re-posted on Facebook. What struck me were these words: "Don't be afraid to be the one who loves the most."</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I knew what she meant.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>There was a time in my life when I'd come to the conclusion that the world was divided into those meant to love, and those meant to receive love. Most people do both, but some people seem more comfortable doing one or the other. I'd been in a number of relationships wherein I felt like the giver of love. While at times I wished I could sit back and merely receive, giving little in return, I knew this was not in my nature. It's possible I could overcome that nature, but I knew in my heart I didn't really want to. I was and would always be a lover.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Now I understand that not all relationships have this unequal balance. It's possible to be in a relationship where both parties give freely of themselves, allowing each to accept the other's love wholeheartedly. These relationships aren't operating under the mistaken idea that to give love is to lose power. They are aware of the exponential power <i>created</i> by a cyclical, swirling exchange. In such a relationship, fear doesn't even factor in--fear of losing the other, fear of losing the upper hand, fear of putting one's self too far out on the limb. There is just the knowledge that loving feels better than withholding love, and there is the joy at having found another person who sees things the same way.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Having arrived at this place in my life feels nice...I am at peace. But apart from being in an equal-exchange-of-love relationship, I have the sincere belief, now, that it is impossible to love too much or too completely, regardless of what one receives in return. If my heart is full of love, there is nothing to be gained by anyone involved if I decide to keep it to myself. It's not a limited resource. We feel love; we give it away; we make more...and again, and again.</b></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br></b></span>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">So in that light, I look back at my son and think that I need not worry about his tender heart</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">. My baby's heart is so strong that it can give of itself all the time, as much as he wants, without its foundation ever growing weaker. In fact it is </span>strengthened. Every time he reaches out to another person with a "hi" or gives a gift or flashes his smile, or says some encouraging words to a child who's trying to make something happen, he is adding to the body of goodness in the world. It doesn't matter whether others respond in kind. If he was born to give love, withholding it would be a painful and pointless endeavor. If, in the course of his life, he should happen to find others who return it and give of themselves freely as well, so much the better.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>There are so many things we parents worry about and traits we see in our kids that preoccupy our minds. Worrying that my son will love too much should be least among them.</b><br>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-89401858429500462492014-07-18T23:12:00.001-07:002014-07-18T23:12:06.205-07:00Thirty-Something Woman Seeks Single Floor with a Good Beat for Dance and...Dance<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Some people love to dance. Some people would love nothing more than to be eternally excluded from any invitation/expectation to dance.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I fall into the former category.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>This hasn't been a my-whole-life thing. Yes, I begged to be signed up for ballet classes (an endeavor that lasted a total of probably 6 months, max). I also begged to be signed up for jazz dance classes at Freddie Finn Studio when I was in middle school, but that was mostly because of the awesome jacket the studio issued its students (at what I imagine was a hefty price), not because I had any particular talent in the dance arena. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>In reality, for 2/3 of my life, the idea of dancing in public was terrifying. I was a shy kid and most definitely not into performing. But extending beyond my lack of desire to entertain, I was loathe to do ANYthing that would attract attention to myself, even positive attention. As I got older, I lamented the fact that finding rocks large enough to crawl under and disappear proved an ever more difficult desire to fulfill.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>But something magical happened on a crowded, dim lit basement dance floor in Cleveland, Ohio (of all places). It was there my then-coworkers from Mexico and Peru introduced me to Salsa, Cumbia, and Merengue music. It was there a couple of brave men, undeterred by my impossible tallness and spastic lack of comfort in my own skin, first showed me that dance could be a wonderful, wonderful thing.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Here's the thing I've maintained about dance ever since: Dance teachers should never, ever try to introduce students to a style of dance without first treating them to extensive exposure to the music of that dance.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Somebody could have talked to me all day about the steps associated with the dances (Step step step...pause...step step step) and drawn highly illustrative diagrams. They could have shown me countless YouTube tutorials and walked me through a hundred power point slides. But nothing made me understand the rhythms and the feel of those dances like standing in the midst of a sweaty, writhing dance floor entirely peopled with lovers, knowers of the music itself. Closing one's eyes to absorb a moment like that is highly advisable for the sinking-in, deep down staying power effect it has.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>That is how and where I first came to make nice with dancing.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And I was comfortable with those Latin rhythms and the fixed nature of the dances' basic steps. I could master those and then, once in a while--with a seasoned and talented lead--be turned and twirled and whatever other level-up moves I may be able to not distaster-ize.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>But what, then, to do about freestyle dance on club dance floors? What about the dreaded wedding reception dance floor?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>These were places unfamiliar and/or uncomfortable. These were places where people were watching and evaluating. These were places where you may need to develop actual moves. Moves?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Moves, I could not boast.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I still felt like an awkward wallflower in these settings. I felt a-rhythmic and reluctant. But more than anything I felt a return-to-roots sense of shyness.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Maybe it was alcohol that stepped in a couple of times to help alleviate that feeling, initially. (Liquid courage isn't only good for greasing the hitting-on wheels.) It was probably that. It wasn't enough alcohol to get drunk on or throw all caution to the wind over. Just enough to turn down the critic's volume level a few notches. It was enough to quiet the voice in my brain enough that I could hear the voice in my rhythmically beating heart, as corny as that sounds.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And that. THAT is what it was all about.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It was about letting the joy of feeling my body in motion overpower any fear I may have had about how I was being judged. And, with some experience, it no longer incorporated any sort of fear over how I was being judged; rather, it was a complete lack of interest in whether or not I was being judged at all.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>People want to judge? Fine. I can't stop them.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>But also, this: they can't stop me.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/916/640/Jazz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/916/640/Jazz.jpg" height="320" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Published in the Mercury News San Jose Jazz Festival program guide, 2005</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And after time in that mode, nothing was needed to grease the wheels because I knew that if I stayed in the present with the music--allowing it to move through me--I would get to feeling intoxicated, even sober as a Quaker. And it was a better sort of intoxication, too. There was no suddenly sleepy side effect, no middle-of-the-night digestive issues. It was just pure adrenaline and joy and the absolute oneness of body and soul. Just writing about it right now makes me wanna jet out the front door and make for the nearest ANYwhere that music is playing.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Which brings me to the present.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<b>Last weekend I went out with coworkers to celebrate a couple of their birthdays and ended up at a club in San Jose. I've been to this place a number of times and found the dancing scene to be okay-fine there. I was having fun for a while.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>But <i>twice</i> during the night I had to bust out a move I had never in my life done before, this move having nothing to do with dancing. It was a finger wave in the direction of two separate men who brazenly walked up behind me and put their hands on me while I was dancing. I know a lot of people go dancing looking to hook up. But even if I were looking for that, I might expect even a momentary exchange of eye contact--some tiny signal that I were interested--before being groped. Not cool.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I found myself wishing there were some kind of place to dance where this is not an issue.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>My friend Kate had told me about a weekly dance session she sometimes attends called 5 Rhythms. It's a loose, freestyle session where you can just go and do your thing to music, outside of a club setting. She met her boyfriend Maor there after they connected on the dance floor--without even having to exchange words (so cool). I found the nearest, equivalent-sounding thing (Ecstatic Dance in downtown Oakland) last Sunday and checked that out.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The setting was great--a big-windowed, sunlight-filled dance floor at a bona fide old club called Tropicana. It had a lot of promise at the outset: smiling, friendly looking people who danced freely and openly without a trace of judgement or predatory intent. Some did incredible yoga poses on the sidelines. Some danced in interesting and intimate exchanges with occasional lifts. Some took part in the donation-based massages being offered off to one side. There were children, which was wonderful to see.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>But ultimately, I couldn't get into it. I wasn't connecting with the music and it was more crowded than I'd anticipated, especially for such a large space. Also, the vibe was a little toooo free flowy for me. I like a little edge, and I got the overwhelming sense that if I were to move in any of the beat-centric ways I might at a club, I'd be upsetting the superflow vibe.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Argh. What is a 30-something, not-looking-to-hook-up, flowy-but-not-suuuuuper-flowy woman to do to get her groove on these days? I wish I had an answer to that. I fear the best prospect may lie at a rave, which I am way too old and anti-Molly for. Maybe it's at Burning Man, but who's got the extra $500 bucks lying around for a ticket?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I truly don't know. All I know is that I hope to find an answer because nothing makes me feel as alive as a good, sweat-drenched evening of dancing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<h3>
<b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Kevin's Sketch</span></b></h3>
<div>
<b><i>So it's been a little while, but Kevin got back into the mix this week with a doodle/sketch he made while listening to a long safety training module in preparation for work at a Lawrence Livermore Lab site. Downside: I was in the room listening to this safety module as well. Upside: Sketch to post!</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b>Q-Bert's Astral Body</b></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-24833280671217595722014-07-10T22:34:00.001-07:002014-07-10T22:34:57.061-07:00You're a "Proud" German, and That's Okay<b>A couple weeks ago (at the outset of the World Cup adventure) a friend posted a status update on Facebook mentioning that, though WWII is long over, he still finds it unnerving to see large numbers of Germans gathered, cheering and chanting.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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<br />
<b>He was joking of course, but something in his comment rang true and hit home.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Though my background is half-German (and half-Mexican--a mix my Mom lovingly refers to as "Beanerschnitzel"), most of my life I felt distant from my German heritage. Not only were the relatives on my Dad's side of the family physically far from us, they felt--at the time--unrelatable. When I saw them (once every 1-3 years) things felt strained, quiet, reserved. I contrasted this with the warm, laughter-filled homes on my Mom's side, homes of people we saw regularly, and the result left me feeling, well, Mexican (Chicana anyway, which is the term for a woman of Mexican heritage who was born and raised in the United States).</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I was proud of my Mexican heritage and felt drawn to study Spanish, to listen to music in Spanish, and, eventually, to go to Mexico for a summer. But it was more than just my attraction to my Latino culture that caused the divide; there was something that felt kind of...icky...to declare myself a "proud German."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>This is what war does to people. These are the lasting, reverberating effects of unchecked psychopathology. Two generations before my birth, one <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolf_Hitler" target="_blank">insane failed artist</a> captivated a nation and ordered the genocide of 5-6 million people. Years later my Dad and his siblings--the children of German-born immigrants--were teased and shamed and called "Nazis" at school. And forty years after that I have still felt loathe to fully claim and embrace my German roots.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Let me not come across as trying to diminish the seriousness of the war itself and the appropriateness of people's long memories. The war touched and ruined many, many lives for many years to follow. It is natural that its effects would continue to echo.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>But there are few people living who had much of anything to do with committing those atrocities, and my family members are certainly not among them. My family members are also not racist or anti-Semitic. There is no reason why I should not have the same desire to express pride in my culture that is held among so many people all over the earth. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>We of German decent have a dark black mark on our history; it is true. But we can overcome it. We can recognize that the horrors of the Holocaust were real and represent one of the biggest mistakes mankind has ever committed. In recognizing that we can vow to never let such horrors occur again. We can also recognize that the people who were born to this legacy reflect the country's bright future, not its dark past. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Germans have done amazing things. Their engineering feats are incredible (who doesn't appreciate a beautifully designed and constructed German automobile?). Germany has produced some of the greatest philosophers of the modern era. It gave birth to pioneers in the field of psychology. And Germans are so fucking efficient! So dang punctual. Nobody gets things done on-schedule like a German.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>We can also be terribly uptight and rigid. We can be cold and serious. We take up a lot of space and are hairy. We aren't so funny. Everyone (even collectively, as a culture) has faults.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I want to begin embracing <i>all</i> of it. I no longer wish to feel culturally torn between pride and not-so-much. The people of both my backgrounds aren't even so much characterized by the accomplishments of their countries or the (oft-true) generalizations that can be made about them as a culture. They are characterized by the love they feel for their families and friends and their desire to find happiness in this life.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>So. Screw it. My loved ones and happiness seekers are German (-American). And I'm proud to count myself among them.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And I will joyfully and without shame cheer for them this Sunday as they compete in the World Cup FINAL. Woohoo!</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-12999394393341396662014-07-03T12:36:00.000-07:002014-07-03T23:59:30.241-07:00This Relationship is Not for the Squeamish<b>When I first learned that the man who is now my boyfriend was a biologist, I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Everybody does. When I tell people he works in rivers and in other outdoor spots, seeking and catching snakes and frogs and salamanders and the like, they express happy surprise that a person could actually make a living in such a way.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>Kevin is one of the few people I know who earns money doing exactly the thing he loves and was born to do. There is a painting hanging on his son's wall featuring a lizard in the foreground of a thriving river scene, detailed and accurate. Kevin painted it when he was still in high school. Who does that? It's so interesting to me that he still loves to create art that features the creatures he is called to study. So many people spend good portions of their lives in search of their passions; his have been there all along.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I am not called to creatures in the way that he is. I'm not hot on the idea of handling a frog or a fish or a bird or any number of the other things I've seen him so naturally come into up-close contact with. I appreciate animals...just...from a little distance.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I do love, however, that I'm learning so much about animals from Kevin and that my 4-year-old son is, too. Yesterday we were at a shop where a cube-shaped glass case sat atop a table, displaying jewelry. My son said to the shop owner: "Where is the animal? Isn't there supposed to be an <i>animal</i> in there?" I'm guessing he got the idea from these, the four such glass cases in our home:</b><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tupac, the 23-year-old Horn Frog</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kingsley, the (hiding) California kingsnake</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Molly, Baby Jr. and Drag-ron, freshly named fish in the tank Kevin gave to my son on his 3rd birthday</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Assorted (mostly hidden) fish in the beautiful 50-gallon tank</td></tr>
