When someone asks you to change who you are in order to make them happy, how do you respond?
Keep in mind this is rarely an overt request. It is usually disguised so much that the asker may not even recognize they are asking. You will feel it though as your pulse changes whether it speeds up or stops. You will hear it in that little voice in your head asking you what you are doing. You will see it in your eyes when you look in the mirror and cease to recognize the inner you. You will taste it in the bitterness of the air surrounding you and the asker. You will smell it in the pollution of resentment that builds around you.
For me, I’ve both resisted and yielded to the request at different times in my life. I’ve resisted and lost people I loved. I’ve resisted and deepened relationships with people I loved. I’ve yielded and lost people I loved. Oddly, I’ve also deepened relationships by yielding - at least in the short term. Always when I’ve yielded I’ve lost myself or at least a key component of who I am. The problem is whenever you change for someone else, it can never last. It can never be real even if it’s change for the good. Any change you do must be because you feel compelled to change something YOU don’t like about yourself. That’s the only way change can last and not destroy the person changing. If you give up a part of yourself for someone else, you will lose the light inside yourself and will never know if you’re pretending or genuine.
Writers write because they have a message to share with the world. The problem is that for a writer to continue writing, they must also sell their work. This means convincing people to buy that work. Often you will hearing two seemingly conflicting pieces of advice. One is to write with your audience in mind. The other is to always write what you want to write and it will find its audience. I think the two might not conflict as much as we think. If you are true to yourself when you write, your audience may or may not be limited depending on what you write; however, if you know who that audience is you can write material that is true to yourself and will still reach your audience.
I find that if I think too much about my audience in my first drafts, my work suffers. Sometimes it comes to a complete stall. Yes, I said drafts. Probably the first and second, sometimes third drafts. Somewhere around the third or fourth draft, I start focusing more on how my audience will perceive what I’ve written. This is especially true when I write essays, short stories, and novels. For articles, I start thinking about my audience a bit earlier. Often I imagine myself answering questions from the audience as I write the second draft of an article, sometimes even on the first draft. But I try to avoid that on the first draft to avoid getting sidetracked from my main point.
When I write poetry, I try not to think about an audience at all. Sometimes my poetry seems directed to a particular person. This often happens when I want to say something to someone but can’t find the words. Let’s face it, can’t find the courage. So the words find their way into a poem.
Earlier this year I wrote a poem titled “Seriously Tempted” about the temptation to yield one’s self to please another. When I wrote it, I was thinking of how writers are sometimes tempted to change themselves to appeal to potential readers. As I read back over it, there’s also a thread that sounds like it could apply to changing to please a loved one. This happens with poetry. Sometimes we write thinking we’re writing about one thing and discover upon completion the poem is about more than one thing, about something totally different, or addresses a common theme in one’s life.
Last year I wrote a poem called “Bit by Bit” about how one can lose one’s self slowly without really realizing it. This poem grew out of a slow realization that I missed certain parts of my personality that I’d abandoned over the years. They were parts of me that someone else voiced complaints about, so in an effort to be a “better” person - read more likeable to the complaintant - I pushed that part of me down into a hard little ball and pretended she didn’t exist. In the process I misplaced my sense of humor which tends to be a bit dry and biting.
As I said earlier, I have changed to make someone else happy more times than I like to admit. What I find is that in the end, the who of who I am can’t stay hidden. She pops up and dares anyone to try to suppress her again.
Ultimately, when you become someone you’re not to please someone else, you will become confused about who you are. You will struggle to remain the person that pleases while inside another part of you pushes to get out. The person in your life who asked you to be someone other than yourself may not even like the person you’ve become to please them. As you struggle with the two parts of yourself, you will look for a way to be the person you feel most comfortable being. You may find things about the “new” you you like, and you may decide to keep those. You may find that once integrated into the overall you, those things are useful for life. Sadly, relationships often dissolve over just this issue. Sometimes with hard work, the relationship can survive, perhaps even find new ground and thrive, but that’s rare.
I’m not suggesting that we can’t all benefit from a bit of constructive criticism now and then because we can. When you receive any criticism - consructive or not - examine it, ponder on it, let it sit idle, and consider what the person giving it has to gain. At that point, you can determine if it’s a criticism with which you agree or disagree. If you agree, YOU determine how and when to use it to create the best you you can be without sacrificing who you are. We are all always learning, growing, and even changing.
Lately, I’ve been examining some of the changes I’ve made in my life over the last - well, over my entire life - and determining which ones have lead me to my true self and which ones were to please someone else. Now, I’ve got the hard work in front of me of recognizing the changes I made to please someone else - the ones that cost me a part of my true self. As I embrace the whole who of my true self, there may be some people in my life who will be disappointed, but I’ve also realized if they love me for being someone other than my true self, they aren’t really loving me. They are loving an image of the person they think I am.
Please resist changing who you are just to make someone else happy and resist asking other people to change just to make you happy. I try to take people as they come, and I ask people to do the same for me. If we can respect one another in spite of our differences, we can find common ground and perhaps even grow together. There are some changes we make that just make sense and don’t go to the core of who we are. Other changes do. Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference right off hand.
Look at your relationships. Do you love the people around you for who they are or who you want to see? Do they love you for your true self? Do you ask people to change to please you - either overtly or covertly? Do you feel pressured to change to please someone else - dare I say to keep someone else? This can be any kind of relationship - a spouse, a parent, a child, an aunt, an uncle, other family member, a best friend, a new friend, an old friend. Even your relationship with clients or co-workers.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is that the person we were, the person we are, and the person we will be is everchanging. We take our experiences and we move forward either as who we are, who we want to be, or who someone else wants us to be. That is our choice to make every single day of our lives.
This week I got a lesson in asking for help. First for the confession. I’m not good at asking for help. Really never have been. I guess I’m afraid asking for help will make me look weak or vulnerable or needy. Or maybe I’m just plain stubborn. You decide.
Anyway, here’s the thing. None of us live in isolation. There are people willing to listen and to help. There are people willing to brainstorm and just be there. There are people willing to love unconditionally and support without strings. We just have to let them. Okay, okay. I just have to let them. When I feel the need to discuss something personal or professional with someone, I hesitate because I know the person has his or her own issues to handle. So I return to trying to fix whatever it is myself. I’d like to say that I forget other people can help, but that’s just not true. Sometimes I feel like it’s my problem, so I should handle it. What right do I have to burden anyone else? Other times I just don’t want the person in question to see me as “less than” whatever image I think they hold of me. Yet other times I want to prove I can do it - that I don’t need anyone. All of this is ridiculous, and my logical brain is well aware of that. After all, I always encourage people to ask me for help.
Asking for help has been a problem for me on and off for years. I’ve oscillated between never wanting help and always wanting help. There’ve been times when I couldn’t make a decision on my own about anything for fear of upsetting others - family, husband, friends, etc. Other times I rejected any offered input. Sometimes I’ve nodded while other people offered advice I hadn’t requested knowing full well I wasn’t really listening. Yet other times I’ve been more balanced weighing input against my own thoughts and conclusions before making a decision. Always the hardest part for me is admitting “I need help. I need someone to listen and give me feedback.” Sometimes this is because I have to admit a defeat or a failure or or a fault that I don’t want to expose. Other times its because I really do think I should be able to figure it out on my own and not doing so is giving up. I’m no quitter.
This week I found myself feeling a bit out of balance. I have an approaching professional decision that required more information to make. I was struggling with some personal stresses, but I’d rather not go into detail about that. In addition there were several other demands on my attention both professional and personal. The day-to-day of living doesn’t stop because our lives demand attention elsewhere. So I finally turned to some trusted friends who I knew would give me very different perspectives on the issues on my mind. As I explained the circumstances to each friend, the results about the professional decision were basically the same with one standing out because it came with someone I’d worked with in a similar capacity to the role I’m considering. She was able to help me hone in on some ways to approach the situation keeping my own best interests squarely intact. As for the personal stresses, the two friends I discussed those with gave me some valuable input and helped me zero in on what was really bothering me. The two inputs were helpful in very different ways.
If I hadn’t asked for help, I’d still be stuck trying to organize those thoughts and feelings myself and might still be missing the underlying issue. And, while ultimately the decision and the actions taken must be mine, having my friends provide feedback in a caring manner gave me room to think through the possibilities and weigh the options in front of me. Releasing the issues by talking about them gave me room to turn my focus back to my work and my household chores.
