Reverb 13, Day 10: Cultivating a life worth loving

1. Living life on auto-pilot can feel disorienting and dull. How did you cultivate a life worth loving during 2013?

How can you turn off your auto-pilot button in 2014?

2. Inspiration | What inspired you this year?  How do you think this will impact the year to come?

1.  Being mindful and present is hard work and not always a lot of fun. It means you are living right here, right now, with all the issues you may be encountering and the emotions they bring up. It is easier to escape for a bit, immersing yourself in endless games of "Candy Crush Saga" or "Bejeweled Blitz," or lurking on Facebook to see what is going on that is far more interesting than what is going on in your life. 

You can fritter away a lot of time this way. And then look back at the day and wonder where it went, that day of your life that you can never get back. The day you spent chasing stupid colored balls and squares, or following links to pictures of people doing stupid or funny things.

I've done my share of that this year. 

But this year I also have actively worked on creating positive energy within nearly every day. Well, at least often. I have deliberately taken days off when I am feeling overwhelmed to read books and magazines and newspapers, or to take a drive in the country with my honey, or to sit outside and pet kitties and marvel at the symmetry and beauty of nature and where we live, even on the hot days of summer . I have plowed through tasks, housekeeping-style things, like cleaning cupboards -- sometimes just one shelf a day -- or sorting through books that I no longer need or use, or tidying a drawer. Small things eventually reduce large tasks to something manageable, and help me feel as though I am moving forward.

Within those small tasks, though, is time to think, to be with my emotions and fears and issues, and not be overwhelmed by them. In that work, there is resolution as well. And getting out from underneath that constant list of to-dos is liberating, allowing me to do things that bring me happiness without the underlying feeling that I SHOULD be doing something more productive.

At least that works for me. More of that in 2014.

2. I addressed this with yesterday's post, Day 9. But there was one other person who inspired me: a woman who is a dynamo volunteer and business owner in our community, Jessie Woods. She is also a neighbor and a friend who helped me learn to create positive energy within myself, to look at what my gut tells me, and to move forward into positive action and thought.  Her lessons and therapies and loving concern helped me get through some big stuff with minimal fear, and gave me tools to sustain and nurture that energy within myself.  When this student was ready, that teacher was there, and I am so grateful.

The Scintilla Project - Day 11

The last prompt for Scintilla, alas. After thinking long and hard about these choices, I'm writing about #1, sort of.

1. Talk about a time when you intervened. What prompted you? Did you regret it?

2. Tell a story that you haven't told yet. Give it a different ending than the one that really happened. Don't tell us where you start changing things. Just go.

***********

Readers of this blog already know some of my intervention stories: one daughter's rescue from an abusive domestic situation, my cousin's suicidal note, another daughter's return to California.  I don't regret any of my actions in these instances, and the overarching prompt in these stories is love of family.

When I was in high school and college, I did a lot of listening: I was sort of the local "Ann Landers," and I certainly gave lots of advice to my friends, and did a lot of commiserating. My caring and that of my welcoming family back then helped one young woman to get through a terrible time in her life -- she had attempted suicide at least once, and was deeply depressed over the death of her mother. She was always a welcome guest in our house and at our family table, and many years later she told us how much that had meant to her and helped her.

But even then I knew that getting involved and helping others to solve their problems was a way for me not to have to deal with my own issues. It was much easier to be a loving friend and help figure out someone else's life than to look at my own self-esteem or other issues.

Years later I remember leaping in to help a new friend who had just joined a group of which I was a member. She called one day to ask for help -- she'd managed to cut herself rather badly and was there alone with her children. I rushed to her home and helped stop the bleeding, but she clearly was not capable of taking care of her children or herself. Her husband came home -- she had NOT called him -- and was more than a little (and very rightfully so) distressed that I was there. He assured me he could deal with the situation, and I left. I don't remember if I ever saw her again after that, but I started working more on my own issues.