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<b>I've enjoyed learning about all these animals, as well as Kalima the cat (the first cat I've ever lived with)</b><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's a sweetheart, otherwise I would have never wanted to share the space with her!</td></tr>
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<b>Lately, Kevin's interest has been piqued by a new kind of creature. Out in the field all spring and summer, he encounters many different life forms, and he's been captivated by spiders recently. That's all well and good, except that the captivation sometimes takes the form of collecting. At the moment there are about 20 vials sitting on his desk, each containing a unique spider specimen suspended in a solution (oooh, love that alliteration), waiting to be gifted to California Academy of Sciences for their collections. Still all well and good.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>And then there was this...</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>Last week I came home from work and Kevin told me he had a surprise. He revealed a (very thin, I must emphasize for dramatic effect) sandwich bag in which was kept this "surprise":</b><br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1DXf7Kpihng/U7Wg3sKqtTI/AAAAAAAACPY/UlPh8QwgXrk/s1600/photo+%25288%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1DXf7Kpihng/U7Wg3sKqtTI/AAAAAAAACPY/UlPh8QwgXrk/s1600/photo+%25288%2529.JPG" height="240" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wolf spider, fresh from the fields of Livermore</td></tr>
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<b>Surprise!!</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>Indeed.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I can't say I'm super thrilled at the thought of this little dude taking up residence in an old fish tank in our home, but then part of me is. My son saw it for the first time and said, "cool spider, Kevin!" I like that he's getting the early start with the natural world; that was definitely not a part of my experience. </b><b>We all watched the spider consume a cricket the other day, which was a truly fascinating experience. </b><b>And I love that Kevin's son, having been raised this way, embraces all things creepy and crawly. </b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I may not ever get to that point, and I can't say I'm dying to help him capture more 8-legged friends (though I did catch one and save it for him as a sort of welcome home gift (what a strange combination of words)), but I am learning to be comfortable sharing the living space with other sorts of living things.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>Anything that causes me to grow and expand my horizons that is not dangerous or unhealthy is exactly what I've signed up for. Bring it on.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-58074316530033516102014-06-25T06:14:00.000-07:002014-06-25T06:14:02.888-07:00Plan B, in Which Nothing and Everything are Accomplished<b>Sitting in the posts section of my blogger profile is a half-written draft of the post I was working on for this week. As is often the case with me and things in general, and me and blogging specifically, I had planned out the exact 2-hour block of time during which I could finish it and get it posted. It was to happen last night after dinner and my son's bath and story and bed times.</b><br />
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<b>Once executed, my plan would represent a tiny victory of order over chaos; it would help me prove to myself that--in the midst of working full-time and navigating the schedules of two children--I can set goals and manage circumstances and do all the things I want to do, given enough prep time.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I was headed up the stairs to our apartment with my young son when the tiny monkey wrench came softly wafting out of his mouth in the form of a song (no less), tempting me to cast aside all I had carefully worked out in my mind in favor of a spontaneous Plan B.</b><br />
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<b>"Ticket to Hollywood," he sang. "Got a ticket to Hollywood."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Oh," I said. "I know that song."</b><br />
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<b>The song is from a Bollywood movie I saw a few years ago and which I used to watch over and over again at bedtime when a bootleg, horribly sub-titled copy found its way into my possession.</b><br />
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<b>"Have you seen the movie it's from?" I asked.</b><br />
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<b>"There's a <i>movie?!?!</i>" my son said. "Can we watch it?"</b><br />
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<b>I loved this idea. This idea of us watching this movie together--I knew he would like the songs and the dancing. But the idea didn't fit with the plan. He was leaving for his Dad's the next morning, so if we wanted to watch it it would have to be that night. It would mean the erasure of the two-hour block and the execution of the plan and the proving to myself and the whatnot. It would mean pushing back the bedtime and skipping the books.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And also: it would mean the chance to do something different and fun for my son. For both of us. We could watch it together in my room, in the big cozy bed he would just love the chance to snuggle in for a spell. It would mean sharing with him this goofy movie that has taken up residence in a tucked away spot in the archives of my life experience.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>It seems like people, parents, are always talking about trying to find ways to enjoy their kids in the moment. We know the importance of finding these little opportunities to slow down and take them in. We also know it can be a difficult thing to do when schedules and transporting and work and the attempt to maintain consistency are seemingly at odds. Sometimes, the answer just has to be "no." Sometimes the opportunity has to be missed because the details, the things we have to get done really <i>are</i> that important.</b><br />
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<b>And sometimes they're not. And a blog post can hang out in blog limbo for another week. And the kid can go to bed late. And he can have some popcorn even after he brushed his teeth. And the bootleg DVD doesn't play anyway so you have to find it on YouTube except they charge for it on YouTube so you watch a <i>different</i> Bollywood movie that is subtitled (but he can't read) and he somehow is completely captivated anyway, and blissfully snuggly and sweet, and you realize that it's not about this movie or any movie, ever. For him, it's about the chance to be by your side. For you, the chance to have him by yours.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-51063421852528723112014-06-17T16:46:00.003-07:002014-06-17T16:46:33.982-07:00Nowhere to Run...Nowhere to Hide<div>
<b>Last week, on his final day of school, my older son and I walked the two blocks from our place to <a href="http://tuckersicecream.com/" target="_blank">Tucker's</a>, a best-ice-cream-in-the-whole-land, 70-year-old family-owned business here in <a href="http://alamedaca.gov/" target="_blank">Alameda</a>. A couple doors down from our destination, some kids on bikes behind us called a greeting out to my son. "Hey Joe," he said to one of them.</b></div>
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<b>It was the third time in a row we'd been walking down that way and run into somebody he knew from school. And it made me realize that this is how it's gonna be for the next untold amount of time or so: We go out. We recognize and/or are recognized.</b><br />
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<b>It was a strange feeling. I've become somewhat accustomed to anonymity. I've worked at 4 different branches of my employer bank now and none of them have been near where I lived. I've only on the rarest of occasions run into customers outside of work. And I also haven't had a kid in school where I lived before this past year</b><b>, so I had to go way out of my way to run into other parents I knew.</b></div>
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<b>Then we moved to a city that feels like a town, though we're right smack in the midst of the ultra-populated northern California Bay Area. A lot of people who live here grew up here. Many of them have generations of family dug in.</b></div>
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<b>And <i>then</i> my younger son played t-ball. We sat with some parents at a game we got tickets to through the little league last Friday night, and then two mornings later, no makeup and hastily clothed and in full-on hag mode, I ran into one of those t-ball moms at Safeway. It was 8am on a weekend, and she was in the same haggish mode, so that eliminated the awkwardness, but still it was...different.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>I'm used to being able to hag it up at any given hour on any given day at the grocery store with zero fear of run-ins. And it's not that I'll <i>fear</i> these run-ins in the future. But I do have a heightened awareness of their increased likelihood.</b><br />
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<b>This is something I've longed for. In the brief period I spent living in Flagstaff, Arizona, I experienced the feeling of community. My girlfriends Nicole and Kelsi and I always ran into people we knew when we were out, and this gave the town a sense of magic for me. Somehow, every encounter felt meaningful.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I spent the years that followed living in large cities, and while I often ran into people I "knew" waiting for a bus or lightrail in downtown San Jose, they were more likely to be transient folks I'd encountered in that same spot before than friends.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What we sought in moving to this town-y town was a place that felt small. Somewhere our kids could grow up and feel safe, where we could walk to places we wanted to be and where schools were well supported (most important was finding a place like this that didn't also feel horribly suburban and distant from things like public transportation). Now we've found that and I've realized I have to get used to all of what it entails.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Community is not something you can really be selective about. You are part of it or you aren't. You can't know the people who live nearby but then UNknow them when you see them at the grocery store without the proper anything on.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>One of my girlfriends moved here from a small town in Kansas and every time she goes back now, she and her husband run into multiple ex-boyfriends and their families all around town. I can't imagine. There is something so wonderful to me about the fact that I'd have to make a truly concerted effort to make physical contact with anyone I went to high school with back in Arizona. And it makes me wonder if our kids will one day want to be as far as they can be from this island where they've come to land.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>They'll cross that bridge (literally and figuratively) one day if they need to. For the time being I'm glad we'll be surrounded by other parents we'll come to know. I may even want to work at a branch in this town one day, if I think I can handle the idea of knowing all my neighbors' financial business (which would not be my preference). </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I just have to make the mental shift into Smallsville mode.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>And I think it is time to implement mandatory hair combing before any venturing outside the house. </b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-46922773893598284722014-06-10T06:47:00.001-07:002014-06-10T08:19:11.765-07:00Grandparenting in Freedom Country<b>At work the other day, I got to talking with an older Russian customer. The man had one of the thickest accents I've heard and his English was at times very rough. But he managed to communicate just fine and was eager to...so we talked.</b><br>
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<b>At one point he asked me if I had children and their ages. When he learned I have a son his grandson's age, he asked, "but do you spoil the child?"</b></div>
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<b>I contemplated that thought. "Spoil" would have certainly meant something very different to my WWII surviving German grandparents than it means to most contemporary parents. Still, I felt it safe to say that I didn't. "I don't think so," I said. "He doesn't get whatever he wants."</b></div>
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<b><br></b></div>
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<b>"My son," he said. "He let the child get always what she want. Now...she no get from me what she want? She cry and cry." He made a dramatic tears-falling-from-eyes gesture and described what sounded like a full-on tantrum.</b></div>
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<b>He continued, "then I ask...am I be too hard with the child? He always let her choose what she want. She always the one decide. I think...<i>maybe this okay in freedom country</i>."</b></div>
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<b>I loved that. I loved watching this man in his late 60's--a man who could have certainly been dialing it in at this point--putting sincere thought into the choices he was making as a grandparent and striving to understand the parenting choices of his son. I loved that he was adjusting for the differences in culture and truly considering how they may or may not affect parenting decisions.</b></div>
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<b>And I loved the phrase "freedom country."</b></div>
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<b>It's a difficult thing to make these kinds of considerations, for any parent. It's difficult for me to avoid having the knee-jerk reaction: "<i>this is not okay for my child because when I was a kid...</i> or <i>it must be this way because when I was a kid..</i>."</b><br>
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<b>It would be an easy road to take to simply say: somebody already figured this parenting thing out for me. I turned out fine, so I'm just gonna do it exactly as my parents did and find other things to obsess about.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>That said, there <i>is </i>a lot I can learn from how my parents did things. For example, I happen to agree with my customer that spoiling a child is ill-advised, even in a "freedom country." However, if I press myself to say why a child should not get everything he wants, the first justification I want to reach for (the tried-and-true <i>because if he does, he will not learn to accept "no" and will think he can ALWAYS have everything he wants)...</i>well, it comes up short. Aren't we always trying to communicate to kids that they can have everything they want? Can't not taking no for an answer and finding ways to navigate/work the system help a child develop some pretty effective and prized survival (or let's call them "thrival") tools?</b><br>
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<b>The difference, I suppose, is that we want kids to reach for the things they want, not to expect that those things be handed to them.</b><br>
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<b>(Good, we figured that out. I don't have to start spoiling my children on a technicality.)</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>Nobody has figured out the perfect parenting formula, and no good parent would just kick her heels up and relax with the knowledge that she is doing a good enough job. We will always be thinking and questioning, in many moments and over a good many decisions.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>Then one day, as the theory goes, we will launch our children into the Great Unknown and watch like creepers from the bushes and try to restrain ourselves from intervening while they quite blissfully fuck things up for a bit.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>And then we will watch with smirks on our faces when they one day begin to obsess over their own parenting decisions. This is just how things go.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I know my folks and my boyfriend's folks have parenting wisdom well beyond the scope of what we can see from our perspectives; they must often see us doing things that they think we should have done differently, and with good reason. I also love that they don't always rush in to share that knowledge, though. They have stepped back to let life move forward.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>But I like how my customer reminded me that, even as they watch us from just out of earshot (too far to hear them suck in their breath as we step boldly into the latest colossal parenting error), they are always thinking about us, and our children beyond us...always concerned with our familial contributions to the world that will extend beyond their own lifetimes. I love that he reminded me that grandparents care about us and our babies probably more than we can imagine.</b><br>
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<b>How lucky we all are for that.</b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-33379463832516214592014-06-02T23:21:00.001-07:002014-06-02T23:26:30.553-07:00We Are Deep...In the Marrow of It<i><b>Sooooooo....</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>I'll just start with saying that the blog I was working on last week didn't save an update in which I'd made major edits and written the bulk of the content. I was so bummed I couldn't get myself to revisit it. So I'm officially missing a week of the Manzanita Project. I may get to it one day, though the time-sensitive nature of the subject matter (on turning 36!) may prevent that. So there's that. And here's this:</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>This week I'm thinking about girlfriends. Specifically, I'm thinking about the women in my life who have kept me laughing over the past 20 years and been there for me when I didn't feel like laughing much.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>It started like this: for my birthday, my kind and thoughtful boyfriend Kevin surprised me by installing a new stereo system in my car and having a broken speaker fixed. He said he knew how much I love music and didn't like that I did so much driving, unable to enjoy music during all that drive time.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>So the new stereo has a USB port, and I've been plugging in my iPod, getting back in touch with a whole ton of music I'd been missing. I love putting it on random so I can be surprised every time and can ensure there is no shortage of variety. And that's how I came to hear my gal Kelsi coming through the speakers yesterday. "Monkey!" I said, "that's Auntie Kelsi singing!"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>He took it in.</b><br />