So next time you’re trying to figure something out and the process is taking longer and requiring more energy than it should, turn to a trusted friend to vent. Ask for help. You never know it just may help you find peace and prosperity in your life. Remember, we all need support and love. Give it and receive it. Life will be the better for it. So might your writing.
A while back I posted a link to my Author’s Forum interview on You Tube. It is still available on You Tube but is now also available on the website of the show’s host, Veronica Esagui. Please feel free to check it out. Enjoy!
As we celebrate Independence Day in the United States, let’s take a moment to think about all those in our country and our world for whom independence is just another word in the dictionary. We often take for granted the very ideas of both progressiveness and tradition upon which our country is founded. As we watch the fireworks blazing across the sky, let us remember that each sparkle represents lost lives and the sacrifices of families. We speak of celebration, but we forget the cost that allows us to have that celebration. We laugh, we drink, we eat, and we play as people around the country - and the world - go hungry, look for jobs, and struggle to put another meal on the table. We visit with family and forget those who will never see loved ones again. We think of our own losses and forget about the losses of others. We take a day off and forget about all those working that allow us to have that day off. We choose to abuse our Earth and expect her to keep taking care of us with no replenishment. We criticize and belittle those with whom we disagree rather than look for solutions to our joint problems. We forget that we all live in this country - in this world - and what we do affects someone else. We forget that when we spew hate and violence, we deprive others of their independence. We think more about being right even when we know we’re wrong than doing right. We care more about putting others down than lifting our fellow human beings up.
So on this Independence Day, I encourage you to stop for one minute and think of those who may be hurting, hungry, or oppressed. I encourage you to approach life with joy and an attitude of gratitude. I encourage you to choose to do the right thing when the damaging thing would be easier. I encourage you to decide against hate and violence. I encourage you to love more and give more.
Then go ahead and celebrate the joys in your life, the family you have, the friends you’ve chosen, and the fact that you are first and foremost a part of the human family.
Protest Poems published my poem, Foreign Language, today. Check it out! Enjoy!
http://protestpoemsdotorg.blogspot.com/2010/07/t-l-cooper.html
When Kit came to live with us approximately a year and a half ago, I read a book called The Natural Cat by Anita Frazier. She talked highly of the benefits of fixing food for cats instead of feeding them commercial cat food. I liked the concept but was reluctant to try it, especially since the author highly favored a raw meat diet for the cat. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Giving Kit the occasional piece of raw chicken or beef while I cooked made me squeamish, so feeding her a full raw diet was too gross for me.
I researched cat foods and found a canned cat food that met my requirements for being healthy and made without fillers. I picked out a dry food for occasional meals. I found a variety of all natural snacks. Okay, we were set. Not really. I hated the smell of the canned food. I felt like it didn’t provide adequate nutrition. And, it certainly didn’t seem to bring Kit any joy. I kept going back to The Natural Cat to read those sections on food again. I also read Dr. Pitcairn’s Complete Guide to Natural Health for Dogs & Cats. Again, he advocated a raw meat diet, but his recipes seemed labor intensive and heavy on carbs when I read them. I wanted to try it but hesitated.
So Kit stayed on canned cat food with the occasional dry food. As I got busier, it became easier to give her the dry food. Plus it was less of a struggle to get her to eat it. Then I began to notice she was grumpy, slept more than before, and didn’t like to be touched. People would say “Oh, that’s just how cats are.” I didn’t buy it. I remembered cats from our farm growing up. Yes, they liked their private time, but they weren’t snappy and didn’t act like being touched was painful. So I considered cooking for her again.
Around this time we adopted two kittens from Safehaven Shelter in Albany, Oregon. A little gray domestic short hair we named Meme because she likes all the attention all the time - a real little “me me” and Todd, so named because he reminds my husband of his college friend, Todd. I calculated what it was going to cost to feed three cats a high quality canned food with an occasional high quality dry food thrown in for crunch and convenience. I was more than a little surprised. Then I did a rough estimate what it would cost to feed the three homemade food. It seemed comparable. So…
I bought another book, Food Pets Die For by Ann N. Martin. I became even more convinced feeding our cats an all natural, homecooked diet would be beneficial for their health, so I decided to give it a try. Oh, and Ann said cooking the food was okay as long as it wasn’t overcooked. So I combined ideas from the three books and set to work. First, we tried a cooked version of a recipe from Dr. Pitcairn’s book. A complete no-go. I wasn’t happy with the results and the cats acted like I was trying to poison them. It was just way too many carbs. Finding the meat amongst the oats was a daunting task. Okay, next… I went back to the drawing board and looked at the recipes in the other two books. I decided to try one from Food Pets Die For. It was a better meat, veggie ratio with less grain - a little brown rice. They ate it but didn’t love it. I followed the hints in the books and mixed it with their canned food for awhile. I experimented with the amount of meat, vegetables, and rice until I found a combination they would eat. In the end, I discovered they really preferred no rice at all, so I adapted the recipe to meet their tastes.
Right in the middle of this, my husband and I decided to try “meat free” diet. So I cut out cooking meat for us. (See The Meat Free Experiment for more details about that.) I found it strange to be cooking meat for the cats but not for us. I also worried the smell of cooking meat would make us crave the meat, but it didn’t happen.
For those thinking it’s too much trouble. I generally cook for my cats at breakfast or dinner as I’m working on loading and/or unloading the dishwasher and preparing our meal. Yeah, it adds a few minutes to meal preparations, but not so much as to be a nusiance. Like anything in life, it’s a bit time consuming until you develop a rhythm.
So, now every two to three days I fix up a batch of homemade cat food. It goes in the fridge and keeps well. They eat it and love it. One of our cats won’t eat the canned food now on the rare occasion we run out of the homemade. On occasion I give them a can of sardines or mackerel as a treat. And, we still keep a few all natural treats around just in case we need them. Strangely after putting the cats on the all natural diet, they eat twice a day and almost never ask for treats. They’ve gone from each eating eight ounces of food a day to each eating six ounces of food a day. They play more, they’re friendlier, and Kit likes being touched more.
We are getting ready to go on our first twelve day trip since the cats came to live with us, so this week I’ve been preparing food for our abscence. I’m freezing it in individual serving sizes to make it easier on the neighbor who has agreed to feed them while we’re gone. I’m a little anxious about how they’ll do, but I’m likely worrying for nothing…
Anyway, if you’d like to try feeding your cat(s) or dog(s) all natural foods, I suggest reading any of the above books, and I’ll be happy to share my cats’ favorite recipe with you. Just let me know.
And, for those of you who are disappointed this isn’t about writing, well, sometimes, I just need to focus on something a bit disconnected from my usual concerns.
Besides from time to time we have to honor the influences in our lives even if they are the animals that keep us company while we tap away on the keyboard to arrange words we so love into meaningful prose.
If you’d like to buy any of the books mentioned in this article, please click on the link below:
I discovered today that Amazon has discounted the trade paperback of All She Ever Wanted. If you’ve been wanting to buy a copy, here’s your chance to get it “on sale.” I have no idea it will be available at that price.
Last night at about 1:39 in the morning or so, I got out of bed disgusted that I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts were churning through my mind, but they weren’t the kind of thoughts a writer wants in the wee hours of the morning. So, I sat down at my computer and tried to see if there was anything useful I could pull from those thoughts. There wasn’t. Well, I paid a bill I’d forgotten about, so I guess that was useful. But there was no creative burst that I could build on.
Finally, I read for a while and fell into a restless sleep a little after 3:00am. So this morning, I’m tired and perhaps a bit edgy, but I started thinking about how different people’s energy meshes. There are people in our lives who stimulate our creative energy, and there are people who drain us of our creative energy. It’s no one’s fault. It just is. Okay, that may not be entirely true. People have different energies and they attract different energies, so fault might not be the right word. People have a certain amount of responsibility for the energy they cultivate in their lives. When someone’s energy makes us feel good, we move toward that energy naturally. When someone’s energy drains us, we tend to flee. Well, sometimes, some of us flee from energy that makes us feel too good. I know I’m guilty of that at times. But, overall, we soak up that positive energy and hope we’re giving back the same positive energy to those around us.
Today, I’m feeling this give and take of energy more so than usual. Friday I got a jolt of creative energy after a casual round of witty banter with an old friend. Really just having a little fun when I was already in a playful mood. The jolt of creative energy was entirely unexpected but most welcome. I realized shortly thereafter that for some reason this particular friend is stimulating my creativity every time we chat. Not sure why, but I’m not about to run away from that. We rarely even discuss anything remotely related to my writing. I read back over the conversation (weird how conversations often aren’t really anymore huh?) yesterday and smiled but couldn’t, for the life of me, see what jolted my creativity. Oh, well, gift horse and all that.