There can be a fine line between being a loving, caring friend or relative and intervening in someone's life. I've crossed that boundary more than once, and probably would do so again, but never again without deliberate thought and choice. Sometimes just listening to and telling the troubled person that you care about them is enough to help them to turn a corner. Sometimes you can't do anything to help no matter what the situation. Sometimes your help will only delay a consequence. And sometimes you end up hurting yourself instead of being able to help  the person you tried to save.

While I certainly won't say that I'll never again intervene in someone's life, I have turned my attention and focus largely towards my own life, because this life is the only one that I know I can change.

The Scintilla Project - Day 2

Today's possibilities:
 1. When did you realize you were a grown up? What did this mean for you? Shock to the system? Mourning of halcyon younger days? Or the embracing of the knowledge that you can do all the cool stuff adults do: drink wine, go on parent-free vacations, eat chocolate without reprimand?

2. No one does it alone. Write a letter to your rescuer or mentor (be it a person, book, film, record, anything). Share the way they lit up your path.

Let's try the second prompt today.

********
Dear Mrs. Simmons,
You may not remember me, but you were my English teacher for several classes in high school, most notably the advanced literature classes. I was the one who wrote a book report on "Fanny Hill." (And I worked really hard to justify that book, which you recognized with an "A," thankyouverymuch).

You also introduced me to all the works of J.D. Salinger, among many others, and the philosophy of Søren Kierkegaard. And taught me the foundations of literary analysis and criticism. And how to write a well-organized, well-researched paper, as well as many creative essay topics, and how to defend my opinions (which were certainly strong ones, weren't they!)

You encouraged discussion in our classroom, and we responded. Looking back, those classes included some of the brightest and best students in my class, and while I sometimes fumed at the lively and diverse and opinionated discourse, I was never bored.

You not only challenged me to read and to analyze what I was reading, your techniques and methods became the foundation for my own classroom (I taught high school English and speech classes for just three years, but in my work in marketing/public relations/communications, I had the opportunity to mentor many assistants and interns over the years.)

You were not my favorite teacher, at least while I was in school. I don't think I was your favorite student either. But when I think back on the teachers/mentors throughout my life, you had a huge impact on who I have become and the process of how I got there.

I didn't major in English because of you; I majored in English because, when I realized halfway through my freshman year that I was NOT going to be a Methodist minister after all and that indeed I had some serious philosophical and theological questions about the whole thing (and I'm sure you are not surprised), I chose the subject I'd always most loved and excelled in. I am and have always been a reader and a writer. But you saw that from the first day, didn't you. You encouraged and pushed and challenged me, all the while maintaining your very practical persona: a middle-aged, somewhat frumpy teacher who'd been in the classroom for years.

Thank you for all those years of grading essays, of leading classes through Shakespeare and Moby Dick and Canterbury Tales and so many others, and still keeping it fresh and current, of listening to such highly opinionated and self-important juniors and seniors for yet another year, and for keeping us on track. Thank you for teaching me how to teach: I learned more from you than from all the college education classes and student teaching hours. Thank you for helping me find my voice and encouraging all of us to speak our minds, and to be respectful of each other as we did it. I don't think classrooms like yours exist anymore, and that is an enormous loss for today's students.

With deepest respect and gratitude,
Beth


Note: While this was not the letter I wrote, I did write a letter of similar thanks to Mrs. Simmons some 10 years after I graduated high school. She wrote a lovely letter back and told me that she'd never received a thank-you from one of her students before mine, and we exchanged several more letters. Since then, I have tried to express thanks and appreciation more often to those who have helped or influenced me deeply.

Live today: tomorrow is not promised

One of my oldest and dearest friends has cancer. While I have every reason to believe she will get better -- and she believes it too -- it is scary.

She actually had it last year too in a cancerous colon polyp, but didn't have to endure chemo or radiation. It was an amazingly easy and swift recovery, and none of us really worried much because it was so contained.