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<b>The song we heard was a now 15-years-old one called "Amazing," which Kelsi wrote on the heels of returning from Mexico with our friends Nicole and Rachel and me; we'd gone as human rights observers to Chiapas in the summer of 1998. We came back with a friendship solidified by adventure and conflict and soaring, ridiculous dreams.</b><br />
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<b>One of the lines in the song says that our friendship involves "infinite inspiration, language laced with laughter, late-night conversation." I heard that line and thought about all of the above...how much we'd done of it over the years and how much things have changed in each of our lives.</b><br />
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<b>Between us we now have at least 10 kids, including stepchildren absorbed along the way. We've lost track of Rachel (that's why it's <i>at least</i> 10 kids, rather than a final head count), but last we were in touch, she was living in a yurt in Northern(er) California with her husband and daughter, making and selling natural soaps and beauty products. She never was one for convention.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>None of us were.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Or maybe I was.</b><br />
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<b>As I sit writing this, I'm listening to this other of Kelsi's albums on Spotify (<a href="https://play.spotify.com/album/1vqhSYsploAXaEltDvzGTA?play=true&utm_source=open.spotify.com&utm_medium=open" target="_blank">you can, too!</a>).</b><br />
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<b>There's a song on it that was written about a night we all went salsa dancing in downtown San Jose, one about Nicole's first pregnancy (surprise!), one called <i>Ask Me</i> that is so raw and sad you just want to reach out a give Kelsi a big hug.</b><br />
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<b>It's a musical time capsule. A beautiful tribute to togetherness, and to lack thereof. I love that I can listen to it and remember those unfathomably carefree times in our lives and be equal parts sentimental for them and relieved that things have settled into, well, more conventional patterns.</b><br />
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<b>My gals are forging ahead as they always have, as am I. We have less contact and many more miles between us. Our daily dealings look much, much different than when we all converged on our one-bedroom duplex on 11th street after work at about the same time each early evening and sat on a couch facing the open front windows and smoked cloves and watched the world (and our halfway house neighbors) go by.</b><br />
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<b>We have looked into and summarily dismissed a handful of religions, we have tried on and left hanging outside the dressing room various relationships. We have held numerous jobs, driven a dozen cars, and transitioned into having grown-up discussions about things like health care and women's rights (well, that was always there) and the appeals and drawbacks of homeschooling.</b><br />
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<b>The title of this blog is from a song of Kelsi's called <i>All That</i>:</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>We are deep...in the marrow of it</b>,<br />
<b>we swim in the richness.</b><b>I can't get enough of it.</b></blockquote>
<b>In the case of this song, "it" referred to love. For me, now, it refers to life (words which can often be used interchangeably). We are somewhere around the middle now. When I met Nicole and Kelsi (at 12 and 14, respectively), we were near the beginning.</b><br />
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<b>What will happen between now and the end? How many more changes of address and meeting spots? Will our kids grow up and marry each other after all like we used to joke about, long before there were real life kids to refer to by name? :P</b><br />
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<b>These women are two of the gifts I have been most grateful for in my life. They have caused me to grow in ways they are somewhat aware of and ways they couldn't possibly know (ways I myself can sometimes only understand years later). If they were the only two girlfriends my life had known, I'd consider myself abundantly blessed.</b><br />
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<b>Cheers to my gals. I love you both.</b><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-22782445755743552602014-05-19T06:59:00.001-07:002014-05-19T06:59:28.266-07:00Will the Real So-and-So Please Step Forward?<b>Last week I received an invitation that I sat on for a few days before responding to. There were a couple of reasons why I wasn't quick to offer a "yes," but when it came down to it, finances was chief among them. Finally, it occurred to me that--rather than cite other reasons and then have to come up with *other* other reasons the next time around (as this was already the second such dinner I'd opted out of)--I'd just come clean.</b><br />
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<b>I Replied All (nooooooooooooooo) to the original invite email with the simple (if wordy...it's me we're talking about here) request that people not take it personally if I don't attend these dinners for the foreseeable future as, in my current focus on paying off debt, spendy sit-down dinners were not in my budget.</b></div>
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<b>I took in a little breath before hitting the "send" button (I am still pretty new to my current location and this was something of a naked confession) but for the most part I felt good about sending the email. As I stated in the message I wrote, it's always my preference to be honest about things and (as this blog <i>clearly</i> demonstrates) I don't mind people knowing my business.</b></div>
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<b>A few people reacted with surprise to the email and assured me it was not necessary for me to be so revealing, which got me thinking about the concepts of "my business"/"personal business."</b><br />
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<b>There was a time in my life during which I felt like a was one version of myself in some scenarios and another version in others. Actually, I still feel that way at times. The way I experience it now is not necessarily negative. I'm reminded of the Walt Whitman quote "Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself (I am large, I contain multitudes)." I have a lot of thoughts and reactions going on in my brain and every "version" of myself reveals another part of who I am. They are all the <i>real</i> me. But that's not what I'm talking about.</b><br />
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<b>I'm talking about living through a period of my life where I felt strongly the desire to hide or even bury/destroy/erase parts of myself. I tried so hard to kill off these parts that when one of them surfaced (for example, I laughed at something I felt some people would not approve of my laughing at) I felt overwhelming guilt and a sense of failure. I was failing at pretending to be somebody I wasn't. And as profound as my desire was, I could not get myself to buy the lie I was selling.</b><br />
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<b>With some distance and perspective, I came to realize that I no longer <i>wanted</i> to hide parts of myself (except, you know, my actual physical parts. This is not a blog about the journey to Nudism). I no longer wanted to sign up for any kind of friendship or activity that would require that of me. </b><br />
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<b>This went for work as well. I didn't want there to be a version of me meant for work and one meant for real life. I mean yes, of course to some extent we ALWAYS have to keep some thoughts or the more colorful descriptive words that come to mind to ourselves if we want to remain employed, but my word! I spend 45 hours of every week in that location, surrounded by the same coworkers. I don't want that much of my life to be passed in the dazed, semi-human state that is a person trying to fake it.</b><br />
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<b>Ok, let me just disclaim a bit to say I understand people in management roles need to keep up a level of professionalism and should probably not blur too many lines with their employees, but I also appreciate that both my bosses reveal their senses of humor openly and celebrate with us openly as well. Neither pretends to hail from some sub-category of humans better suited to rule and immune to the desire for camaraderie, conviviality, co-conspiracy even (within audit compliance, of course).</b><br />
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<b>Life is simply too short, the portion of it spent at work too great, to be any other way.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>And it's more than that. It's more than just the desire to be open and have fun at work. That's pretty easy. I've finally realized it also turns out to be not as difficult as I'd imagined (once over the initial fear of it) to let my faults show freely as well. I shared with my coworkers that a nice dinner wasn't in my budget because the thought of being honest about the things that aren't perfect in my life no longer embarrasses me. I was never trying to pretend anything else was the case. It's okay with me if everyone knows that about me because trying to pull off any other version of reality sounds exhausting and stressful, and to what end?</b><br />
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<b>How liberating it feels be to my authentic self, even while sporting the synthetic fabrics of my uniform.</b><br />
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<b>I don't want to have anything to hide. I don't want to be terrified of a chink in the armor. The armor is heavy. It's unwieldy and unflattering and I couldn't even dance in it anyway. </b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-33654741001373655712014-05-12T06:12:00.000-07:002014-05-12T06:12:24.101-07:00Spoiled!<b>This will likely be the briefest Manzanita Project post I've written. It's Mother's Day, and I'm taking a break from the work of writing as well (is IS work...it's the most satisfying work I've ever though, so it's work of the best variety).</b><br />
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<b>Today was a day of pure indulgence. Not the champagne and strawberries kind (though there <i>were </i>mimosas), the kind that involves sitting back and doing nothing while other people buzz around, doing nice things.</b><br />
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<b>I was treated to coffee while Kevin made biscuits and gravy to take to my folks', where we were meeting Kevin's folks as well. When we got there, I sat down with my fellow Mamas and relaxed while the boys (the men, really) prepared a breakfast FEAST!</b><br />
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<b>We exchanged gifts. I received a sweet card from my Mama, a beautiful homemade card from the boys and a super cool, custom-made photo card from Kevin's folks.</b><br />
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<b>Then we all went to Monkey's t-ball game and baked in the sun.</b><br />
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<b>When we got home, Kevin did four loads of laundry, went shopping and made dinner, all while insisting I not lift a finger to help. It was a really weird feeling, having to sit on my hands...made me antsy for sure. But I felt cared for and looked after and appreciated and loved, by all the people that matter most in my life.</b><br />
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<b>What a beautiful gift.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-78334307199217973892014-05-05T05:55:00.000-07:002014-05-05T08:48:36.163-07:00Facebook Isn't Making You Sad<b>In the past couple of years a few friends told me they'd quit using Facebook because they were sick of people trying to make their lives look perfect via status updates and shared photos; comparing themselves and their own lives to these "perfect" friends was depressing/annoying enough that they'd preferred to opt out altogether.</b><br>
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<b>I pressed one of my friends on this to learn more. From her perspective, people were always trying to one-up each other and to make other people feel bad in their Facebook posts. This worked to make my friend feel self-conscious, angry, and in a state of disbelief about the true happiness of these friends whose so-called perfect lives were clogging up her newsfeed.</b></div>
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<b>I have a hard time identifying with this outlook.</b></div>
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<b>It's not that I don't believe it may sometimes seems people are trying to make their lives look perfect on social media. In fact, I imagine people may put me into that category, given that I choose to keep what I post mostly positive and I generally post pictures featuring smiling people (though I stop short of untagging myself from unflattering pictures). I am not such a simpleton that I can't understand where this sentiment comes from.</b><br>
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<b>I just find it unfortunate that anyone would choose to internalize these posts from others and let them ruin their own experience with what I think is a pretty entertaining way to connect with people and learn more about their lives.</b></div>
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<b>There are a few ways to look at the people who seem to share nothing but their own perfection online:</b><br>
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<b>Perhaps they refrain from posting the less-than-glowing moments because they are embarrassed or ashamed about them. Who can't relate to that?</b></div>
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<b>Perhaps they don't like to dwell on the negative because they believe it prolongs the return to happier places. I respect that and I fall into that category as well. Yes, lame stuff happens or I get into a funk for no reason at all. I will allow myself what I believe is an appropriate amount of time to feel shitty, but I don't necessarily want to post all over the place about it and drag every friend, family member or acquaintance into my little mud pit. I will share those trials with my honey or a trusted friend or family member and work on through it in a less public way (unless I'm working through it on this blog, haha). Maybe happy over-posters are annoying, but if so then so are super negative people who are always posting complaints and rants.</b></div>
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<b>Perhaps people are choosing to share the good and happy and cheesy-as-fuck stuff going on in their lives because they're operating under the preposterous notion that their "friends" are actually their friends. They imagine these friends may be interested in the positive things happening in their lives. They imagine it would make their friends feel joyful to know one of their own made good or found a nice person to love or has a child he adores or is just so damned excited to be where she is at the moment that she had to stop and "check in." It makes me really sad to think these people are mistaken about their "friends"--who, it turns out, are not truly friends at all but rather ill-wishers there only to spy on and measure up against and make fun of and resent.</b></div>
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<b>Finally, there is the possibility these perfect posters truly ARE out to make themselves look better than everybody else and to make other people feel jealous or inferior. I believe this would have to be the rare exception. If I know anybody like this, I am unaware of it. If I know anybody who exhibits behavior even *close* to this, I may also know of some insecurity there that is being (over) compensated for. While I may experience annoyance, I should simultaneously strive to be compassionate and to give the benefit of the doubt. So Janie Awesome wants to make herself look good. So what? So crucify her.</b></div>
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<b>To me, the interesting question that arises from Janie Awesome's posts is not so much "Why does she do that?" but "Why does it bother me?"</b></div>
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<b>People are annoying sometimes, people! I mean, that's the nature of people. I don't think Facebook is to blame here. It's just that Facebook concentrates all those potentially annoying behaviors into a condensed little feed, and seeing a few of them in a row can just smack some people down and leave them feeling done with the whole thing.</b><br>
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<b>But this is really too bad. If somebody's behavior were really that annoying to me via Facebook, chances are it would be pretty annoying to me in real life too...and I wouldn't be hanging out with that person.</b></div>
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<b>Which brings me to the bottom line question that I think arises from my imagined annoyance with Janie Awesome's posts, which is "Why am I "friends" with her?"</b></div>
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<b>As I write this, I'm thinking of a few situations in which I've experienced the very dynamic I referred to in the beginning of this--negative reactions to posts I've seen in my newsfeed. There have been times I've felt pressure to "friend" a person for political reasons, or as a seemingly complex matter of fairness. I'm sure I've been "friended" for similar reasons. It happens now and then. Sometimes I don't consider these people true friends, and it's posts from people in that category that leave me feeling most likely to having negative reactions.</b><br>
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<b>But I don't like having ill feelings toward people who are just sharing what they feel moved to share on a site I joined voluntarily and which I voluntarily visit. I also don't want to unfriend these people because it violates the principals behind my accepting the friend request in the first place.</b></div>
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<b>I think one viable solution in this situation is to hide the posts of that person. I save both of us whatever invisible, yucky outcomes are resulting from my negative reactions to their posts.</b><br>
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<b>A more ambitious and grown-up solution would be for me to move ever more diligently toward true authenticity...to be in a place where I would never be fake "friends" with somebody for "political reasons or seemingly complex matter of fairness." I'm getting there.</b><br>