Yesterday afternoon I had a conversation that drained me emotionally, mentally and creatively. After the conversation, I sat and stared at my computer, my legal pad, my pile of editing, and couldn’t get two thoughts to connect to save my life. It wasn’t the first time a conversation with this person has had this affect. So I tried to clean, wandered around the house, and fell into a funk. So some might say, don’t talk to the person who zaps your energy. Well, sometimes it’s just not that easy. And, this is one of those cases.
Sometimes the people who zap our energy, creative or otherwise, are those we love the most. That’s when it becomes difficult to work around the energy drain. When someone we love drains our energy, how do we get it back? How do we keep the relationship from destroying us? Or the energy drain from affecting the relationship? Now don’t tell me that when we really love someone, we don’t do that to them. That’s just not true. This isn’t about consciously hurting another person. It’s about the energy we share with another person. It doesn’t even mean that the energy I share with someone will be the same energy you share with that person. Each interaction has it’s own energy field created by the people involved. Sometimes even the timing of the interaction can affect the energy between the participants.
Now, I’m trying to find my way back to creativity starting with writing this blog. Sometimes releasing the overpowering energy that zaps our own energy is about recognizing it’s been zapped and releasing it. Sometimes it’s about recognizing our own contribution to the energy drain. Sometimes it is about recognizing how certain people’s energy reacts with our own and either increasing or decreasing contact accordingly. Sometimes it’s just about recognizing that someone - the other person or you - is just having a bad day…
So I encourage you to look at the energy creators and the energy drains in your life. Examine whether or not the energy is exchanged or just taken. Sometimes we don’t mean to drain others but we do. If you find yourself being a drain on others, look for ways to give as well as take in the realm of positive energy.
I struggle with this idea of the give and take of positive energy all the time. If you have any advice for me on how you manage both the energy creators and the energy drains in your life, then please share. After all, we’re all in this life together. All of our energies affect one another.
Hope I can bring a little positive energy to your creative self today!
Today, Jessica Morrell asked the following on her Facebook Page “So with Father’s Day approaching, I’m wondering, what did your father teach you?” Earlier this week, my friend Kelly Deaton posted praises of her father for teaching her to change a tire but more so for teaching her to take care of herself.
I posted replies on both their posts with comments praising my Daddy. I decided to expand on those comments a bit here.
Daddy was the first man in my life as Dad’s tend to be for most little girls. (Okay, male readers, this is going to be from a daughter’s perspective, so don’t feel left out. I know Dads are important to sons as well.) I was a Daddy’s girl through and through. I thought my Daddy was about as close to perfect as a human being could possibly be. Growing up, I remember him joking “I thought I made a mistake once, but turns out I was wrong.” I liked it then, and the memory of it brings a smile to my face. I’m not sure if he still says that because I’ve not heard it in a while, but he probably does. Daddy set the standard for every man I ever dated or even befriended, and rarely did they meet the standard of my vision of my Daddy. That may actually say more about me than them, but I think this is true for most daughters. For better or worse, every Daddy teaches his daughter(s) what men are supposed to be.
As a little girl, people called me “Little Dean” and I beamed. I wanted nothing more than to be just like my Daddy. He was strong and smart and gentle and kind and fair. But, he could also be a swift and harsh disciplinarian when necessary. And, he holds some beliefs that I’ve been unable to adopt as my own, but in a way he taught me that was okay as well.
Daddy told me never to start a fight, but if someone else did to stand my ground no matter what. There have been times in my life when I took this a bit too literally, but, hey, that’s what life is all about. And, I’m sure people who know me would be able to quickly remember fights I picked though I can’t think of a single one at the moment. I said he taught me, not that I got it. I do stand my ground though - at least when I know I’m right.
Daddy always pushed me to be independent. He often told me to not rely on others to do what I could do myself. He instilled in me an understanding that others might not be willing or available to help me when needed. He also taught me to talk a good game with mechanics. When I was in college (1988-1991), I drove a 1982 maroon Mustang. I loved that car even though it wasn’t the one I’d picked out originally. (Story for another day.) When it broke down, I took it to the mechanic across the street from my residence hall. The owner of the shop told me what was wrong with it and quoted me a price to fix it. It sounded so scary and was so much money. I thought I would burst into tears. Instead, I squared my shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes, cocked my head to the side slightly, and smiled. “Well, I have to go call my Daddy about this because something doesn’t sound quite right. He’s a mechanic, and he has to give me the money to have it fixed. I’ll be back after I talk to him.” He stopped me just as I reached the door. “Let me take another look. Maybe my mechanic made a mistake.” I looked at him for a long minute then shrugged. “I’m still going to go call my Daddy.” And, I did. Daddy told me exactly what to say to the mechanic when I went back over there and when to be quiet and let the mechanic back himself into a corner. I learned a valuable lesson, and I’m not afraid to talk to a mechanic now. The quiet thing seemed to work the best for me, and I often employ it.
On the other hand, unlike Kelly’s Dad, my Daddy didn’t teach me to change a tire, change the oil in my car, or several other things he considered “men’s work”. Maybe it was more my phobia of dirty hands that stopped him from teaching me certain things. He called me his “city girl” while shaking his head and smiling.
I didn’t take to farm work particularly well, but I learned a lot about hard work from Daddy. He farmed and logged year round and worked at a tractor store in the winters. He walked a portion of our farm every single day. He taught me to not expect payment to be commiserate with the hard work I put in, but to be grateful for every penny earned. I’ve sometimes wondered if this particular lesson reverberating in my head has held me back at times in my life. I’ve read that you get what you expect, so maybe I should abandon this lesson and expect more… I’ll have to give that one some thought. The gratitude part holds though.
Anyone who knows my Daddy will tell you he’s rather quiet. He tends to only speak when he really has something to say. This can be very unnerving to some people. I talk a lot - ask anyone who knows me, but Daddy taught me the value of keeping quiet. You learn a lot about the person talking to you. What you do say tends to hold more weight than when you chatter nonstop. Essentially, this means that while a talker often gets tuned out, a quiet person will attract attention when speaking. I try to remember this, but it’s a struggle for me.
Daddy also taught me that education is important not because he is well educationed but because he dropped out of school after the eighth grade. That made it that much more important to him that I finish high school and go to college. He instilled the idea in me that I could go after anything I wanted as long as I was willing to suffer any consequences it brought my way.
My Daddy’s love for my Mom taught me that love isn’t always easy…
Overall, I think the most important lesson that my Daddy taught me is that I will always be special to someone no matter what mistakes I make in life. And, that my friends, is one lesson I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.
So Dads, please make sure your children know they are special and always will be to someone. Daughters (and sons, too) recognize that while your Dad may not have given you everything you wanted or even needed, he did the best he could.
And, thanks Daddy!
Last night I attended a lecture by Maya Angelou. She spoke at the Elsinore Theatre in Salem, Oregon. State Senator, Jackie Winters, introduced Dr. Angelou with heartfelt words.
When the curtain rose to reveal Dr. Angelou sitting in a chair on the stage in a long cream colored dress and a beautiful necklace, I was struck by the energy that eminates from her. She looked frailer than I expected, but at eighty-two she has the right to look a bit frail. As soon as she began to speak, the strength of her character, her words, and her convictions displaced the initial fraility I noticed.
I’ve long wanted to hear Dr. Angelou speak in person. I missed her years ago when she was in Boise because I was silly enough to think attending by myself would make me look like I didn’t have any friends. This time, I guess I’ve matured because I really don’t care about that anymore. I attended by myself though a friend who also attended met me for dinner before and a coffee after. Plans we made after we found out we were both attending.
When Maya began to speak - or rather sing ”When it lookd like the sun wasn’t gonna shine anymore, God made a rainbow in the clouds” a tear threatened the corner of my eye. I blinked it back and concentrated on her words. After the song, she spoke of her life experience and of accepting others. She spoke of helping others and loving those unlike what we see in the mirror. She spoke of the humanness of all of humanity. She quoted others’ poetry and read/recited her own. She encouraged the audience to read and memorize poetry that means something to us. She injected funny moments, comments, and anecdotes at just the right moments to keep my tears from actually falling. She never forgot her appearance was part of a fundrasier for the 50+ Center in Salem seamlessly working comments about the organization into her talk. She told an audience full of people they matter in a way that made each individual feel she spoke directly to him/her. She opened, reiterated, and closed with the idea that we all have the potential to be rainbows in other people’s lives.