But she has stage IIIa uterine cancer that spread to an ovary, although not any lymph nodes (blessings!), and we are waiting to hear about a teensy spot on her lung that was biopsied yesterday. Surgery is done and she'll do chemo, radiation, then more chemo, and tells me she expects to lose her hair.

She's more than 2,000 miles away from me, and I want to make it better. I want to give her hugs, to take her to the doctor, to fix food for her, to laugh at silly things with her, to visit the apple orchard we used to go to when I lived there, to enjoy the leaves that are turning.

Unlike me, who researches a subject until I know as much as I can possibly learn, she is okay with knowing enough about what to expect, but not too much. She is positive and while she says that she really doesn't want to play this game, she'll do whatever she's told to do in order to get it gone. And she will, too.

I'll go visit her when she needs me to come, whether that is sooner or later. She'll know. So will I.

Meanwhile, she has marvelous friends there who are taking care of her, and children who do too. She is well loved, and I tell her that's because she is such a good friend back to them. When we lived in the same town some 20 plus years ago, I went through a really rough patch and pretty much shut down emotionally, doing what I needed to do -- take care of my daughter, go to work, make sure things were running smoothly -- but I couldn't take anyone expressing sympathy or caring and would dissolve into puddles, so I just didn't listen to that, wouldn't hear it. I didn't go to choir, to church, or anywhere I might be with people who cared about me.

She wouldn't let me isolate. She literally banged on my front door until I opened it and let her in, and dissolved more than once into sobs on her shoulders. And she protected me from making a public display of my emotions too -- she stayed close by when we were with others who knew I was having a hard time, and kept things light.

She has gone through some of her own dark nights too, and I was there for her, although by then I lived that 2000 miles away, but I sent cards and letters, and she couldn't respond back for several years because it was too painful. And when we reconnected, when she finally wrote me all about it, it was like no time had passed.

It's like that when we see each other. We grow older, we grow wiser, we experience things (and tell each other about them), via e-mail and phone calls, but when we're together for our brief, every-few-years visits, it's like we saw each other only yesterday. I am so grateful for her long years of friendship and love.

She forwarded me an e-mail yesterday. I've done a bit of editing, but it says the same things I've so often said in these posts -- life is short. Life is uncertain. Tell people you love them NOW. Read on:

One day a woman's husband died, and on that clear, cold morning, in the warmth of their bedroom, the wife was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't “anymore.” No more hugs, no more special moments to celebrate together, no more phone calls just to chat, no more "just one minute." Sometimes what we care about the most gets all used up and goes away, never to return before we can say good-bye, say "I love you."

So while we have it, it's best we love it, care for it, fix it when it's broken and heal it when it's sick. This is true for marriage.....And old cars.... And children with bad report cards, and dogs with bad hips, and aging parents and grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it.

So I was thinking...I could die today, tomorrow or next week, and I wondered if I had any wounds needing to be healed, friendships that needed rekindling or three words needing to be said.

Let every one of your friends know you love them. Even if you think they don't love you back, you would be amazed at what those three little words and a smile can do.And just in case I'm gone tomorrow, I love you. Live today because tomorrow is not promised.

On stage! -- for a cause

I got back on stage Friday night as a participant in "The Vagina Monologues," a benefit performance for Alternatives to Violence, the local agency that helps women (and men) who are experiencing violence in their lives.

And wow. What a powerful experience. What a fantastic audience. What a GREAT audience!

From our little community, 387 people -- many of them men -- came out to see the show. That's a great response, especially when we weren't at all sure if people would come.

I wrote about the play for the Record Searchlight. I wrote about the accompanying art exhibit. Everyone helped distribute flyers and put up posters.

I got to do "The Woman Who Loved to Make Vaginas Happy," a monologue that includes a very fun section of different styles of moans. So I got up there with fishnet stockings, an all-black brief outfit underneath a leather jacket, and talked about moaning, peeing, and about finding your passion (literally and figuratively). I had a blast.