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<b>An even <i>more</i> ambitious and grown-up solution would be for me to take absolute responsibility for my own life and my own emotional responses. In so doing, I'd realize there is nothing in the world a person can post about his or her own life or state of happiness that should cause me to feel bad about myself or what's going on in mine.</b><br>
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<b>Happiness should perpetuate itself, and if I am in a healthy emotional place (regardless of my current circumstances), I will see that one person's expression of joy should not feel threatening. On the contrary, it is a wonderful reminder to me of the joyful experience available to <i>all</i> of us. </b><b>I am reminded again of the Marianne Williamson quote at the bottom of this blog.</b><br>
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<b>As is true about most things, getting to this ideal place I'm speaking of is a process for me and I don't believe it to be easy. I will see posts that I react negatively to from time to time. I just want to remember that Facebook isn't causing me to feel unhappy. My friends' behaviors (unless they are cruelly and unkindly directed at me) are also not causing my unhappiness. Whatever is at the root of it is within me, and it is there that I can turn things around.</b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>So please, don't desert Facebook just yet. I still want to see what you have to share, even if it makes you appear outrageously content and well-adjusted. </b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-70812878713935419722014-04-28T09:46:00.000-07:002014-04-28T10:06:57.443-07:00A Lot of Living to Do...<b>A few weeks ago I wrote about <a href="http://www.monkeygal2.blogspot.com/2014/03/at-work-last-week-i-briefly-met-elderly.html" target="_blank">some of the veterans I've had the pleasure and privilege to meet</a> at my new work location. I see them and others regularly now, and it's always a wonderful change of pace to have one of them come and sit at my desk for a while. They tell me the stories I'd be asking my grandpa to tell me, if he were still alive.</b><br />
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<b>One of these men, a WWII vet who participated in the <a href="http://www.history.com/topics/cold-war/berlin-airlift" target="_blank">Berlin <span id="goog_1280969441"></span>Airlift</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1280969442"></span></a>, has stopped by a few times recently. I've mentioned my stepson has been building WWII era model airplanes, and he drops by to give me old calendars depicting combat aircraft in large, color photos...meant, I believe, to be inspiration for the model-making. Pretty cool.</b></div>
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<b>Anyway, a few days ago this customer came to order foreign currency in advance of a trip he was taking to Germany. For the second time, he has been asked to be present for ceremonial honors bestowed by none other than German Chancellor Angela Merkel.</b></div>
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<b>But he was buying currency in addition to the Euro he'd need for the Germany trip. I asked him about it. He became whatever happens at the intersection of shy and giddy and a little bit proud.</b></div>
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<b>As it turns out, he'd been contacted a few years back by the grown daughter of a foreign-born woman he'd met abroad during his service. He and the woman had dated--she had even flown to the United States to visit him once--but she'd returned to her country, they'd gone their separate ways, married and raised families, and 60 years later both found themselves single again.</b></div>
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<b>Now, on the heels of his trip to Germany, he was going back to visit her and meet her family.</b></div>
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<b>Here's what strikes me about this:</b><b> My customer is game. At 80-something, he is game. Not only that, he is lucid as can be, appears years younger than he is, is in great shape, has a full head of hair, is adventurous. At 80-something, he has a lot of living to do.</b></div>
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<b>What an inspiration.</b></div>
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<b>We have a family friend who was similarly located by the son of her old flame some 40 years after they'd parted ways. The two were reunited and enjoyed a few wonderful, loving years together before he passed away.</b></div>
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<b>Yesterday I met a woman who'd just divorced her husband of 50 (yes, 50!) years, and she told me that while it was difficult at times, she was excited about the beginning of her second life.</b></div>
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<b>At 35, I sometimes feel like I've already lived a dozen lifetimes. I tell people stories of things I've done, situations I've lived in/through (human rights observer in Chiapas, Mexico at 19, adult ESL instructor at 25, married in Karachi, Pakistan at 27</b><b>, co-restaurateur/K-12 substitute teacher at 30</b><b>), and I feel like I'm talking about another person in another space and time. And this is what I <i>love</i> about the life I've lived so far. I love that it keeps moving forward into unpredictable realms (don't ALL our lives?). I, too, strive to be game and to welcome all those new twists and turns as they come.</b></div>
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<b>Allow me to venture into the beyond-all-hope corniness level for a moment and quote the Andy Dufrense character from <i>The Shawshank Redemption</i>: "Get busy living or get busy dying," he says. And then let me go one step beyond <u>that</u> hopelessly corny level to quote Johnny Cade from <i>The Outsiders </i>when he tells Ponyboy Curtis (on his deathbed), that "sixteen years ain't gonna be long enough."</b></div>
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<b>Whatever it is, I think, it ain't gonna be long enough.</b><br />
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<b>I know I've heard people talking about reaching an age and a level of satisfaction with the lives they've led that leave them feeling ready to die. I can't picture it. I'm not sure I believe that a life lived fully and without regrets of the shoulda/coulda/woulda nature <i>automatically</i> leaves one in a state of acceptance about The End. It's possible, but I definitely don't want to imagine if I DON'T seize upon all that life has to offer and experience the alternative, which I imagine would be a state of panic.</b><br />
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<b>If I'm 80-something and I receive that call, the one that says "Please come here," wherever "here" is, I want to answer it, with joy.</b><br />
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<b>Up to the end, I want to remain open to the promise and possibility of new experiences, or to new versions of old ones. The answer to every invitation should be "Why not?" (And there are a lot of very, very good reasons to decline invitations. But in the absence of them...)</b><br />
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<b>I think living like this is perhaps the best way I can think to honor those who would have loved to live longer. What more profound way is there to disrespect my life than to be gifted with 60 more years of it only to sit around and do nothing interesting, take no risks, refrain from adventure? To not embrace love and embarrass myself and to retell the embarrassing story if it means having the chance to make another person laugh. To not travel as far--physically, emotionally, intellectually--as I think I possibly can...and then to go beyond.</b><br />
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<b>If you're reading this (or if I've yet to meet you!), no matter who you are, I'm happy and honored to be here on this journey with you. And I hope you'll say yes to adventures with me for many, many years to come (especially you, Kevin Wiseman :) ).</b><br />
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;">Kevin's Sketch</span></b></h3>
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<b>(A small portion of his ever-evolving <i>Aliento del Diablo</i>, growing richer in strange and haunting detail by the day)</b></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-40897640220314190622014-04-20T11:53:00.002-07:002014-04-21T08:26:53.274-07:00Another Day, Another DMV Victim<b>Oh, the DMV.</b><br>
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<b>Just those three letters put together like that are enough to elicit rolls of the eyes and groans and painful memories.</b><br>
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<b>A DMV notice in the mail is a punch in the gut. Or maybe it's something slightly worse than that...it's like a receiving notification that you <i>will </i>be punched in the gut and you have 5 weeks of advanced notice to anticipate it--the grown-up, drawn-out version of "you're getting a spanking when we get home."</b><br>
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<b>I don't fear the DMV anymore, though. I learned about the appointment system. And the appointment system is fucking genius.</b><br>
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<b>When you make an appointment, you do what I did the other morning: you saunter in, bypass the 75-person deep line of preliminary check-ins and go straight to a counter where NOBODY is standing but you (at the Oakland Coliseum DMV anyway, where appointments are apparently not "a thing" yet). You are asked a single question and then issued a number. You won't even have time to locate a next-number-up indicator screen before your number is called and you will find yourself whisked to a far off window, much to the dismay/envy of the hapless 75 in line--not to mention the many dozens seated in plastic chairs in four separate waiting areas.</b><br>
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<b>The appointment system works.</b><br>
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<b>When I found myself at the window to renew my license at my appointment the other day, I felt pleased. I made more conversation than I normally would have because the employee assisting me was friendly and had a good sense of humor and she seemed she could use the break from the constant stream of inevitably frustrated customers.</b><br>
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<b>Anyway that transaction went quickly and smoothly, and the only thing I had left to do was to get my new photo taken. I was a little nervous about that part. A recent peek at my Aunt's license photo made me aware of just how badly things *could* during that part of the process:</b><br>
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<b>She doesn't look like that, by the way. Here she is, NOT under the guise of Deranged Wal-Mart Lady:</b></div>
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<b>Beautiful, see?</b></div>
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<b>I digress. But not too much. This blog is about what happened next, at the photo taking station.</b></div>
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<i><b>But first, a time out: when I was at the first window, I asked the employee if women these days ever try to do the <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/84/Glee_-_Single_Ladies_cropped.jpg" target="_blank">no-arm-fat pose</a>--ever obnoxiously prevalent on Facebook and Instagram--for their driver license photos. I was *joking*. She said it happens all the time.</b></i></div>
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<b>I arrived at the photo line, which was relatively short: just 7 or so people before me. The employee at the camera's helm was an acerbic and wildly unpleasant woman who found it necessary to intermix forceful accusations of talking in the testing area, even though there are "signs clearly posted ALL OVER THE TESTING AREA!" in between every order barked at her own customers (and let's get this straight: visitors to the DMV <i>are</i> customers, even if the state treats us with a disregard that would put any <u>legitimate</u> business's stock holders in an early grave). What was this? The testing area wasn't even the photo lady's jurisdiction! There was another DMV employee right there administering tests. Not only that, there were TWO (likely highly ineffective, given their octogenarian-ness) uniformed security guards standing there, guarding the tests (?), the testers (?)...guarding the pencils (?).</b></div>
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<b>Anyway, I could see this woman was no joke. I kept looking at the kindly, smiling test administrator, wishing <i>she </i>could be the photographer. But no switcheroos happening here. One away from the front, I prepared myself like George and Jerry and Elaine trying to buy soup from the Soup Nazi.</b></div>
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<b>I bent down and looked right into the eyes of my 4-year-old son in tow, who'd begun to get squirrelly. "Listen to Mama," I said, my solemnity no doubt sobering. "When we get to the front, you are going to stand with your back against that counter right there and you are going to look at the people behind me in line, okay."</b></div>
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<b>"Okay Mama," he promised. I knew by his tone that he knew I meant business.</b></div>
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<b>Nothing to do but straighten up and fly right.</b></div>
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<b>I didn't want to upset her by approaching the window before she called me, but instead I upset her by not moving quickly <i>enough</i>. She looked at me with Eyes of Death and made a grabby grabby motion at me with her hand, as if to say "hurry the <i>fuck</i> up and place your goddamned papers into my m'fuggin' HAND already!"</b></div>
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<b>I gave them to her and smiled.</b></div>
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<b>"Place your right thumb on the screen....I SAID NO TALKING IN THE TESTING AREA," she spewed. I looked over at the testing area. The only people talking were the poor, withered security guards. They shrugged guiltily at each other like children just humiliated in front of the class, and one of them shuffled away.</b></div>
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<b>"Sign your name with the special pen and press OK with the special pen." (No time to find humor in the pointed, twice-employed use of the phrase "special pen" (what's so special about this pen?)...I was going to do this right, start to finish.)</b></div>
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<b>While she silently clicked around with her mouse, I moved into position, toes behind the line like I'd heard her tell everyone else to do before me. I wanted her to see that I was an over-achiever. I was going to save her the headache!</b></div>
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<b>"Move your hair out of your eyes! We need to see your eyes!"</b></div>
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<b>I complied.</b></div>
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<b>This time I waited for her direction. I'd heard her tell everyone else to look at the camera and smile, and I didn't want to do this move too early or else risk that frozen plastic smile like kids have in every photo from ages 3-6.</b></div>
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<b>"SIR YOU NEED TO TURN THAT CELL PHONE <u>OFF</u>! IT SAYS SO ON ALL THE CLEARLY MARKED SIGNS." She was looking away at the offender. I looked at him too. I looked back.</b></div>
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<b>Wha? <i>Did</i> I even turn back in time. Surely I wasn't smiling OR looking at the camera. Were my eyes even open?</b></div>
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<b>She paused to look at the picture and then grabby grab-motioned for the next person in line.</b></div>
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<b>I was helpless. I couldn't react but to laugh out loud. I wasn't going to ask her to do it again only to have her reject and censure me publicly like she had half the room. That evil woman!! That evil evil woman.</b><b> I swear I saw a little smirk cross her face.</b><b> I am certain she did it on purpose. I am certain that tripping people up in this way is the *one* little glimmer of joy she gets from a job she despises.</b></div>
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<b>Or maybe it's not that at all. Maybe she <u>loves</u> her job. Maybe nothing in the world gives her greater joy than an otherwise happy face, FUBAR for the next five years on the owner's state-issued driver license.</b></div>
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<b>I think the former <i>and </i>the latter may be true.</b></div>
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<b>Listen, I'm not trying to say it's easy to work in customer service and that this woman should have been overjoyed at the sight of customer number 481 for the day. I have worked in customer service almost exclusively since I was 15 years old. I get that it's difficult and that you can't always be "on." I also get that it's not easy to get a job at all these days, so I already want to shoot down the part of me that says, "why BE in customer service if you are gonna be so angry about it?"</b></div>
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<b>But there's this: Yes, it's difficult to get a job. It is *especially* difficult to get a government job. One doesn't accidentally happen into one. You have to take tests. You have to pass background checks. You have to wait for months. You have to fill out mounds of paperwork and go through many sessions of training. So why on earth do you go through all that unless you really really want to work with the hoards of motley folks down at the DMV? You <i>know</i> what it's gonna be like, working there. It's gonna be a shit fest, day after day after day. I think it may even read that in the job description.</b></div>
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<b>And yet. And yet the two other employees I encountered, plus the smiling test administrator, plus the shrunken security guard whom I'd asked a question about the photo line...they were all good. They were courteous and appropriately responsive. They comported themselves like normal human beings in a job where there is an exchange: we give them information and payment in exchange for their services. It's not a damned oligarchy, people! And we are not asking for a favor, either.</b></div>
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<b>To the DMV employee who "helped" me and others that day I say: you win. You wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin! I walked out of the DMV as annoyed as the next person, and so all is well in the world. We have maintained the equilibrium of the universe of government agencies and their victims.</b></div>
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<b>Thank goodness this only happens every five years.</b></div>