I thought about people from my own life. I thought about moments of acceptance and love I’ve witnessed. I thought about moments of absolute rudeness and cruelty I’ve witnessed. I thought about the excuses I’ve heard for people’s racism. I thought about misconceptions I’ve held that have been disproven. I thought about people I’ve admired and loved. I thought about people who’ve influenced me throughout my life. I listened to her honesty about events in her life and wondered when I’ll be able to be so honest about events from my past. It’s not that I’m dishonest now, it’s more that I’m not comfortable to talk openly in a public setting about certain events from my life. I understand those events have helped create the person I am today, but I hesitate to share them with strangers. Perhaps I still fear judgment or pity though I’m loathe to admit that even to myself, so I fight even writing it as a possibility.
I thoroughly enjoyed my evening sitting only a few feet away from the stage as Dr. Angelou spoke. I walked away inspired to continue writing about issues that are important to me in a way that will both entertain and provoke conversation. I feel encouraged to continue living the life I’ve chosen for myself - one based on love, understanding, and acceptance. I am invigorated to tackle projects that require me to delve into that sense of honesty that makes me feel too vulnerable.
Dr. Angelou spoke the words I needed to hear. Often when we open ourselves to listen we hear exactly what we need to hear even when the same words are spoken to a room full of people who will each come away with their own interpretation of the words based on their own individual needs.
The only thing that would have improved an already perfect evening is if she’d read her poem, Human Family. It is my favorite poem. To that end, I’m going to take her advice that poetry belongs to us all and quote the beginning and the end of the poem. It begins “I note the obvious differences/in the human family./Some of us are serious,/some thrive on comedy” and ends “We are more alike, my friends,/than we are unalike.”
I request you find the poem and read the middle because it really is the best part.
Wishing to hear Human Family live is a selfish conceit after such an uplifting and beautiful talk. I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to listen to Dr. Angelou speak in person.
And, don’t forget, you can be a rainbow in someone’s life because in the end we really are more alike than unalike.
My two short stories that were available through the Amazon Shorts program have been moved to Kindle. Amazon is doing away with their Amazon Shorts program, so they recommended I transition my short stories to Kindle. Click on the story title to purchase the story on Amazon. Thanks!
Connection
The phone rings. I answer with a smile “Hello.” I’m usually fairly certain who is calling. After all Caller ID makes screening calls easy. On the other hand, sometimes it’s a bit vague, and I no longer even try to memorize everyone’s phone number. For example, cell phones tend to show up on my Caller ID as “Cell ST” with ST representing the abbreviation of the state in which the cell phone originates.
Inevitably, the person on the other end of the line will ask. “Are you busy?”
As I roll my eyes and grown inwardly, I consider my response. Do I tell the truth? Do I lie? Of course I’m busy. There are maybe 10 waking moments of any given day when I’m not actually busy with something. The person on the other end knows I’m busy and will know I’m lying. But somehow, the lie will make them feel better. Yet, inside, I feel like.. well, a lier.
There’s also the alternative where people believe that I’m never busy, so I should always have time for them. The idea that I work from home and am my own boss sometimes gives people the impression I have all the time in the world. So, saying I’m not busy gives those rare people the wrong idea. Those people generally don’t understand the work and time that goes into writing a book, poem, article, short story, essay, etc or the other chores that accompany the process. Due to this misconception, I find it all the more important to be honest when asked “Are you busy?”
So, I experimented with telling the truth. Wow, did that ever fail miserably. My Mom has now stopped calling altogether because she knows I’m “busy” as she recently told me in a letter. One of my best friends from college spent several minutes telling me she could call another time when I could tell she was clearly upset and needed to talk right then. It took a while to convince her it was okay, I could take a break and talk with her. Other friends and neighbors also rushed to ask their question or end the conversation. So much for honesty.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m as guilty as the next person. I almost always ask the same question when I call someone. I’ve been working on alternatives though.
I think what we’re really asking when we ask “Are you busy?” is “Do you have or can you make time to talk to me?” So I’ve started not answering “Are you busy?” and going straight for the real question by replying. “I can take the time to talk to you.” or “I can make the time to talk to you.” No lie, and the person calling knows I care enough to listen.
Safe assumption. If I answered the phone, I’m willing to make the time to talk to you. If I didn’t, I’m not home, I’m up against a deadline, or I’m immersed in something that demands my undivided attention. In any of those cases, I will call you back when I can make the time to talk to you. Leave a message, please. Just don’t be surprised if I have to fold clothes, load the dishwasher, or perform any number of mindless, routine chores while we talk. It doesn’t mean I care any less, just that I, like you, have responsibilities I must meet.
I expect that when I call you, you are busy with something even if it’s relaxing. I will never be offended if you ask me if we can talk later. I likely will inquire just to make sure you’re okay before I hang up, but I will understand. I won’t take it personally. If, on the other hand, you never call me back or you continuously don’t have time to talk, I will back off and wait for you to make a move.
Next time you start to ask someone ”Are you busy?” I encourage you to think about what you really want to know and ask that instead. Most of us are busy most of the time, and we all know it.
When someone asks you “Are you busy?”, tell them the truth in a gentle way or answer the question you know is really being asked.
My answer to your question. “Yes, I’m busy, but I care about you. So let’s talk.”
This morning I logged onto Facebook to see the question:
“What did you learn from your mother?” as Diana Abu Jaber’s Status
Jessica Morrell rephrased it as “What did your mother teach you?” as her status
My initial response was to answer that I learned “that not every woman should be a mother.” As I typed this two other things popped into my mind “that I can only do my best and must always do my best even though that will never be enough” and “that when I allow other people to intimidate me, I give them my power.”
I almost posted that response but decided to delve into it a little more here.
Let’s start with the last one. When I allow people to initimidate me, I give them my power. My Mom probably would’ve never worded it the way I do. She’d always say “s/he puts his pants on just like you do. One leg at a time.” when I’d complain about someone in authority or who I thought was better than me. It would be years before this lesson would sink in because oddly my Mom didn’t really live it. She’d turn around a few minutes later and snap “Who do you think you are? The Queen of England (or insert whatever country popped into her mind at the moment, often Biblical countries)?” when she thought I was acting uppity - a favorite uppity action was posture that was too straight and proud. She tends to give off an attitude, at least privately, that she thinks most people are better, smarter, richer, etc. than her. On the other hand, she’d stand up to almost anyone over any infraction she perceived, real or not. That could be a bit confusing when I was younger. I understand it a little better now. She was in conflict about her self and that conflict carried over to the way she reared me. She often still projects the same conflict.
I can only do my best and must always do my best even though that will never be enough. To be completely fair, both parents had a hand in teaching this one. An “A” should’ve been an “A+” even if “A+” wasn’t an option. Doing better than realistic was the only acceptable outcome in my house. In many ways, I found this push inspiring. It made me constantly strive for perfection. The problem was I would rip myself to shreds and get locked in “analysis paralysis” trying to perfect things. Leaving anything at “good enough” made me feel like a failure. I still struggle with this one. I don’t get angry at others when they point out my mistakes, but I do torture myself for not being perfect. Sometimes I berate myself for a even stray thought that crosses my mind that doesn’t conform with the person I think I should be. Now, I must admit, I am getting better with this one. I know on an intellectual level that doing my best is important and is enough, but my heart races even writing that. How could I possibly not give more than my best?
Not every woman should be a mother. This one is tougher to describe. I know she did the best she could as a mother, and I give her credit for that; however, when I hear other people describe their upbringings, it often sounds quite foreign to me. In the end, her mothering highly influenced my decision that I shouldn’t have children.
No matter what, mothers inform who their children will be. It’s an awesome responsibility that should only be undertaken with the utmost love, understanding, and forethought. If you’re a Mom, don’t forget that you teach your children with every decision you make, every behavior you undertake, every word you speak, every action you take, and every attitude you project. Your entire being imprints on your children from birth onward. Do the best you can, but don’t expect yourself to be perfect. Your children need to see you correct your mistakes to learn how to problem solve their own.
If you have a great Mom, tell her how much you appreciate all she’s done for you and that she’s always there for you. If you have a good Mom, tell her how much you appreciate all her efforts. If you have a mediocre Mom, tell her you appreciate how hard she’s always tried to be all she could for you. If you have a bad Mom, tell her you appreciate that she gave you the life you have. No matter what kind of Mom each of us has, we can appreciate the life lessons we learned - and continue to learn - from her because she showed us both what we want to be and what we don’t want to be. And, tell her you love her for being the Mom she is. It’ll do you both good.