No, I never thought I'd be up on a stage demonstrating various kinds of orgasmic moans (The clit moan, the WASP moan, the uninhibited militant bisexual moan, the tortured Zen moan, etc.)

But I did. And the audience was right there with me, laughing, cheering, waiting for the next sound out of my mouth.

What a rush!

I've been in a lot of plays over the years, but I've never felt quite the power that I felt Friday night. It was good to be up there again, to be performing. I'd love to do more.

Tony says I transform into someone else when I'm on stage. I suppose all actors do, really, because it is ALL about being in the moment, being right there, fully present. I know several women in our cast experienced for the first time the power of holding an audience. One of them said, "It's like crack! It's addictive! I want more!" (not that I think this woman has actually done crack, mind you...)

It wasn't just for grins and the shock value that I did this, however, nor did any of them. "The Vagina Monologues" is one part of a much larger global focus on ending violence against women and girls, and our performance included a somber look at an unfathomably violent war that has been waged using women in the Democratic Republic of Congo, in Africa.

In our own homes and communities, there are women of all educational levels, all economic levels, all walks of life who are subjected to abuse and violence, from childhood molestation to emotional abuse to murder. Since we have been working on this performance, I have had friends and acquaintances tell me a little about their stories -- surprising and dark secrets from people who seem very together, very strong. Some of them have come through what Elizabeth Lesser calls "The Phoenix Process" to emerge new and better from the ashes of their former lives. Some of them are still burning, still shedding the vestiges of their violent and unhappy lives. I hope they make it.

If you have a chance to see "The Vagina Monologues" or one of the other plays Eve Ensler has written as fundraising vehicles for her Vday organization, please support it. You'll have a good time. But you'll also be helping a sister, a mother, a daughter, a niece.

Words that change lives

Sometimes you know you've made a difference in someone's life. They tell you, or you can see for yourself. (I'm not thinking so much of family here as I am friends and more casual aquaintances, or teachers and students, or co-workers -- those kinds of relationships.)

And sometimes -- probably more often than not -- you don't know. You might hope you have, but you may never know. Or you simply don't realize the impact of your words.

Sometimes it's a positive thing, isn't it -- someone gives you a compliment at a moment when you really need to feel good about yourself or what you're doing. And sometimes it isn't: you're criticized for your faults or actions, perhaps unfairly, perhaps not, but it sticks with you, probably all your life, and rankles, or hurts, or pinches a bit.

My high school English teacher made a huge difference in my life. Mrs. Simmons encouraged my writing and handed me books that were not the sort I usually read (although I always was a voracious reader, which she knew), but books that would challenge my thinking, teach me critical analysis or a style of writing. She was not a teacher you loved, but she was good -- and I didn't appreciate how good until I was in college. When I got into a classroom to teach my own classes, I found myself using so many of her techniques to help my students learn to analyze what they read, to express themselves clearly and accurately.

And I told her so in a letter. She was deeply appreciative -- said she had never received such a nice letter from a former student, and was glad to know she'd made a difference. We corresponded for a year or so, off and on. But I got to say thank you.

I also remember an offhand comment from a high school acquaintance that has never left me. She was one of the cute, short, bouncy girls of the '60s; I was tall and not terribly comfortable in my body, and had to push myself out of self-consciousness. I was highly sensitive to criticism (still am more than I'd like to be, alas). There were several of us talking in the girls' locker room one day, and she turned to me and said, "You are so loud! Your voice carries too much. Everyone can hear you all over."

Of course that made me even more self-conscious and embarrassed, and I tried for years to stifle my laughter, my enthusiasm, and my voice level. Only after I'd done a fair bit of acting did I realize that a voice that carries is a huge asset in theatre, and I learned to control it much better. But it hurt for years, and even now, after -- ooo -- some 45 years, I remember how it stung. And I remember her name.

More than 10 years ago I was active in an Internet chat room -- before I'd ever even contemplated a move to California. There were amazing people there -- funny, very well-read, extremely good writers, imaginative. There were special friendships formed there, and several had met in RT -- real time. At least one couple had married. It was a magical year with that group, and I also got to meet several of them in RT.