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<b>And I can't wait</b><b> to see what this picture looks like. I owe my Aunt a good laugh.</b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #45818e; font-size: large;">Kevin's Sketch</span></b></h3>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #999999;"><b style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Aliento Del Diablo.</span></span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br></span></span><span style="background-color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-size: small;">A work in progress in charcoal out of the same vein as </span><i><span style="font-size: small;">A Death Rose For Eunice</span></i><span style="font-size: small;">—the Spanish translation of ‘Breath of the Devil’, reminding me of a darker species of Baby’s Breath. (Blur effect intentional, for now)</span></span></b></span></h4>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-18151735100540925392014-04-15T08:09:00.000-07:002014-04-15T08:09:54.017-07:00OMG...We Have a TEENAGER in the House!<b>I didn't know my stepson when this happened.</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Birthday! Photo credit: Catfish Moore</td></tr>
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<b>We were years away from crossing paths.</b><br />
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<b>I didn't know him when he had his first band concert or baseball practice or sleepover.</b><br />
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<b>I was late to the game.</b><br />
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<b>My hope, every day, is that I wasn't <i>too</i> late.</b><br />
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<b>I heard a story on the radio about three years ago. It was some time before the subject would become relevant to my life, but as a divorced woman with a child, my ears perked up when I heard it. The story was about blended families, and some kind of expert on the subject was making the claim that children are only likely to welcome a new parental figure until about the age of 12. After that, he said, the battle was likely to be uphill.</b><br />
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<b>I'm not sure about that as an across-the-board claim; I'm certain it depends a lot upon how hungry the child in question is for a parental figure, how mature he or she is, or how open he or she is to new people and new, shared experiences, in general. There are so many variables.</b><br />
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<b>But the idea was not lost on me. I can see how it would be more difficult for a child to welcome a new parent at the age of 15 than the age of three. At three, you don't have much of a clue what's going on. And you don't know the difference between knowing and not knowing. At 15, you (think you) know everything. Imagine some new person coming on to the scene of a 15-year-old with dreams of smooth-sailing!</b><br />
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<b>When I first started dating again after my divorce, I wanted nothing to do with fathers. I pictured one of two possible scenarios: weekend dads who didn't really know or want the experience of parenting close-up and would therefor not understand that my priority was my young son, or dads with substantial custody of young children who were just looking for a woman to come in and do all the dirty work of parenting because they couldn't/didn't want to handle it themselves (basically, men seeking replacement moms for their children). I had my own young child to care for; I didn't need to take on someone else's.</b><br />
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<b>There was a third category I hadn't imagined and which my boyfriend Kevin falls into: a full-time, hands on father whose priority is his own son, who understands the priorities of other parents, and who was looking for an equal-footing companion, not a stand-in mother.</b><br />
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<b>And with him came his then 10-year-old son, who was 5 days from his 11th birthday when Kevin and I first met.</b><br />
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<b>A year later I attended his 12th birthday festivities--it was a bowling party that also served as a kind of last hurrah. At that point we'd just signed the lease on a place in a new town, where we'd be moving, the four of us, when the school year ended. He'd be leaving the friends he'd known since kindergarten, going to a new city with a new school and living with a new stepmom of sorts and a little steppy brother, to boot. We imagined the transition could be rough.</b><br />
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<b>To my surprise, my stepson handled it like an absolute pro. He was surprised, but pleasantly so, to hear the news of the move. And though he was initially sad about the thought of leaving his friends, he was excited and happy when he saw the new place where we'd be moving (a short bike ride away from the beach).</b><br />
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<b>The school transition hasn't always been smooth; we moved to a place with ridiculously good schools (that was the point), but that meant a learning curve for sure. Plus, there's just the whole Middle School thing.</b><br />
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<b>Ugh. Middle school. Who can even think about school at that age?! I moved to a new state in the middle of my 7th grade year, and I think if it hadn't been for the fact that my brother was in the same grade--there to share the pain of the transition in that already horrible mess of affairs that is 7th grade--I might have just curled up into a ball and rolled away for a few years. My stepson, facing the (new) middle school beast all on his own, has found some semi-decent ground to stand on two-thirds of the way through the school year, found a happy-ish place (which is the most I think parents can hope for at this time).</b><br />
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<b>On the home front, he's been amazing. He has shown a kind of patience and ability to humor a pre-schooler that is unrivaled for a child his age. He has been accepting of and open toward me and seems (mostly) happy to have me around. He has been (mostly) understanding of the ways his Dad and I have chosen to re-enforce good school performance and discipline in the less-than-stellar moments.</b><br />
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<b>He has accepted this new version of his life with grace.</b><br />
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<b>I think about my stepson more than he could probably ever imagine. I wonder how he processes the events of his life and how he envisions things going forward. I wonder which of the lessons we are trying to teach are sticking. I wonder what will pique his interest as he moves into high school and begins to think about college. I wonder all the time what he thinks about my parenting style, which is a lot like that of my parents--family discussions over groundings, questions asked daily that extend the dinnertime conversation well beyond the point where he's interested. I wonder if he'll understand at any point (before he becomes a parent, when it'll be all too apparent) why his Dad and I are so curious about him.</b><br />
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<b>This week, as he turned 13(!), I hope with ever-increasing intensity that my stepson can read between the frustration I may feel with him sometimes, see around my nagging him to put dishes away. I hope he can somehow x-ray vision through to what's behind all that: my desire to help raise a thoughtful and considerate and responsible person who makes his own experience while also understanding how his actions affect others. My desire to help launch an adult who is self-motivated and takes pride in what he puts out into the world. My desire to ensure he is helpful and appreciative of other people. Way, way up there on the list: my desire to help him realize that his Dad does <i>every last thing</i> he does with my stepson in mind...that he might be aware of his Dad's tireless effort and love and, in turn, show him respect. Also, hidden in some semi-conscious place among all that...my desire to help give him the tools to do all these same things for his own children, one day.</b><br />
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<b>Now that's not too much to ask, is it?!</b><br />
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<b>I think, I *think* he knows I love him. I think he knows because I tell him and I try in various ways to show him...but still I feel helpless to know for sure whether he really knows or whether it'll be something that dawns on him one day, as he looks backward to the life that led to wherever he happens to be at the moment.</b><br />
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<b>Whatever the case I hope he will truly feel it and know that I believe truly in my heart that we came into each other lives because we have a lot to learn from each other.</b><br />
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<b>Happy Birthday to my favorite teenager.</b><br />
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<b>And whoah...wish us luck!</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-15978374603830106272014-04-06T22:26:00.000-07:002014-04-06T22:26:53.371-07:00The View from Down There: A Playground Role-Reversal Revelation<b>As a working Mama, I am always struggling with the feeling that I don't have enough time to spend with my son. I relish the days I have him all to myself. And even though those days are always kept busy with laundry or grocery shopping or cleaning or appointments or all the other things there isn't time for otherwise, I feel special on those days--like no matter what we do it will be memorable (for me, anyway).</b><br />
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<b>When I was in the midst of making dinner on one such day off, my son asked me to come play Legos with him. I told him I couldn't because I was making dinner. He said, "Mama, why do you always have to work?" I told him I wasn't working, that it was my day off, and he said "No. Why do you always have to work in the kitchen when you're home?"</b></div>
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<b>I was equal parts relieved that he didn't ask something like, "Mama why are you always sitting on your ass doing nothing?" and sad that his impression of me was one of somebody who is always working, especially because the alternative was playing with him, and it didn't seem I'd made time for that.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I wish at least once a day (as I'm sure all working parents do) that I had more time during which I had no other obligation in the world but to be by my child's side. (For the record: I am not, in fact, always working in the kitchen. I wouldn't give myself that much credit. Yes, I make dinner most nights, but a lot of times "make" is a stretch. "Warm" would be more accurate.)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I wish I could spend a week inside my little guy's brain. I wish I could see and process the world the way he does. I wonder all the time how he makes sense of things, especially his family/living situation(s). What does he think is normal and how does he feel about whatever variation on the concept of normal he is living out?</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">A parent can ruminate regularly about how he or she is perceived by his/her child. We worry about which of their life's events stick out most clearly in their minds. How do they see us? Which of our words are most salient? It's just </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">like </i><span style="font-weight: bold;">a four-year-old to take the very weirdest interpretation of something that was said to him and report it to total strangers. When that version of things comes out--or even when the most accurate and objective version comes out--what will it sound like?</span><br />
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<tr><td><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-US-mpaerqRs/U0HT3QSwOsI/AAAAAAAACEo/8E912kQ10RE/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" height="251" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Kevin pointed out that we can actually be seen in Kalil's eyes in this photo, taken by Catfish Moore last year.</td></tr>
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<div>
<b>A few weeks back I had a rare day off with nothing to do but take Kalil to preschool and then hang out with him the whole rest of the day--just us. W</b><b>e were both craving pizza, so we grabbed one and headed to a nearby park that we had to ourselves for the moment.</b></div>
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<b>On the playground after lunch, my son said we should switch: he would be the Mama and I would be the son. For the next 10 minutes he went around the different playground structures and issued me instructions on what to do. "Climb up here, Sweetie," "Cross this bridge here, Sweetie," "Sweetie, follow me to the slide."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The "Sweetie" struck me; it was punctuating nearly every sentence. First I thought, 'dang, that's kind of annoying...is that really what I sound like?' (I hadn't realized how often the word came out of my mouth.) It was another kind of relief, though. One of the names my Dad reports having been called by his Father was <i>scheisskopf</i>, which is German for "shithead." Of course I'd rather him have a name like "Sweetie" come to his mind.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The other thing I noticed about our little role reversal was how Kalil kept saying encouraging things to me like "you're doing good," and "that's right." I was touched that this is how he saw his role, as the Mama (though I should have asked him a hundred thousand "why's" and made sure to be speaking and demanding attention at all times to give him the <u>full</u> experience of what it's like to be the Mom, eh?).</b><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Struggling that day as I was with the usual guilt about having to work the rest of the week, it was meaningful to me to learn that he sees me as a nice Mama during the time we do have together. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>As parents, we have to pull off a good deal of fake-it-'til-we-make-it type confidence. I <i>am</i> more confident since becoming a mother, for sure. But there's a lot I'm constantly wondering about..a good many decisions I make and then question, especially when it comes to discipline (I think good parents <i>do</i> always think a lot about these things. If we are just skating along thinking we're the best parents on the block, we've probably got major blind spots going on.) So it is reassuring to me to know I'm at least getting this part ok for the time being: he knows I love him; he is absorbing the tenderness I feel toward him, and he is aware that I say positive things to him...things that make him feel good about who he is or how he's doing things.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>He's four; his obligations to the world are few, for the time being. If he can know he is loved and supported (along with disciplined and taught lessons as well), we're good for now.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Maybe we should try this role-reversal thing once every couple of years just to check in on each other. </b><b>I bet I'd learn a lot about how this whole parenting thing is going.</b><br />
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<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: inherit;">Kevin's Sketch</span></h2>
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<span style="color: #eeeeee;"><b><span style="background-color: #444444; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">A Death Rose for Eunice.</span></b></span> </h3>
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<span style="color: #eeeeee;"><b><span style="background-color: #444444; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b></span><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><b><span style="background-color: #444444; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This being came out of the page today with charcoal while the A’s and Dodger’s played on the TV; I started off intending to draw a picture inspired by recurring dreams of great white sharks, then switched to doing a still life of a baseball, but then this emerged spontaneously. It reminds me of a mix of a flower and a bobbit worm (<i>Eunice</i> <i>aphroditois</i>), a predatory marine worm that can reach lengths of up to ten feet.</span></b></span></h3>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-84191952796712072382014-03-30T22:06:00.000-07:002014-03-30T23:15:15.757-07:00How to Never Ever Get Offended Again (If You Don't Want to) <b>The other day I was scrollin' on through my news feed on Facebook when I came across a notice that a friend of mine liked this image:</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Image posted on Facebook page titled Right Wing News</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b>
<b>Offensive, right? I'm supposed to be offended? Well, only if I'm a homosexual man or an LGBT-friendly person or a woman or a feminist (male or female) or a fan of logical argument or a gun-owner who doesn't subscribe to stereotypes or a PERSON who doesn't subscribe to stereotypes or somebody with the slightest inkling why a gun might reasonably make a person uncomfortable or a reader who thinks that a meme should at least be <i>funny</i> if that's what it's clearly intended to be. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Those possibilities notwithstanding, there was no danger of my being offended.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>After thinking about this thing for a bit, however, I concluded that the meme was not offensive. It was just dumb. Then </b><b>I got to thinking about the nature of taking offense in the first place. What does it mean to be offended?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>It seems to me that whether or not a person takes offense (experiences resentment, anger, displeasure, wounded feelings) has a lot to do with both that person's awareness of his or her faults, his or her strength of ego, and the strength of his or her convictions on matters of morality, social rights and wrongs, etc.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Here's what I mean:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>If a person says something to me that leaves me feeling insulted, I can react in two primary ways (internally, that is; there are infinitely many ways I could react outwardly as an expression of how I've decided to react internally).</b><br />
<ol>
<li><b>I can decide that what the person said is true, based on what I know of myself</b></li>
<li><b>I can decide that what the person said is not true, based on what I know of myself</b></li>
</ol>
<div>
<b>That is not the end of the story, of course. I can be upset that somebody said something to me that is not true. In this case, the person is unaware, unperceptive, dishonest or is lashing out. All of these possibilities have to do with the nature of the other person. There is no reason for me to internalize the issues of another person.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>Alternately, I can be upset that this person said something that was true that I didn't want to think about or was hoping nobody had noticed. In this case, what the person said was not offensive. What he or she said was unpleasant to face.</b></div>