Writers, take a look at your work. I’d be willing to bet, you’ll find both what you love about your Mom and your issues with your Mom in there somewhere.
Sometimes the story writes itself. Sometimes the writer must reach deep into her soul to pull it out. Both types of story can be good, but the one from deep in the soul will somehow have more meaning to both writer and reader. A connection will be born of the words on the page. A rendering of things incomplete will occur. Pain will be eased. Questions will be raised. Answers will be discovered. And, all because someone, somewhere was willing to reach deep into her soul and bare the most vulnerable part of herself for the world to judge.
Stories that write themselves rarely have this effect because they tend to be superficial. A superficial story may be enjoyable, but it will never change someone’s life. It may even have memorable moments, but it won’t connect on a deep level with the reader. I’m not talking about research. Both types of stories can involve immense research. In this instance a story that writes itself is one the writer has little or no emotional stake for the writer as a person.
Writers must never fear playing the “What if…?” game with their own lives. We have to think about the choices we made in life and think what would’ve been different had we made different choices. I’ve been struggling with this lately as I examine my own past. I felt I was somehow betraying my friends, my family, and my husband by playing the “what if…?” game. It’s not that I would make the decisions I’m pondering if I could do it over. It’s more the idea of examining the various paths different decisions could’ve taken me down. Then looking at those decisions and paths to see if there are ideas that could make good plotlines. After I let go of the guilt of playing “what if…?”, I started to find inspiration for my writing. Even in the midst of the guilt I wrote several poems. Poems are good for dealing with guilt, at least for me. But as the guilt cleared, stories began to emerge. The roots of reality lent my imagination the tools to explore possibilities right into story lines. And, now, I’m starting to put those ideas on paper. I’m sure some will work and others won’t, but the important thing is the drive is alive and well.
Both superficial and soul wrenching have their place in the world as well as in every writer’s repertoire. And, when a writer explores the “What if…?” moments of her life, she just may find closure to losses, painful moments, and other issues. She just may discover she needs to take responsibility for her own actions and decisions in a way she didn’t realize. She may come to appreciate her past as well as the present. She may even realize which decisions were right and which were wrong. And, all in all, she will discover that all those “What if…?” moments where she chose one route out of the many available have created the woman she has become.
So explore your “What if…?” with an open heart, soul, and mind. You just might learn something about yourself and you just might grow from the experience. If nothing else, if you’re a writer, you just might find the inspiration you need to write your next project.
What if…?
I’ve posted my Author’s Forum interview on You Tube. Please check it out. There are four segments to the interview.
We discussed my novel, All She Ever Wanted, the writing process, and my essay, The Gift of You, in the book, Be the Star You Are! for Teens. I also read a poem.
Enjoy!
It seems people are boiling over with hatred these days. Sometimes it’s so bad you can almost feel it in the air. I read hateful comments and hear journalists (I’m using that term very loosely) spread hate even if they have to lie. I hear people speak with hatred dripping from their tongues. My heart breaks as people I’ve long respected - and even liked - spread hateful comments with less thought than they’d give washing their hands.
I’ve long believed hate is more detrimental than anything. Hate leads to violence against others. Hate creates intolerance toward others. Hate eats our hearts away until there’s nothing left but a shadow of what once was. Hate blinds us to the truth and taints every word spoken, action taken, and one’s view of the world.
I lived with hate in my heart for a long time. It tarnished everything I did and every relationship I had. And, this hate was, by comparison, a small hate. It was a hate toward someone who had hurt me. When I finally let go of that hate, I was able to move forward with my life. As I let go of hate, love moved into its place without hesitation and began to grow. Not that I love the person, but I no longer hate the person either. Some would say my feeling of indifference is worse than hate, but I disagree. Indifference allows me to stop protecting myself and focusing on the negative. It allows me to live without feeling burdened by the weight of hate.
When hate rules, problems don’t get solved. They become exacerbated. Only when we take hate out of the equation are we able to look at facts and find solutions. It astounds me that people can’t - or won’t - understand the damage hate creates. It infuriates me that people can’t see that hatred fuels lies and misinformation which in turn fuels hatred. It’s a neverending cycle. Only when we recognize hate and release it will we begin to see it doesn’t always have to be an “us against them” situation in life. We can solve so much more when we allow people to bring different points of view to the table for discussion. Disagreement doesn’t have to lead to hatred. Disagreement can fuel discussion and lead to answers that make everyone happy. It seems answers are the last thing on anyone’s mind when hatred gets involved.
Hatred demands it be protected from anything that doesn’t fuel it. When good happens to someone focused on hate, that person immediately begins to look for the negative or the hidden agenda. We lose our ability to accept people at face value when hate gets involved. Hate demands that we don’t allow anything to challenge it. Hate is smart in this way. It knows that any break in its hold will open the hater up to allowing love to reside in his/her heart. When love gets involved hate begins to erode, so hate holds on to anything that will allow it to survive.
I write a lot about emotion including love and hate. Hate in fiction provides conflict and drama just as it does in real life. In fiction though hate can be resolved much easier than in real life. We manipulate hate in fiction to achieve our desired results, so it’s a useful tool. In real life, while it sometimes fuels a catalyst for searching for change, real change requires love.
I challenge you to examine your own life for the hatred you feel, large and small. See if you can resolve it. Maybe letting it go will improve your life. Maybe you can crack its hard veneer and allow love to enter.
Writers, use hatred to fuel your work. See if you can resolve your own issues with hate or the societal issues that trouble you through your work. I think you’ll be happy you did.
May hate never find a permanent place in your life. May love always find a way to replace hate in your life.
This year I set a goal to write a minimum of one poem each month. Earlier this week, I counted and discovered I’ve already written twelve poems this year. Some are better than others, but the number surprised me. I tend to write poetry only when inspired to do so. I don’t sit down and try to write poetry. I save it for my personal writing endeavours. I don’t write with an audience in mind. I edit with an audience in mind though. I don’t study poetry techniques and can’t rattle off the types of poems in existence. If I like the poem’s flow and it expresses what I want, that’s good enough for me.
I’ve also been letting down some barriers that I erected a while back to protect me from emotional tirades in life. I hadn’t realized how much that conscious decision had stifled my creativity. Without access to those memories and the emotions they created, my writing lost some of its dimension. My life found equilibrium. This wasn’t the first time I’d erected emotional barriers to protect myself, but when I did it before it was to keep people from getting too close - from knowing me very well. This time I had no problem people knowing the real me. I just wanted to no longer be defined by my past. So I set about creating a future that wasn’t dependent on holding on to past pain and unhappiness.
Opening myself up again is allowing my inspiration to flow freely. The problem is that it’s overwhelming me. I’m constantly bombarded with ideas, and I can’t hold them long enough to get them on paper. While I’m working on one idea, another one pops in my head. Then it’s gone before I can get it written down. This is a much better problem than having no ideas. At least I think it is.
I’m a bit scared that my inspiration seems to be coming from my past instead of my present. I keep wondering what that means. There’s a part of me that fears regressing to the person I was then, but I doubt that will actually happen. I’m older, more mature, and, dare I hope, a bit wiser than I was then.
So, I’m going to go with it. When inspiration hits one must grasp on to it and use it for all it’s worth. Past, present, or future - inspiration is inspiration.
So, who knows, maybe now that my goal of a minimum of twelve poems for 2010 is met, I’ll feel even freer to write double, triple, or quadruple that amount. Wherever my muse takes me, I’ll follow. That is a promise.
I had a thought. Where did it go?
Last week I started this very poetic blog post inspired by the bright pink blooms dancing on the branches of the ornamental cherry tree as the wind blew through them. I wrote a paragraph. Then my husband came home from work early and interrupted my train of thought. He took me out to dinner at Cloud 9, so I can’t really complain, but…
When I opened the post the next day to continue working on it. POOF! All my thoughts about where it was going were gone. Completely gone. I saved it for the second time and tried again yesterday. Still gone. I deleted the paragraph and sat staring at the screen for a while. Then I typed “I had a thought. Where did it go?”, saved the document, and walked away. Here I am this morning trying to find that thought again. I’m beginning to think maybe it just wasn’t all that important to me. Maybe, just maybe, I was trying to force it because it had been a while since I blogged anything substantial - or so it felt. If it was that important, it will come back to me. I know it will.