I'll never forget an online conversation with a few members of that group while I was out here for the first time. I'd come for a 10-day training session and fell in love with the Bay Area. Nearly as soon as I arrived, I knew that I belonged in California, even though it was going to mean turning my life completely upside down, and I think I knew on some level that I was ripe for that change even before I got on the airplane.

One of those new friends told me as I was waxing on about how right it felt here, how I believed I needed to be here: "Then make it happen, sister. Make it happen."

For the next six months those words were my mantra, and I indeed made it happen by researching, by talking to anyone who could help me realize that goal, and by examining what I truly wanted from life and who I truly was becoming (rather than the person I'd been who often acted in accordance with other people's expectations of me). I left a marriage, I left friends, I left a job (although my company created a new one here for me), and I found my life.

But her words were the catalyst that made me believe that I could really do it.

We never know when a casual comment may make all the difference in another's life, change their perception of themselves, give them hope or courage, devastate them into failure.

Choose your words carefully. Say thank you to someone whose words have deeply and positively affected your life. And don't allow the negative stuff to control one more instant of your precious life.

I'll keep my torch for now, thank you

In a chat today with a couple of business professionals, I was caught up short by the realization that I am old by some societal standards.

Old as in pretty-much-over-the-hill old. Career-practically-over old. Remembers-vividly-stuff- from-40-years-ago old.

I heard myself talking about an internship I had in the summer of 1968 with my hometown newspapers. I wasn't out of college yet, but that summer was pivotal for me, not only because of all the things I learned about writing and journalism, but because the events changed the world: Bobby Kennedy was assassinated the first week I was in the newsroom; the Democratic National Convention saw protests from the Chicago Seven which brought unrest over the Vietnam war to a different level.

And then I explained "type lice" -- and I realized at that moment that billions of people have no memory of life without computers that handle things like typesetting and pagination and photo "developing." (Not to mention instant access to data formerly available only through libraries and the ability to shop 24/7, communicate with anyone in the world 24/7, and so on...)

The things we remember, that way of life, are merely trivia bits of fairly ancient history to them.

Geeze. I sounded like my parents, ferpetesake!

And I also realized that there's a lot left for me to do, to be. I ain't dead yet. And I'm not ready to be passing any torches to the next generation, to take whatever position one is supposed to take in your dotage.

There are experiences and events that should not be forgotten nor relegated to a musty footnote in some academic tome. Life has changed drastically from what it was when I was young, just as it did for my mother and father, my grandparents, their parents. It has not gotten easier; it has become more complicated, more frustrating, and also tremendously exciting.

I don't live in the past; I honor the past, I remember people who influenced me along my path -- like the crusty, green-eye-shade-wearing editor I worked for back in that amazing summer who taught me how to write headlines, edit copy, and write tight, to check my facts twice, and to be fair and objective in my writing.

Maybe what I do and say will be remembered some 40 years hence -- maybe there's already a legacy through all the years I taught school or mentored employees or led groups. And I'm not done living. I refuse to sit down and shut up, to take a back seat, as long as I have functioning brain cells that allow me to learn and grow and contribute to this world, to the people with whom I come in contact.

Yeah, I have some good stories about the past. But I live in today. And I'm hanging onto that torch for now.

Saying thank you

I'll bet that your mother, like mine, insisted that you say 'please' and 'thank you,' and made you write thank-you notes every time you received a gift.

It's good practice. While I get more pleasure out of giving gifts than receiving them (don't get me wrong, I like gifts!), it is so fun to shop for or create the "right" item for loved ones and friends. Oh, it's time-consuming sometimes, and sometimes frustrating when it's hard to find just the exact thing you know they'll love -- but that's partly what it makes it so satisfying.

And I've been known to puddle up when someone thanks me from the heart, telling me how much it meant to them, whether it's a gift or a favor or whatever. It means a lot to me to know that my friends and family really enjoy a gift I chose, or that my words meant something to them.