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<b>I can be upset about the way the person chose to express whatever was expressed. This is the nearest thing to being offended that makes sense in my mind. Again, however, a person's lack of sensitivity or tact or kindness or manners speaks of that person, not the recipient of the person's uncivil communication technique. And what I am feeling seems more accurately described as <i>hurt</i>, not offended. </b><br />
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<b>This all came into focus for me a few years ago when a person said some unflattering things about me in a semi-public way. It smarted at first. I didn't like being described or even thought of in the way this person had described me. But after some reflection, I decided that part of what was said was true, and while I disagreed with other parts, I did not think it unimaginable that the speaker's perception of me was honestly expressed, based on that person's limited exposure to me. </b><b>I felt momentarily annoyed, yes, but taking offense would have been a reaction unworthy of my own ability to face truth, on more than one level. And even if the person was just trying to be mean, it's on that person to live with what life as a mean person looks like (and we ALL have our mean moments; I'm no exception).</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What is the point of expressing offense, anyway? Is one looking for a retraction? Is one looking to change the expressed opinion of the speaker/doer? To say one is offended seems like plea of sorts: "Stop saying things I don't like to hear," "Stop saying things I don't agree with," "Do or say something that will make me feel better."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>How much happier all of us would be if we just took responsibility for our own feelings and didn't ask such things of others.</b><br />
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<div>
<b>Of course there will always be people who <u>live</u> to claim they're offended--who take offense at the slightest of so-called "slights." These people will not be calmed or dissuaded or talked off the ledge. That's clear. And my argument isn't for them.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>My argument is for people who like to find happy places in their lives and stay awhile. They enjoy feeling that they are not easily ruffled, their equilibrium not so easily messed with.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>On the personal front, I believe: <i>a person who has dedicated time and energy to understanding herself, who is aware of her faults and misgivings and weaknesses/lamenesses and the motives behind the things she does, who is comfortable in her own skin and forgiving of her own and others' imperfections can never be offended by something said to/about her regarding her actions or her character traits.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>But what about impersonal matters? The gun-lovin' meme I posted above is not about something personal. Not to me, anyway. So it's a question of whether or not I'm going to give some random, anonymous meme-maker enough credit to find his/her opinion offensive.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>For me, whether or not to take offense on at-large matters outside of the personal realm comes down to this:</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>Q: Do I believe with conviction that what was said is true?</b><br />
<b>A: No. I know with conviction it is not true or I am reasonably comfortable with the belief that it is not true. I am not offended because somebody has simply said something untrue.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>Q: </b><b>Do I believe with conviction that what was said is true?</b><br />
<b>A: Yes, it is true. It was not offensive to hear the truth. It was uncomfortable. The feeling I am left with is undesirable. I will think about something else or I will revisit my beliefs on the subject to see whether or not they are in need of revision.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>Q: </b><b>Do I believe with conviction that what was said is true?</b><br />
<b>A: I'm not sure. I don't like what was said, but I can't say for sure whether or not there is truth to it. It is not right to take offense because I have not devoted enough serious thought to the matter. But I am uncomfortable enough that I know I need to think on it some more. (This is not to say that one should take offense once one <i>has</i> devoted serious thought to the matter...my thought is that when one decides to devote serious thought to matters in general, taking offense may be an action that feels wasteful of his or her time and energy.)</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>Q: </b><b>Do I believe with conviction that what was said is true?</b><br />
<b>A: Yes, it is probably true, but I don't like they way it was said. It was expressed unkindly and disrespectfully and I take offense to it. (Fine. Be offended if you will. Be hurt. Feeling this way cannot always be avoided. An alternate choice would be to think, 'What an ass,' and be done with it).</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>So on impersonal matters, like opinions about societal issues expressed in a public realm, I believe: <i>a person who is confident in her beliefs and stances and who understands the complexity of human affairs and who knows there is little-to-no likelihood of billions of people from different perspectives coming to consensus can never be offended by something expressed in a public realm about a societal issue. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And this is not to say there aren't important times for calls to action. If whoever subscribed to the position expressed in the above meme were going around pistol-whipping homosexuals, something would need to be done. But clicking and cutting a pasting and posting does not warrant enough of a response for me to take offense. I've already spent more time contemplating the thing than I should have. But I use it as an example and to illustrate a point.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Working in customer service (especially in behind-counter/desk roles), I am often in the situation where I'm trapped listening to somebody's spiel about something and I am not at liberty in my job role to respond with my own opinion. Smile And Nod is the unspoken official policy. It's nauseating at times, but it's gotten me into the practice of letting things roll off my back. I've found that the less time I spend dwelling on something another person said that irritated me, the happier <i>I </i>am.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I'm starting to think one of life's greatest lessons is about spending as little energy as possible in an annoyed state. And it's not about burying one's head in the sand and pretending all is well when it isn't. It's about knowing what edifies versus what chips away at one's soul/sense of well-being.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I am not an unfeeling robot and I don't live in an unaffected/unaffect-able bubble. Things definitely get under my skin. But as I get older and my priorities shift, those moments are briefer and are felt less acutely. I eventually realize I'm more bothered with myself for being bothered than I am insulted, outraged, offended. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Because here's the thing about taking offense: when you take offense, you allow somebody to have control over how you feel. You've effectively said that another person's words or deeds are more potent than your own sense of self or strength of convictions.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Why hand over that kind of power?</b><br />
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<span style="color: #45818e;">Kevin's Sketch</span></h3>
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #eeeeee; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">M</span><span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">itral Portal.</span></span></b><span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc;"><b><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></b></span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify;">Inspired by the amazing mitral valve of the heart, and specifically one from an amazing human being named Karl Konrad, whom just had his mitral valve repaired. I wonder how many times this valve has opened and closed in Karl's big heart so far, and with the aid of technology, how many more times it will now be able to open and close in his lifetime. The mitral valve, being so crucial to life itself, appears so strangely delicate and fragile- it's amazing to me that all this organic machinery operates within us every moment we are alive on this Earth, yet we are hardly aware of its existence in our very own bodies! Thank you Karl, and here's to a healthy heart of yours.</span></b></span></h3>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-63616408923038159992014-03-22T07:43:00.002-07:002014-03-22T10:03:34.708-07:00Other People's Money<b>While I was away from work last week, my company announced a special one-day offer that would take place the day after I started back (this happens once or twice per year). We were offering a modest cash incentive to new customers who opened a checking account or customers who made a deposit of $10,000 into an existing savings account.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I couldn't have imagined how many people would drop in for the second part of that offer. What's 10K between financial institutions, after all?</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I've realized, by the way, that this is the way people become rich: they never pass up an opportunity for free money; they never ever pay a fee if they can get out of it; they live like they need the money, even if by outward appearances they don't.</b><br>
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<b>Those of us who struggle with money (I would like to imagine myself *formerly* belonging to this category, though it's a journey, y'all!) usually have the mindset that rich people don't need to run around town moving money here and there just for a (comparably meager) cash reward. We imagine they have more important things to do with their time at that point. But we forget that this is how they got wealthy in the first place and this is how many of them will continue to secure their financial futures.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>I have mad respect for the practice (as long as it doesn't involve dishonest means), though I don't know that I have the discipline (working on that too).</b><br>
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<b>Anyway, it was a busy day for all the bankers. My coworkers had last week to call customers and book appointments, but there was plenty of walk-in, word-of-mouth traffic to keep me busy for the day as well. There was a lot of bustle, a lot of money changing hands, a whole lot of chatter making the place feel all abuzz.</b><br>
<b><br>Money. Money. Money.</b><br>
<br>
<strong>Later in the afternoon, when a relative calm had settled in, I met an entirely different kind of customer.</strong>
<strong>No giant money bags dropped off in her case. It was a woman who had been divorced for a few years and who had ruined her credit in the process of untangling her married life. She and her ex had both filed for bankruptcy, and the last time she tried to open a checking count, she was denied. (A lot of people aren't aware it's even possible to be denied a checking account, but it happens on the rare occasion, when things have gone *that* awry.)</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>This customer had been great to talk to...super down to earth and sincere. When she told me about her recent financial troubles and finally leaned in, quietly and in confidence to say "I don't even know if I can GET a checking account at this point," I wanted nothing more than to be the one to deliver her good news.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>I've been there.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>Well, maybe not quite THERE, but not far from there. I had major credit issues at one point. Two past-due credit card bills during my dirt-poor college days were enough to get me on The Naughty List. I did a debt consolidation at age 25 (my total debt at that point was roughly $2,300 or so, but at the time it seemed insurmountable), and it took me about 3 years of payments and 4 additional years of good behavior to rebuild what I'd so carelessly let fall into disrepair. I <em>know</em> what it feels like to have creditors give you a collective middle finger and the loud-and-clear message: You Suck! I'd earned it.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>So when this customer sheepishly admitted her own sad state of financial affairs to me and said she would love to open an account that day...if she could...I immediately formed a cheer squad for her in my mind--a team of tiny, enthusiastic, financially responsible little rah rahs who (I firmly believed) had the power to turn the tides.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>I input her information and held my breath as I hit the "submit" key.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>Wait...wait...waaaaaaaaait...</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>Wah wah waaaaaaaaaaah.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>But no. This wasn't the red box kiss-of-death screen. This was the definitely maybe, we're willing to consider the possibility screen. There was a number I could call and, on the other end of the line, an unnamed, faceless wizard who would review the customer's information and send forth a Gladiator-like thumb signal.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>This time we both held our breath while we awaited the verdict.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>"Ok," said the voice on the line, bored out of her mind. "We can go ahead and approve the override. Just enter the following information..." This was just another tick mark on one side of the 50/50 response options representing the whole of this woman's daily reportings.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>It meant slightly more to my customer and me.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>I smiled ridiculously when I responded "that's <em>great!</em>" and I looked at the customer with a little "yaaaaaay" in my gaze.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>Setting up that account was more interesting and meaningful and special to me than almost anything I've done in my new position (though there have been some thought-provoking doozies). I could feel her fresh-start sense of relief and rebirth. I knew she was going to leave with a better outlook on the future. And I felt privileged to be party to that scene.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>What I really enjoy about my job is that it's all about people. The vast majority in this country need accounts at some kind of financial institution to hold or manage their funds, which means I get to meet and sit down with the wide, wide array of folks living and making money (or living off the money somebody else made), which is endlessly fascinating to me.</strong><br>
<strong></strong><br>
<strong>Financial business is often related to big life moments. I watched once as a mom took pictures of her 18-year-old daughter, a college student who was opening her first checking account (she was crying all the while; I could totally relate to that mama), and I've sat with several people who'd just lost loved ones or were dealing with loved ones' terminal illnesses. I opened a first joint checking account for a newlywed couple just starting out on their journey together. And then, of course, there are the custodial savings accounts for the babies.</strong><div><strong><br></strong></div><div><strong>Oof...the whole cycle of life is there and I love--in that voyeuristic way I have--to be able to view little glimpses of these lives.</strong></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-39549833362804111152014-03-16T23:19:00.000-07:002014-03-16T23:33:15.736-07:00The Broken Heart (Part 2): Mended<b>What a week it's been.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Last Saturday my parents hosted a little dinner at their house as a well-wishing send off. Kevin and his folks, Gavin and Kalil and I gathered around to break bread and chat. We also had an oddly good time taking each others' blood pressure and listening to each others' heartbeats on the new stethoscope my Ma gave my Dad as a surgery gift. She wanted him to be able to listen to the difference before and after (when the swooshing effect of the inefficient prolapse would be absent).</b><br />
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<b>My brother flew in Sunday morning and the two of us took my Dad to brunch for some special Dadio/Kiddo time and to say some things we'd wanted to say to him. As I wrote last week, we all felt fortunate to have this surgery pre-scheduled and to have time to reflect on the gravity of it before it was upon us.</b><br />
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<b>Monday morning the boys and I roused ourselves at 3am to get to the hospital in SF for my Pa's 5am check-in. There were two hours during which we were allowed to follow him to various waiting rooms and make typical Konrad light of everything. What a weird scene: dozens of sleepy-eyed patients scooting around the floors waiting to be put under and relatives ready to be those awaiting the news that the put-underee had been brought back to.</b><br />
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<b>There was a palpable feeling of unease, of nervous laughter: the odd, rare-in-a-lifetime sensation of putting the entirety of one's trust in a system and a group of people. I tried to imagine what going to work must feel like when your *every day* job is to stop people's hearts for a few hours and fix those hearts while machinery keeps them alive. Not gonna be signing up for that one.</b><br />
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<b>But my GOD, how great that people do. Do you ever wonder (because I always do) who was the <i>first </i>person to volunteer for a pioneering procedure? I mean doctor <u>or</u> patient. Like, who was the first person who said, "yes, I understand this has never been done to a human before, but why don't you go ahead and aim that laser into my EYE and see if that fixes my vision problems?" Crazy.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Anyway, I'm happy there are doctors and patients out there willing to take one (in this case: set of microscopic instruments and a camera to the heart) for the team. A few years of perfecting later and people like my Dad can roll into a San Francisco hospital on a casual Monday morning and roll back out with a heart as good as new.</b><br />
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<b>But I'm getting ahead of myself...</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>As the hours wore by Monday morning and I wondered why the surgery was taking so long, my Mom, Aunt Rose, Brother, Kevin, Kalil and I whiled away the time, in and out of sleep. About 30 seconds before we were able to head up to the ICU upon the news that my Dad had come out of surgery, a magical volunteer appeared to offer us snacks, word puzzle books, beverages, all kinds of creature comforts. Where was SHE all morning?!</b><br />