It had something to do with my dancing days, taking ballroom dance lessons, and wanting to go dancing… Still, no sparks to the memory.
Okay, letting it go…. Really, I am…. Here it goes…. But…. No, wait… Is that it? Maybe…. Sorry, not going to happen.
I know if I just let it go, it will either come back to me or a better idea around the same topic will emerge. Either way, the final product will be what I actually need to write. So it’s all good.
But, I will let it go… I really will.
So, I’m wondering, do you ever have an idea that you don’t get on paper when it strikes, and you lose it? If so, does it haunt you? Or do you shrug it off?
Still letting it go…
My appearance on Author’s Forum is now playing on in the Willamette Falls Television viewing area. Check the Willamette Falls Programming schedule to see when the show runs again if you live in the area. I’ve been told it will run at various times for approximately 4-6 weeks.
If you don’t live in the area, I’ll post the interview on the web soon. That is provided I’m happy with it. :) I’m waiting to receive the CD in the mail. I’ll post a notice when it’s ready for viewing.
Last month, a good friend wrote to me about her yearly “bad day”, the anniversary of a painful, life-changing event in her life. I also have an annual bad day created by an event that happened twenty years ago. I won’t say any more about hers except to say that our life-changing events were very different from one another but both involved betrayal. As my annual bad day approaches, I’m realizing I’m likely to spend it lounging on the couch. I’m having a minor knee surgery this week, so my activity will be restricted. It’s possible I’ll still be on painkillers. Maybe I’ll miss the day altogether in one of those days that don’t seem quite real due to a drugged out state.
I’ve managed to make my annual bad day more private over the years generally planning a way to spend the day either doing something that keeps me distracted all day or spending it alone. Planning a distracted day keeps bad memories at bay. Spending the day alone allows me to deal with anything that comes to the surface without the need to explain anything to anyone. Sometimes allowing memories and emotions to surface results in a new poem, essay, or short story, so it can be productive to a degree.
With time I’ve noticed the impact of my annual bad day has lessened. A few years I’ve even gotten by with just a general grumpiness or sadness that’s been largely unnoticed by the few people I’ve encountered. I swear every year I’m going to live it like any other day, but that never seems to happen. Some reminder crops up, and there is the memory taking over my mind, my body, my heart, and my soul.
I’ve heard of people who try to reclaim their annual bad day by doing something exciting or fun to change the memory. I tried this once, well maybe twice, but it didn’t change anything. And, it felt a little like celebrating something I didn’t want celebrated. So, I gave that idea up. Now, I just accept it for what it is - the anniversary of something painful.
I used to want to forget it entirely, but that desire has passed as well. This painful experience played a role in who I am today. If it hadn’t happened, would I have the compassion I have for others? Would I be someone entirely different? Would I have met the man who is now my husband? Would I have taken an entirely different path in life? On the other hand, would I have avoided hurting people I’ve hurt in my life? Would I have loved more freely and trusted more openly? Would I have been less fearful of letting people get close to me? Would that have been a better life? It doesn’t matter. This is the life I have, so I must embrace that it’s the experience life brought me. The best I can do is to try to learn from what hapened and use that experience to try to help other people.
What about you? Do you have an annual “bad” day? A day when you become so mired in a particularly painful and life-altering memory that you feel like you’ll smother before it’s over. If so, what do you do with that day? How do you survive it? How do you embrace it? How do you try to change it? Or do you fight it? Ignore it?
If you’re a writer, do you use the experience consciously, or even subconsciously, in your work? You might want to take a look at your work and see if you notice a pattern. This isn’t a bad thing. You may be using your experience to work through your issues or to try to help others or a combination of the two. I know my experience leaks into my work in many forms, and I’m okay with that.
So, as I see my annual bad day approaching, I wonder if this year perhaps I can make it a good day - or at least a little less bad than it has been in the past.
I vow to smile as many times as I possibly can on my bad day this year - genuine smiles. I will remember people who make me feel genuine happiness deep in my heart and soul. I will embrace the happy memories in my life. I will remember the little things that have touched my heart and soul in a positive way throughout my life. I will ask for hugs if I need them. I will take care of me. And, if a sad memory forces its way in, I’ll embrace it, hug it, and let it go with a smile. I will not beat myself up if I have a bad moment or two or three. This is my vow to love and accept myself in spite of my annual bad day and because of who I’ve become since the experience that created my annual bad day.
For those wishing I’d be more specific, sorry not this time. Maybe later.
And, maybe next year I’ll forget all about it… There’s always hope.
Yesterday I listened to music while I was working. I turned on the music because I had Meatloaf’s “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” stuck in my mind. I’m not sure why. Well, I kind of know, but that’s irrelevant to this discussion. Luther Vandross’s “Buy Me a Rose” played. This song always makes me want to cry. If you don’t know the song, I encourage you to find it and listen. It’s about how we often don’t realize the things our loved ones need from us. We think we’re doing the right thing, at least by societal conventions, but maybe, just maybe we’re not. Starting with the lyrics “He works hard to give her all he thinks she wants…” this song will touch most people who’ve ever loved someone and struggled to balance a relationship and a career.
Women always blame men for forgetting the importance of the little things in life and in relationships, but women are just as guilty. I know I am sometimes. Luther sings about the woman’s need for the little things in life from the hardworking husband in this song. When I first heard it, I so related. My husband has always been a bit of a workaholic to the point of neglecting our relationship at times. I know it doesn’t mean he loves me any less, but sometimes I’ve struggled with feeling less important than his work. I’m glad I can say this hasn’t been an issue for us for quite some time. Whether the reason for that is him putting a greater importance on our relationship or less importance on career, I’m not sure. I’d guess it’s a little of both. Or maybe it has something to do with the focus I put on my own career.
And, there have been times when I’ve definitely put my work - my writing - first in my life and neglected him and/or our relationship. When a relationship has a certain amount of security, it’s easy to rest in the knowledge that a spouse will be there when the work is completed. It’s easy to say “He/she knows I love him/her. I’ll give him/her attention tomorrow or next week or next month or whenever there’s time.”
Last week my husband took the week off after being away on business for a month. I have to admit, I wasn’t always as present as I could’ve been. I was distracted by all the writing I should’ve been - or at least could’ve been - doing. I kept thinking about all the things I was ignoring instead of focusing on the present moment and on him. It’s not that I didn’t want to spend time with him. I really, really did. But as he changed plans leaving me unable to work on my projects because I didn’t know when he’d suddenly be ready to do something together, I couldn’t fight the feeling of being in a holding pattern leading me to wonder what gave him the right to dictate the terms of our time together. But that’s not fair. It wasn’t his fault his business trip was extended by a week or that he had to be available to answer questions for his replacement in Leeds. It wasn’t mine either. And, normally, I love the flexibility being a writer allows me to have to take advantage of times like this.
A part of me wants to blame it on being sick the day he returned. I’d fallen behind on my work while I was sick, and that bugged me. I kept thinking about all the things I’d almost finished while he was gone and forgot about all the things I did accomplish. And, I still didn’t feel up to doing much of anything plus I was just plain grumpy.
I tried not to resist his suggestions for activities even going to the Woodburn Outlet Mall with him when I really didn’t want to. We ended up enjoying the day, so I was glad I went. Another day we took a drive to the Oregon coast and went to the Tillamook Air Museum. I very much enjoyed that day, but thoughts about the projects I was neglecting kept popping in to my head. The days we spent at home watching television and relaxing, I kept thinking of all the “productive” things I could be doing. And, then I felt guilty. Because, sometimes, cuddling on the couch is a productive thing to do. And, yet, I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. My heart was there, but my mind resisted.
Today, I realized that while he was gone, my time was my own. I worked way too many hours, but no one (except the cats) cared. I ate when I felt like it. I fed the cats on a schedule with very few disruptions. I ran errands only when absolultely necessary. I did writing events without nagging worry that I was neglecting him. I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning working or answering emails without hesitation. I chatted on the phone with friends. I spent too much time on Facebook. And, his return changed all that. Now, suddenly, all the things I had on my schedule were pushed to the side without a second thought. Or at least that’s how I felt. Again, unfair!
It was me pushing things aside not him.