Some years ago I worked with a woman, a little older than me, who was head of HR -- not usually a profession known for its kindness, at least in the corporate world. She was crisp, immaculately groomed from the top of her perfectly highlighted blonde coif to the tips of her perfectly polished, stylish, high-quality pumps. She did her job exceptionally well, seemed never ruffled by office incidents, and I'm quite sure could take an employee to task or fire them in the same even tones she used to answer the phone.

But she said thank you, often, and she remembered birthdays, anniversaries, recognized promotions, celebrated life events, and more with cards and personal notes. They were perfectly chosen, of course, but they also were always accompanied by a note (her handwriting was NOT perfect) that was warm and very friendly. I actually became fairly good friends with her -- she did not lead a perfect life -- and was impressed with the person I saw underneath. I vowed then that I wanted to be more like her, remembering to send cards and personal notes to mark occasions or say thank you, or even for no apparent reason other than to say "I'm glad I know you."

And oh, I'm so not perfect about it. But I try to say thank you when someone does a favor, or is especially generous or sweet, and that goes for people in service positions too.

Today, for instance, I needed a bit of repair on phone lines, and had ZERO expectation that someone really could get here today. So I was surprised when I got a call, considerably after 5 p.m., that he was on his way. And then I was very pleasantly surprised at the amount of time he spent making sure that things were just the way I wanted them, testing the lines, chatting about cats and phone wires and deer and so on. When I called him back, about half an hour after he'd left, to say that one jack still wasn't quite right, he was quick to give me a couple of options -- and I know he'd be back if I need more help.

So I just left a message for his supervisor to say thank you and how impressed I am with the service and performance. Maybe it'll make a difference when review time comes around for him -- but maybe it'll also let him know that someone appreciated his service enough to say so.

On my bulletin board is a thank you note from a client who we helped purchase land a few years ago. It has one of her photos showing a hillside of flowering wildflowers there. It made a HUGE difference to me, that little note and photo, and can still make me feel competent and successful when I read it, no matter what kind of day I've had. Her words are still with me nearly three years later, and I still appreciate that she took the time to take the picture and write a note to me.

As I get older, saying thank you has become more important to me. Maybe it's because I know how fragile life is, and that if we don't seize the moment to tell someone we love them or appreciate them or say thank you, we may never have the chance to do so. Maybe it's because I know how appreciative words, kind words, loving words, can make ME feel. Maybe it's because I know that sometimes a simple thank you can make all the difference in someone else's day, just as it's done for me. I don't know exactly -- I just know that it is a good thing.

Sure beats getting all riled up about mean old selfish men, doesn't it!

Responsible continued...

Part 2....
Oh, I know how simplistic that sounds. But I don't know how to change anyone else. I only know how to change myself, and how to live with right intention and right action (even when I don't do it, I know how -- and not doing something is a CHOICE, even if it is made without thinking it through.)

I know, for instance, that our local mentoring program is one of those ways in which we individually can acknowledge our responsibility for helping children grow in positive directions.

There are programs to help persons who are poor or homeless, battered, abused, sick, disabled, challenged in some way. Every single one of those programs needs time from volunteers and money to keep the programs going.

We all need human touch, human kindness and compassion to be able to grow and develop into fully functioning, responsible, caring human beings. Most of us are lucky to find that through family or friends or even groups (sometimes family is not a positive influence).

But when we give back, we benefit too. We become better than we might otherwise be. We learn things about ourselves, and we touch people's lives. OUR lives are touched and changed, and we find hope. Even a shred of it can keep you going in a dark world.

Oh, how idealistic. I know.

But isn't it better than doing nothing? Than blaming the gun seller, the poetry teacher, the students, the university itself for what happened in Virginia and tsk-tsking over yet another tragedy and everyone's failure to notice this disturbed young man? Let's make a difference however, wherever we can. Here. Now.