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<b>No matter, we were on the move anyway.</b><br />
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<b>The ICU is a trippy place. I mean that mostly because many of the people in there are all tripped out on the remnants of powerful anesthesia. When we visited my Dad, he was super sweet to my Mama, telling her how much he loved her and how he'd missed her so much (during the 6 hours he was out, I guess he meant). He told me how he loved Kevin and was so happy I had brought him into our family. He made silly jokes and laughed the goofiest laugh (a slowly delivered HAAAAA followed by a long, eyes-closed pause, following everything he perceived to be funny). All this was uttered in a loopy-time voice of sleepy, altered state, probably mixed in with a good measure of happy-to-be-alive.</b><br />
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<b>That went for all of us. The relief of learning your loved one's heart has started up again just fine and that he is awake and with his wits about him--it's not something that can be measured. And it was an honor to see my father in that state: vulnerable and sincere and with guard all the way down. It was an honor to see the love between my parents following one of strangest/scariest few hours in my family's history.</b><br />
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<b>The days since that day have passed lazily (for all but my Dad, who's been dutifully walking the halls to get on the road to healing). We've hung around the hospital room: iPad-ing and Lego-ing and snacking. </b><br />
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<b>For all our time in The City we saw little but the hallways and the cafeteria and the inside of the cabs we've taken from Kaiser to the hotel. Kalil got a big kick out of that, the taxi ride portion of the evening. He also became entranced by the late night exercise infomercials that came on the in the hotel room as we were settling in. I can't help but wonder how he'll make sense of this week in his future mind. What will stick out?</b><br />
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<div>
<b>With my Dad's return home waylaid by a long two days and my parents <i>finally</i> safely tucked away under their own roof, this is what now sticks out for me:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>In the home of my parents' lovely neighbors, Mark and Sharon, this afternoon (Sharon was giving Kevin and me a tour of their beautiful recent renovations), this is what I was thinking about...I was thinking about all the little things that it's so nice to think about my Dad being present for. Sharon pointed out a light fixture my Dad had helped them install (because he's one of the most helpful people I've ever known), and I thought about how many marks of a similar nature he's left on this planet. All week long I would have thoughts like 'when we move the cars, Dad can drive one car down to the hotel...oh wait...Dad can't drive to the hotel,' or 'when we go to Kalil's t-ball game Sunday Dad will want to get a picture with the Monkey...oh wait...Dad won't be there for Kalil's game...'</b><br />
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<b>My Dad is one of life's true participants. He's a joiner-in. A player-along. He is game. He is up for it. Down with it. He says yes--a whole lot of the time. In any way my Dad can be involved, he will be. Happily and enthusiastically. People like that deserve as much time as possible to show the rest of us a thing or two. They deserve decades of loving and learning and laughter and dancing with everybody's great aunt at the wedding just to remind them of their youths.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>If you didn't read it through my words by now: I love my Dad. I love him big time. And I am so happy to share that he emerged from the hospital this morning a stronger man than he was went he went in--in more ways than one. His heart has been strengthened and will hopefully give us all numerous decades more. His spirit has been strengthened not only because he now knows he can come through a life event like this with grace, but because it has been fortified with all the love and concern and well-wishes of those whose lives my Dadio's life has touched--people who are better for knowing him, a list of names I am grateful to be among.</b><br />
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<b>Happy healing, Popalo Jones. May you enjoy the well-earned rest.</b><br />
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Kevin's Sketch</span></b></h3>
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<b>Mitral Portal (in progress)</b></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: inherit;"><b style="background-color: black;">This work in progress is inspired by the amazing mitral valve, and specifically one from an amazing human being named Karl Konrad. I wonder how many times this valve has opened and closed in Karl's big heart so far, and with the aid of technology, how many more times it will now be able to open and close in his lifetime. The mitral valve, being so crucial to life itself, appears so strangely delicate and fragile--it's amazing to me that this organic machinery operates within us every moment we are alive on this Earth, yet we are hardly aware of its existence in our very own bodies! Thank you Karl, and here's to a healthy heart of yours.</b></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-77108295198534487202014-03-08T07:07:00.000-08:002014-03-08T12:20:05.499-08:00The Broken Heart (Part 1)<b>This week I've got hearts on my mind. Or heart, to be more specific. It's just the one heart I'm thinking about: my Dad's, which is broken. Technically speaking, anyway.</b><br>
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<b><br></b></div>
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<b>Late last year, after suddenly having both arms go numb and feeling pain in his chest when going from a sitting to standing position, he had his heart checked and learned he has a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitral_valve_prolapse" target="_blank">Mitral Valve Prolapse</a>. Basically, the valve carrying blood from his heart's left atrium to the left ventricle is damaged.</b></div>
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<b>The good news is that doctors caught this issue early enough that he can get the valve repaired rather than replaced; the still-disconcerting news is that my Dad is having heart surgery.</b></div>
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<b>This is shocking to me. If you know my Dad, you know that he is the Fountain of Youth poster man, in looks and in <i>out</i>look. He is always full of energy, active, upbeat, outgoing...always looking to learn something new, improve himself, to gain a fresh perspective. At age fifty-seven, he looks like a youngish forty-five.</b><br>
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<b>"Karl Konrad" and "heart surgery" just don't seem like concepts of a shared realm.</b><br>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and the boys, Alameda County Fair 2012</td></tr>
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<b>But this condition is congenital, meaning that all the good behaviors he displays, like exercising regularly and into above-and-beyond levels of challenge (YOU try cycling to the top of Mt. Diablo! (not that I have)) would not have had a chance at preventing its occurrence. This part was actually good news for my Dad. As long as nobody has told him to step away from the bacon, he's good.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>But that's the thing with my Dad, see. It's all good. But I mean really...it's ALL good. Everything that comes his way: it's a challenge rather than a problem. It's an adventure. An opportunity. And he really means it. These are not euphemisms employed for the sake of others. Or if they are, he's really, <i>really</i> good at selling them. In the end, does it make a difference? The outcome is the same: he rolls with whatever life sends him like no other person I've known, with the exception of my Mom, and in the end he arrives at a better place than he was before the challenge/adventure/opportunity came his way.</b><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dadio and Mamala, Feb 2014</td></tr>
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<b>Together, my parents are a formidably forward-thinking and undeterred pair. They will always find the bright side and present a solid game face.</b><br>
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<b>At the moment, I'm feeling a little confused on how to process the reality of what's going on. There's part of me that's thinking 'Heart surgery. y'all! This is some scary shit!!' And then the other part of me looks to my Dad and Mom's example and thinks 'this is a bump in the road...how fortunate that the problem was discovered now, when new and innovative, minimally invasive microscopic surgery is an option.'</b><br>
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<b>And maybe what I've been missing is that there is room for both of these feelings. They don't have to be at odds with each other--as if I needed to choose between them. Yes, heart surgery is scary, AND there is cause to celebrate and think positively.</b><br>
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<b>The other day I called my Dad to ask about his pre-op appointment. As he talked cheerfully and with gratitude about how thorough and informative the staff was during the hours-long orientation process, all I could think of was the 5am check-in time. I pictured a first wave of visitors there to wish him well...my Aunt Rose (Mom's best friend since 3rd grade and a super knowledgeable Nurse Practitioner--two levels of support!), my brother, my son, my boyfriend and me. </b><br>
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<b>Then I pictured all of us gone and my Mom remaining there. I thought of 38 years of marriage boiled down to this moment (don't they all, every marriage, eventually lead to one final moment? I've had this thought before and it's blown my mind).</b><br>
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<b>We all know that, statistically speaking, my Dad's surgery will go smoothly and everything will turn out just fine. We all know the odds. And yet we also know that there are outlier cases and complications and there are moments one must seize upon. Not everybody has the chance to have words with his beloved in the minutes just before heart surgery (so many of these surgeries take place following an emergency). What will they say to each other in those moments? What is that going to feel like for each of them? It makes my own heart feel tender to think about it.</b><br>
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<b>And I admit this has been one of the more difficult subjects for me to write about. It's not often that I have difficulty finding words. It's not often my family confronts a life event of this magnitude either, so I suppose it is fitting.</b><br>
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<b>If you are reading this, I would like to ask that you keep my Dad in your thoughts and prayers (if you make them). I know that he has so much yet to contribute to this world...so many laughs to experience and inspire (love you, Dadio), so many things to teach me and all of us who know him.</b><br>
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<b>I can't wait to see him take on a heaping, post-ride pile of something greasy on the other end of all of this.</b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-76156609899915848922014-03-01T07:27:00.000-08:002014-03-01T21:27:36.078-08:00In the Absence of My Own Elderly Veteran Grandfathers...<b>At work last week, I briefly met an elderly veteran who looked like my boyfriend Kevin in his youth. When I shared this with Kevin later that night, he asked if I asked the man which branch of the military he'd served in. I hadn't.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>"You might want to ask when you talk to those guys ["those guys" being veterans who wore hats or buttons--like this man had--identifying themselves as such]. A lot of them are proud of their service and would like to talk about it," he said. I knew what he meant. I'd gotten the sense that man would have liked to share more. And Kevin's advice--which landed well on my ears given that he is himself a Marine veteran--stuck with me.</b><br>
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<b>The very next day I was walking through the lobby of my work when I noticed an elderly man seated, wearing a Korean War Veteran hat. I asked him about his service, and without a moment's hesitation he said, "Army, infantry." He began to tell me about his injuries--he'd been shot twice right off the boat (the boat that transported him there). "Purple Heart," I said. "That's right." The man said a few things more and then suddenly he was teary-eyed.</b><br>
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<b>"Thank you for talking to me," he said.</b><br>
<b><br></b>
<b>Thank you for talking to me.</b><br>
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<b>Suddenly I was teary, too...a little taken aback. I'm new to my work location, and I'd seen this same man seated in the same seat last week as well. Did he come in every week and sit drinking coffee in that spot, longing to talk? If so, how often did he have a listener? The experience was eye-opening for me, and it prepared me a bit for what was to happen the day after that...</b><br>
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<tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HB0jgcDuf_E/UxHYXqYBfwI/AAAAAAAACB8/48TQetPTKHM/s1600/Vets2_Kisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HB0jgcDuf_E/UxHYXqYBfwI/AAAAAAAACB8/48TQetPTKHM/s1600/Vets2_Kisa.jpg" height="213" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Image Credit: Catfish Moore, 2014</td></tr>
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<b>I was sitting at my desk when I saw a man passing through the lobby with a walker at an excruciatingly slow pace. I asked if I could help him, to which he said, "yes...I need to sit down and talk to somebody." It took at least five minutes for him to make his way to my cubicle, where he collapsed into a chair with a loud and weary groan.</b><br>
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<b>In low tones--so low I strained to hear--and with an exhaustion I can only with futility grasp at understanding, he told me about his predicament. His 94-year-old wife was recently admitted to the hospital. In the ensuing difficulty and confusion he'd lost track of his finances. He just wanted it all straightened out.</b><br>
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<b>This man also happened to be wearing a veteran's hat (there is a <a href="http://www.vfw9601.org/" target="_blank">VFW hall</a> down the street from my work and a lot of elderly veterans live in the area). As I worked through his financial stuff, he began to talk about his service...his World War II service as a Combat Medic.</b><br>
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<b>I would like to write more, in greater detail about the things this man told me that afternoon, but it wouldn't be prudent to do so without his permission. The things he told me landed heavily and stayed, thick in my mind and my heart. What stands out most was his telling me how he longed to forget. How for 70 years he has longed to forget the things he saw and all he tried to do but couldn't.</b><br>
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<b>He was emotional. Then he was incredibly apologetic for being so emotional. Apologetic for taking my time and for talking so much. Apologetic for needing help.</b><br>
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<b>I wish there were a way to accurately show a stranger what is going on inside one's mind. I wish there were a way for me to tell him so I <i>knew</i> he believed me that it was an honor beyond measure to be in conversation with this man and to be able to help him.</b><br>
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<b>I told him both my grandfathers had passed away and that I could no longer listen to their stories. <a href="http://www.monkeygal.blogspot.com/2006/10/on-forgetting-and-remembering.html" target="_blank">My maternal grandfather</a> had been in the Air Force but (stationed in Goose Bay, Labrador), his service time stories were lighthearted--of playing drums in the band for the dances they held and goofing around in the snow. My paternal grandfather--German, immigrating here after the war...I hadn't dared to ask (but oh, how I wish I had...now). Newly reminded of the dearth in elderly family members in my own life to listen to and learn from...I was emotional as well.</b><br>
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<b>At some point in our conversation, I'd told my customer about my 4-year-old son. In the end, he took my hand in his and looked in my eyes and told me to take good care of the boy. He told me to read to him every night and to make sure he gets a good education and just to take good, good care of him. Jesus I'm crying now just thinking about it.</b><br>
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<b>I wonder if people say things like that when they know they could have and should have been taken better care of themselves. I thought all about how little we as a society knew about PTSD for so many years, and how few resources there were available for the majority of these veterans' lives...these men who'd seen and experienced some of the worst things a person can see and experience.</b><br>
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<b>Over the years I've had strong opinions about the wars of my lifetime. I've felt they were unjustified, imperialistic, wildly unnecessary. I don't feel the same about the wars these men were involuntarily drafted into. But I hate that these men were sent away so young to fight in these wars and that they have been so thoroughly haunted, for so long, as a result.</b><br>
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<b>And it's painful to contemplate that these men are left feeling thankful just because a person listened to them. Maybe I'm reading too much into it--after all, most of us feel thankful when we feel we've been listened to. But I can't help but additionally think about the general invisibility of the elderly to the (unseeing) eyes of many young people. I know this is not an original thought. Plenty has been made of the lack of regard we as Americans hold our elderly society members in, especially relative to other cultures. It's not an original thought but I think it's one that bears considering and repeating once in a while.</b><br>
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<b>That customer I sat with had to know that--as much as I may take his words seriously and trust in the wisdom of his experience--I can't possibly <i>know</i> what he truly means or have a clue how life feels, from his perspective looking out. On a daily basis I understand things about my parents and their lives that I couldn't have absorbed as a younger person. But I did want him to know I was listening and taking note. I wanted him to know I respected him, honored his service (and, apart from his service, his <i>life</i> experience), that I could have listened for many more hours.</b><br>