When I reminded him I was scheduled to work the Sisters in Crime booth at the Public Library Association conference on Friday, at first he looked a little disappointed. Then he immediately told me how important it was that I keep the commitment all the while offering to go with me. I declined his offer as he would’ve been bored out of his mind, and I would’ve spent the whole time worried about him being bored. Not good when I’m networking. Besides I had plans to ride with two authors I hoped to get to know a little better. He drove me to meet them, and then had the rest of the day to himself. And, my day was a success. Yet as I returned home, I felt a little guilty that I hadn’t spent the day with him. I felt I’d let him down when he was making such an effort let me know how much he missed me while he was gone.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m happy he’s home. I missed him like crazy.
The point is women aren’t perfect either, so maybe we should give our men a break. Yesterday afternoon when “Buy Me a Rose” started, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d let my hubby down. He worked so hard last week to remind me I’m special in his eyes, and, yet, I was so distracted by all the other things in my life, I couldn’t even appreciate or enjoy it for more than a few minutes at a time. It just goes to show you, that sometimes we, women, need to reassess our priorities and stop taking the special things our men do for us for granted.
The little things matter, so give them freely, accept them when offered, and appreciate the efforts even when they aren’t exactly what you want at the moment. None of us are perfect. There may not always be tomorrow for these special moments, so make the most of today with your loved one.
Yesterday I attended a presentation where the speaker, Naseem Rakha, author of The Crying Tree, spoke about writing from the dream state. As she spoke, my mind wandered in that good way that means the speaker’s words spoke to me. For a moment I thought about how that applied to some of the writing struggles I’ve been having lately. It’s not that I can’t get the words on paper. It’s that my ever-critical editor hasn’t been shutting off long enough for me to let the words flow freely - for the words to guide me in the story. I’ve been spending too much time trying to get the words perfect on the first draft. I’m not saying the ever-critical editor has been perfect. I created a huge misunderstanding in an email last week due to a poor choice of words. (If you’re reading this, sorry, again.)
The thing is we are so used to living by, working by, and being imprisoned by the rules that surround us for everyday life and our work that it’s nearly impossible to let creativity flow without the ever-critical editor popping up to play. We have rules that guide how we live our lives, do our jobs, treat our families, and so on. When anyone strays outside those rules, we criticize them. We never stop to consider that maybe they’ve found a better way. We never stop to question the rules society and our families engrained in us from the day we were born. Well, we do, but then we go back to what we know - the rules.
Sometimes these rules bind us and keep us from progressing in our lives. We’re so sure we have to follow the rules someone else set that we never question why we’re following those rules or what would happen if we didn’t. I’ve started asking myself “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” when I question whether or not I should do something that might nudge against “the rules”. If I can live with the answer, I go for it. If not, then I back off and re-think the likelihood of that worst case scenario happening. Usually, that likelihood is pretty close to nill.
When I get too tied up in following the rules, my husband tells me to “Take the rock out of the park.” to remind me that life doesn’t have to be so rigid. It’s one of those little private experiences people who have been married a long time can use to convey meaning by invoking a memory without needing the whole story. It always works. I always smile, relax, and consider other options - options that may not fit someone else’s definition of the rules for doing something.
As a writer if I listened to every rule I’ve ever heard pronounced, I’d never write a single word. Someone somewhere at some point in time has decided that whatever it is you’re about to write and however it is you’re planning to write it is unacceptable, so just stop there. Most of these “rules” appear when the market has been flooded with a topic or a format of writing. How dull would fiction be if we could never hurt an animal, a child, or a woman? Why are men always left out of this rule? I guess because they’re rarely the victims in fiction. How lackluster would stories be if we could never explore the abuses inflicted on human beings? How uninspiring would fiction be if we couldn’t explore the things that make us uncomfortable, that make us squirm in our seats, that make us shout for joy when the resolution is reached at the end.
So I’m going to continue to explore the things in life that make life have meaning. Overcoming painful childhoods (yes, children get hurt). Grieving a beloved pet. Overcoming rape, assault, or an abusive relationship. Learning to live without parents or grandparents. Finding the way without the spouse with whom a life was built. Living the forbidden relationship and making it work even when no one thinks it has a chance. The journey to finding one’s self and learning to accept that self for all it is. Finding someone to share that journey with through the great joys, the minor irritants, and the major fights. All these and much more create life experience. If we walk through life ignoring harsh realities, we diminish those who conquer them. If we leave the world’s cruelties out of our fiction, we don’t give people a chance to learn more, to connect to characters, to grow, and to enjoy the hope for change and justice that fiction has the opportunity to provide. If we’re lucky our words lead people to a greater understanding of themselves and the world they inhabit. It’s a huge responsibility. When readers express that your words have touched them, made them comprehend the world a little better, helped them overcome a misconception about another culture, or changed their lives, a writer can feel good about contributing to society.
I choose to explore, embrace, study, and write about all the things that make life what it is. I need to not let my critical editor keep me from exploring all these things no matter how much pain they bring up for me in the process. For a while I became stymied by the idea that remembering my past would take me back into an emotional and mental state I didn’t want to be in. I’d shut a lot of memories out of my mind. Recently, two things sparked my memory to allow these things to surface. One was renewing communication with a friend (see Apologies:Better Late Than Never). The other was trying to write a true short story about saying goodbye (still working on that one.) I now realize I can look at my memories with fresh eyes. I can once again see how I can use my life experience to influence my work and potentially help others. The difference is this time I can do it without the fear of drowning in those memories. I didn’t even realize this was a fear I had until the memories - the ones I tended to quash every time they peeked out - flowed to the surface without asking permission and lay there for me to examine. They patiently waited their turn to be picked up, thoroughly examined, and put back into place. I shed a few tears, felt a bit of anger, and became awash in sadness. Then a happy memory would surface. I’d smile, laugh, and stroke the memory before putting it back into place. I wrote a few pieces about the process and the memories.
In my house, we don’t spend a lot of time talking about the past. After years of letting the past dominate our lives, we moved forward and let resolved issues be. That’s good for a marriage in many ways but not always so good for artistic endeavours. I’m realizing in order to write meaningful work, I have to allow myself to become immersed in those memories at times. I have to feel what I felt, think what I felt, and embrace it. When it feels overwheming, that’s when I most need to let the words spill onto paper. Otherwise my work doesn’t have the depth it could. Imprinting what I’ve learned from my life experience onto my works of fiction is what will make them distinctly mine, the most honest emotionally, and the most likely to reach readers.
Once that’s done, I can welcome my critical editor to the table to remove the melodrama, the unbelievable parts (even when they’re true), and the irrelevant, personal invaders. My critical editor can then make sure what’s left conveys the message intended in a clear, concise, entertaining way. This is how I’ve always written, and I know it works for me. So, why and when, did I become so enamored with my critical editor? Good question. I think it was gradual and had mostly to do with pressuring myself to create output instead of to write stories. Oh, and that other thing - my fear of the memories…
So critical editor, time to take a nap. My creative self needs to work for a while…
I’m going to be taking care of a overdue housekeeping chore on the blog over the next few weeks. When I started this blog I planned to import the posts from my My Space blog, but I kept procrastinating. I tell you this now in hopes of creating confusion when the blogs occur. The posts will include the blog entries along with original post dates and comments from my My Space page. If I’m handling my date stamp correctly they should all appear in the month I started this blog. I will post one or two entries a week until they’re all posted. I will continue with my regular blog posts as well.
Thanks for your patience!
I don’t often remember beginnings clearly and I rarely remember endings at all. I’m a little strange that way. I know it began because it was, and I know it ended because it is no more. The important thing is what happened in the middle.
I know we said hello, exchanged names, and talked about our interests. Everyone starts a relationship there. At some point we drifted into more personal details. Perhaps slowly, perhaps quickly, perhaps even too fast. As we relaxed our guard and started to get to know one another, potential vulnerabilities creeped into the relationship. They always do.
Maybe we exposed those vulnerabilities as a defense. Maybe I told you my deepest darkest secret just to see if you’d run away. Maybe I tested the water by bringing up the topic as if it happened to someone else or as a general statistic just to see how you’d react. Maybe I held back but hinted there was some painful event from my past you might not understand. Maybe I somehow managed to combine all three in the conversation.
Maybe you told me your deepest darkest secret. If so, we may have connected on familiar ground or fell into a competition of who’d had the worst life. Maybe you told me your life had been almost perfect until that moment. If so, I promise you I didn’t believe you. Maybe you admitted a painful experience but swore you were fine now. Maybe you described a life I wanted but could never have. Maybe that caused me to strike out with jealousy.
If you stayed after hearing my deepest darkest secret, I probably questioned your sanity or at least your motives. Maybe I upped the drama level or relaxed and let you into my inner sanctum. Maybe I questioned my own motives and sanity. Maybe I questioned my need for drama. Maybe you tried to save me or to fix me. Maybe I rebelled. Maybe I let you try until you were too tired to keep trying.