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<b>And as corny and trite and uncharacteristically patriotic as it may sound for me to say so: I want to give thanks to all the servicemen and servicewomen who have made unimaginable sacrifices, voluntarily or otherwise, on behalf of this country. I will keep striving to see them and to listen and to learn from them. I consider every opportunity to do so a gift.</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-47206183489473365262014-02-21T18:33:00.000-08:002014-02-21T18:35:49.809-08:00Contemplating the Shitty Valentine<b>Last week I was sitting down at the kitchen table with my 4-year-old son, who was making out his valentines. I'd written his classmates' names on the envelopes, and he was signing individual cards. I picked an envelope up. "This one's gonna be for Axel,*" I said (*names changed to protect the obnoxious).</b><br />
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<b>"But why, Mama?" he asked. "He's a bad boy and he hits the other kids."</b><br />
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<b>I'm told we don't say that kids are bad anymore. The kids we referred to as "bad" when I was young are now "behaving inappropriately" or "making bad choices." I can dig it.</b><br />
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<b>"Axel's not a bad boy," I said. "He doesn't listen and sometimes he does things that aren't nice, but we're still going to give him a valentine." It felt a little weird coming out of my mouth, like if I'd said to my own son, "you kick me daily and haven't eaten your dinner in weeks, but I still made you a giant cookie."</b><br />
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<b>My son obliged without pushback, and I watched as he folded a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles card into the envelope, slid the mini Leonardo eraser in, and sealed it up with red 3 heart stickers, clumsily placed.</b><br />
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<b>Young Axel got a valentine identical to that of all the other kids.</b><br />
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<b>This incident came up the following day when my co-worker told me of a similar experience she'd had with her own 5-year-old son the night before. She said one child in her son's class is mean to all his classmates and always disobeys the teacher. She discovered her son had made this rotten-acting kid what she referred to as "a shitty valentine"--no frills (other kids got the glitter treatment), sloppy and crooked handwriting.</b><br />
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<b>She was upset when she saw the card and made her son do it over again, nicely this time. Equally.</b><br />
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<b>In talking about it, I started to question the wisdom in our decisions to shove this equality down our children's throats.</b><br />
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<b>First, I wondered about the message I was sending my son by asking him to accept that Axel hits kids at random and distracts the class from the teacher to the point of nausea (I've been there; I've seen), to ignore whatever feelings he has in reaction to that, and to make Axel a valentine that sent the same message he was sending the sweet little girl that gives him big, squishy bear hugs when she sees him. Same message he sent to his teacher, who is kind to him and teaches him valuable lessons and is endeared by and supportive of him.</b><br />
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<b>But...I understand <i>why</i> we do these things. I understand that, as parents, we are highly sensitive to the idea of our own child causing another child pain. We picture the look that would flash across our own son's face at the realization that he'd been left out. Deliberately ignored. Intentionally shunned. We can't bear the thought that something our own child would do could leave another kid feeling that way.</b><br />
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<b>And it seems too big a conversation to have with a pre-kindergartner.</b><br />
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<b>I had a friend who'd studied the hell out of philosophy and conversation with whom challenged a lot of my preconceived and internalized-through-awareness-of-societal-wide-acceptance-of-them notions. One of these was the idea of unconditional love. "All love--except maybe the love of a parent to a child--is conditional," he said. And rightfully, necessarily so, he added.</b><br />
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<b>After some consideration, I agreed. What would my love for my friends or honies mean if it remained static, regardless of what they did or didn't do, regardless of how they treated me and others?</b><br />
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<b>I contemplated this thought and pictured myself saying "ok yes, my man murdered my favorite family member, but I've declared my love for him, and love--after all--is unconditional." That's an extreme example, of course, but the example needn't be. The idea remains the same: Love should NOT be unconditional. Yes, love accepts another's faults and forgives a lot of fuck-ups. It gives the benefit of the doubt and sees the best in and begins anew, again and again. But what a person does matters. What a person does or doesn't do, again and again and again, over time? It<i> matters</i>.</b><br />
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<b>What age is the right age to begin imparting that message? If my son, at age 9, gave a valentine to a mean child who'd issued him a beating the day before, wouldn't I be concerned?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Perhaps, in the 4-year-old's era of Valentine's Day parties attended by parents, each child taking turns passing out the booty to each other semi-circled child, it *would* be a tad blatant--the omission of one among them. As my boyfriend (who's been all through this with his now-12-year-old son) pointed out, there comes an age when the kids only give cards to the kids they like and nobody even flinches; preschool is not it.</b><br />
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<b>But I think there is a healthy middle ground to be found for the time being.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I think that if my son had done what my co-worker's son did and I gave it a few more moments of thought before reacting on auto-drive, I might let him go with the shitty valentine. The shitty valentine says, "Yes, I'm going to include you because to exclude you would be rude and unkind, but this is pretty much how I feel in response to your treatment of me and my friends." Just, you know, in a 4-year-old way.</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-udtZDnqodRk/UwdfxjgdE4I/AAAAAAAACBY/XZKZyn8QR6U/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-udtZDnqodRk/UwdfxjgdE4I/AAAAAAAACBY/XZKZyn8QR6U/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" height="244" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*Frienemy valentine shown for illustrative purposes only; do not send your child to school with this ;)</td></tr>
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<b><br /></b>
<b>I think this approach honors the idea that even a small child can and should respect his feelings and react to others in a way that is genuine, rather than obligatory. As my father-in-law-ish put it when I brought the topic up with him: A valentine should <i>mean</i> something.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The shitty valentine means, "You can do better, buddy." Maybe the message is even a little better received when it comes from a peer. It illustrates the law of actions/consequences that teachers strive so much to drive home. If it's possible...just a *little* bit possible that the endless equality practice of recent decades has contributed to the Millennial all-entitled-all-the-time phenomenon (as so many old schoolers have suggested), perhaps this valentine practice needs a little overhaul.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Even if, for now, the children are required by unspoken law (and maybe even for the best) to distribute their declarations of (something related to) love to every child in the class, I will begin the conversation with my child. I want him to know that he is not obligated to like people who treat him badly. He doesn't have to ignore what his intuitive senses are telling him about right and wrong and how what a person puts out into the world comes back to him or her.</b><br />
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<b>I can't help but think that this conversational seed planted now, in the ultra-tender soil of his preschooler heart, may serve him well in the years to come.</b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #45818e;">Kevin's Sketch</span></b></h3>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b style="text-align: justify;">Ernst Haeckel.</b><span style="text-align: justify;"> I just finished reading <i>The Tragic Sense of Life: Ernst Haeckel and the Struggle over Evolutionary Thought</i>, a book which details the life of this amazing 19<sup>th</sup>century biologist and artist. Ernst was the first to coin terms like ‘ecology’ and ‘phylogeny’ and in any discussion of art and science, his name invariably comes up, as he was one of the first to approach nature from both lines of inquiry. Pictured are some of the critters he spent a lot of time with, the iconic jellyfish, above them, the radiolarians and hanging over his head are the three infamous sandal stage embryos (dog, chicken and a turtle—<i>see how similar they are</i>?!).</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8616369125186782996.post-72646156628914475702014-02-16T10:39:00.000-08:002014-02-16T10:40:56.526-08:00What I've Learned About Love, So Far<b>I didn't set out to write a blog post about love in honor of Valentine's Day. I started this post weeks ago and had a very early draft waiting in the wings. But why not post it this week? Why not join in, pay homage to, play along with: love? What else on earth could we all be clawing so fiercely through this life to find and hold?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What...if not love?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>It is not within me to make declarations about what love should be, what it needs to look like--a grand, sweeping guideline. But it's been on my mind to share some things about what I've learned about love, <i>for me</i>. One thing I've never wanted to do in life is to simply go and go and go and go and get to the end and think, 'hmm, okay, done now.' I want to grow along the way. I want to have thoughts like, 'well that sucked...never gonna do things like that again' or 'yes! THIS I could use more of in my life.'</b><br />
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<b>My take on this could always change, of course. Hopefully I will learn much more along the way, too. But these are some thoughts on the subject of (romantic) love, for the here and now:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Love is wanting to hear another person's stories. It's archiving them and referencing them later. From Kevin I've learned that it's also adopting your loved one's family's nicknames for her and calling her by them. It's relishing the childhood version of your loved one, wanting to know all about it. It's never passing up a chance to meet somebody who knew your honey back in the day, just so you can ask what he or she was like back then.</b><br />
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<b>Love is conspiring together.</b><br />
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<b>Somebody said "love means never having to say you're sorry." What a load of horseshit! Love strives to make things right, to atone, to get good with. Sometimes, "I'm sorry" is definitely in order. Love is also taking responsibility for one's part in the messed-up things and owning one's own feelings.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>From the Bible (there's some really good stuff in there): Love is, indeed, patient and kind. Love can wait all damned day. It can wait many days. It says kind words and means them. It pains at having caused its object pain. It is careful to be gentle, when gentleness is what will avoid causing unnecessary pain.</b><br />
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<b>Love does not find <i>every </i>quirk endearing, but love absolutely gathers all the quirks in closely and says, "ok guys, it won't always be easy or pretty, but we're gonna learn to live together."</b><br />
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<b>From my in-laws of sorts (including Catfish Moore, who did the above illustration--thank you, Catfish!), I have learned that love is worth getting right, even if it comes a little later in life...that true love at any age can make you giggly and sparkly-eyed.</b><br />
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<b>In love, the time spent in joy far exceeds that spent in pain, sadness, tears, confusion, or doubt (about one's self or the relationship). There is always the potential for pain and sadness when a person opens her heart, but love does not leave room for these to be the prevailing emotions for long.</b><br />
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<b>Love continues to find its object fascinating. Love is endless curiosity.</b><br />
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<b>Some have said that you treat your loved ones the worst, because you can. I disagree. I think that maybe you let your loved ones see the worst of you at times because you trust them. But you <u>treat</u> them better than anybody in the world, because they deserve it and because that's how you show that love is not once-granted and then <i>taken for granted</i>. Love esteems and holds in high regard, even when the going is rough. </b><br />
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<b>From my parents, among so many other things about love, I've learned that it laughs often, with and at. It knows that teasing is a way to show your loved one that you <i>see</i> him, goofy parts and all, and that you love him through them all.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Love tells the truth--respectfully, tactfully, lovingly.</b><br />
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<b>Love wants to build upon itself; it wants to create; it longs to combine forces and make something that extends beyond itself (this need not necessarily be children).</b><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Love does not want to keep its objects' virtues to itself, hidden from the world. Love is not threatened by outsiders. Love </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">wants</i><span style="font-weight: bold;"> others to see and know and appreciate. Love says: that's my man (look how juicy he is!); I'm so proud to be by his side.</span><br />
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<b>***</b></div>
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<b>In contemplating this topic, I put the question out to some friends, because it's always interesting for me to know how other people process the thing I'm currently chewing on. Here are some of their responses:</b><br />
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">I've learned that a healthy sex life that doesn't involve a relationship and surrounding yourself with friends and family who care/love you is way better than ever settling for an untrue love. ~Nessa</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">The love between a parent and child (no matter their ages) is unlike anything easily explained. Inspiring, transcending and truly holy. And before I became a parent myself, I had no idea. ~Colleen</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">Love is a DIY project. I think I've learned that you create it yourself. I mean, it's all a state of mind (and heart), and since it's YOUR mind and heart, YOU create, or you distance yourself from love. I think love also has a million facets, and none of them ever ever ever matches the movies. EVER. So if anyone thinks their life IN LOVE will somehow meet their expectations based on Hollywood's nonsense, that isn't going to happen. Just my first take on it. ~Chris</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">Love is a verb. It is an action. You commit to it and have to work at it. The deepest love goes far beyond butterflies in your stomach or any FEELING at all. It is who you choose to be and what you choose to give. It is the greatest gift I've ever received and the hardest, most rewarding one I've ever given. ~Cait</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">Love is what you make it. ~Jed</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">Self love is the hardest but worth it! ~Christina</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">That after 10 years of marriage, I still don't know much about love. I do know it is work, and good marriages, with both people growing and evolving, are going to have it's dips and peeks. It is all exciting, it's all an adventure, and I know I've found love, because there is no other person I would want to be on that ride with. ~Nicole</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #4e5665; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;">Love = Respect + Trust + Adoration, in that order. Without the first 2 - there's no point to the last. ~Joseph</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #4e5665; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;">Love is unconditional ~Aunt Edie</span> </b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #4e5665; line-height: 14.079999923706055px;"> Love is being able to edit as you go (I'm changing, stuff's changing). Love is being able to crumble, barf, poop my pants. My loving friend wouldn't necessarily clean it up, but she will sit with me with my poopy pants. ~Kim</span> </b></span></blockquote>
<b>And there it is! Love is creating and sexing and respecting and poopy pants. All those things and so many more things, to so many people.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Whatever love is to you, if you're reading this--whatever you long for and whatever love you wish to find, I wish it for you as well. I hope you find love that inspires you and draws you in. I hope you find love that appreciates you and hugs you warm and close.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And I hope you have the presence of mind of recognize it when it's arrived. I hope that for ALL of us, that we may celebrate it, spread it around, and always show our gratitude.</b><br />
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<b>Happy belated Valentine's Day, y'all.</b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Kevin's Sketch</span></b></h3>
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<b style="font-size: medium; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jellyfish Whispers.</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"> Ernst Haeckel is probably the only human being to ever take the time to listen to jellyfish. I wonder what they told him.</span></h3>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0