We grew closer, or did we? Relationships deepen, remain superficial or dissolve.
Maybe our relationship ran its course and naturally dissolved without painful words or feelings of abandonment. Maybe the ending was more abrupt with cruel words or actions. Maybe one of us betrayed the other in some way. Maybe I overwhelmed you with my neediness. Maybe you overwhelmed me. Maybe my aloofness pushed you way. Maybe yours shoved me.
Maybe we hung on to - or still cling to - the threads of our relationship even if all seems lost. We know the threads will either grow stronger, strain until they fray, or break. Maybe one day we even pick up a broken thread and gently tie it back together. It may not be as strong as before . It may or may not experience new growth. Or maybe we send a brand new thread out to start completely over.
Maybe our relationship withstood the strain we placed on its threads and thrives still today. Maybe we know when to give and when to take. Maybe we weathered the tough times standing beside each other without hesitation. Likely even if we weren’t together, the memory of what we had kept us from losing one another completely even when troubles cropped up between us.
There are so many maybes in life that dwelling on an ending - a goodbye - seems pointless. Goodbyes are rarely happy memories and usually result in someone feeling hurt even if the ending is mutual.
Regardless of which path you and I took, it’s up to us to decide where it goes from here…
Mind Fog Reviews recently reviewed All She Ever Wanted. If you’re interested in reading the review, go to either of the websites listed below.
Review of All She Ever Wanted on Mind Fog Reviews
Review of All She Ever Wanted on Author Meeting Place
Okay, Kelly, this one is for you. Sort of. You were disappointed I haven’t done an analysis of my problem writing a true short story about goodbye. Since every attempt I’ve made at a short story has turned into either a poem about avoiding the word goodbye or the first lines of an essay about why I hate goodbyes, maybe it’s time to blog about it. If it helps me get to the short story, all the better. :)
When I first read about this writing opportunity, I immediately remembered my Daddy driving to EKU to tell me my beloved Border Collie, TJ, had died. I thought I’d write that story. When I tried, it just didn’t come out right. All I could think was “I never said goodbye to TJ. I don’t even know where on the farm Daddy buried him.”
I didn’t want to tell that story anymore. I made a list of other possible topics. I came up with a few topics. The brown teddy bear I’ve never been able to part with. Saying goodbye to my Grandma when she was dying. The death of my high school classmate, Travis. How the first words I ever said to my husband were “Good Night” as he left the room. A few relationships ending. And so on. Still my pen simply pressed a hole into the paper instead of moving across it.
Then I started thinking about all the ways I avoid saying goodbye. “Love you” to family and really close friends. “Talk to/see you later.” to friends who aren’t quite as close. “Call me.” or “I’ll call you” when appropriate. And so on.
So I turned my focus to goodbyes that aren’t. I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime. Those unreturned phone calls, letters, and emails that eventually get the message across. The disappearing acts we do from people’s lives when saying “goodbye” would be too uncomfortable, painful or embarrassing. Or even when we fear the goodbye will be too joyful. You know, the “I’m so glad I’ll never have to be near that person again.” feeling. You’ve had it at least once in your life, don’t deny it.
So there I was writing across the paper “I’m not good at saying goodbye. I never have been.” and it dawned on me. I hate goodbyes. Goodbye feels so final.
So yesterday I posted my realization as my Facebook status. The responses made me realize there must be other people in the world who hate goodbyes as much as I do.
Eventually I forced a few words out on a couple of the story ideas from my list, but I felt like they didn’t do the story justice. Therein lies the real problem, I think. This has to be a TRUE story about a REAL experience from my life. Saying goodbye in fiction is easy. I can say goodbye in my poetry. But to write a real life goodbye story that puts my life on display for others to pick apart. Wait a minute, I write this blog, I’ve written essays that put my life on display, so why is THIS story so incredibly hard to write? I wish I knew.
My solution. I have a little time before the story has to be submitted, so I moved the item on my schedule. Perhaps relieving the pressure will help. We’ll see.
Anyway, I’ll let you know if/when I figure it out and get a story on paper.
Okay, this is going to be a bit of a departure from my usual blog posts. It’s going to be about one of my cats, and I’m actually not even going to try to tie it in to my writing.
In December I took Kit, my adult cat, to the vet. I was listening to a Madonna CD on the way. Kit loves riding in the car, so she was relaxed but alert looking out the window. She looked very content and kept giving me “cat kisses”. Then Madonna started singing “I Love New York”. Kit looked like someone had hit her. She started crying and clawing at her carrier. She was reaching toward the source of the sound. I tried to comfort her, and she covered her ears and continued to cry. As soon as I changed the song, she relaxed, started looking out the window and throwing “kisses” my way again. I smiled and suppressed a little laugh. Okay, so she clearly hated the song. No big deal, I can live with not listening to it when I’m with Kit.
Fast forward to last night. I was downloading some music to my ipod, so I turned on itunes on my computer. I put it on shuffle because I like to listen to a mix of music. The playlist I chose has around 1000 songs on it, so I get a nice variety although I have to admit I don’t always remember what’s on the list. I like the surprise that brings. When I’m sitting here, if a song comes on I’m not in the mood for I just skip it. No big deal.
I went to the kitchen to feed the cats while the download processed. The cats started eating. Kit eats on the stairs (a habit she started after we got the kittens. She won’t eat close to them. But that’s another story.) The point is she is close to my office, so she could hear the music better than the rest of us. I started putting away the dishes in the dishwasher when “Me So Horny” by 2 Live Crew played. (Yeah, folks, I have the song on my itunes list. Get over it.) I wasn’t in the mood for it but not annoyed enough to stop what I was doing to change it. I glanced over at Kit. She stopped eating and looked around with her ears twitching. I watched her her tail start to fluff out. She suddenly darted up the stairs. I looked out the window by the front door. Nothing there. I looked up the stairs. She was peeking around the corner with a disgusted look on her face - the same one she gets on the rare occasion her litter box isn’t clean enough to suit her - and her ears were moving in all directions. I got it then. It’s the music. I turned the song off. Less than a minute later she cautiously wandered back down the stairs, looked around the corner at my office, gave me a chastising look, and resumed eating. So I guess she not only doesn’t like “Me So Horny”, she actually found the song scary. I had to laugh. A little while later, she forgave me with “kisses”, “nosies”, and a rub-by.
On the other hand, put on any John Mayer song, and she completely relaxes.
Kit knows what she likes, and she’s certainly not afraid to let me know.
We could all learn a thing or two from her.
I’ve been pondering apologies lately.
As a human being, I’ve thought various things about saying I’m sorry. At one point, I felt I should apologize for everything all the time. Then I thought apologies were a sign of weakness. At another point, I thought apologies were irrelevant because after all they’re just words. Now, I think apologies given when appropriate are important and overuse of apologies can dilute their meaning. At least I think that’s what I think. It certainly sounds reasonable and logical.
It’s easy to say “I’m sorry.” for the little things in life. Bumping into a stranger as you walk through the grocery with your mind on your grocery list instead of where you’re going. Snapping at a loved one in a moment of frustration. Even after an argument no one will remember in a week.
Sometimes though “I’m sorry.” doesn’t seem like enough to cover a wrong. Have you ever been there? Where you know the only thing you can do is apologize and yet the apology feels completely inadequate, maybe even like a cop out. I have more than once.
Is it ever too late for an apology? Granted you can’t go back to the person in the grocery store a week later and apologize, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking those wrongs we commit that are bigger, last longer, and/or change people’s lives or the way they view life. The wrongs that leave scars - physical, emotional, or mental.
Do we sometimes give ourselves more power than we really have when we feel we owe someone an apology after a long period of time? Maybe the wrong in question weighs more on the committer than the receiver. In this case, does an apology do more damage than good? I think the answer depends on the circumstances and the people involved. There is no easy answer.
For example I wrote a poem several years ago about someone I wanted to hear an apology from. I’ll never hear that apology and wouldn’t accept it if I did. I’ll never hear it because I can never take the chance of allowing the person anywhere near my life. I wouldn’t accept it because… well, essentially for the same reason I’ll never hear it. Self-preservation.
On the other hand, I recently apologized to someone for pain I caused many years ago - approximately nineteen/twenty years. This was someone I thought would never speak to me again and with good reason. At the time I hurt this person, hereafter known as J, I was so mired in seeing myself as a victim I was unable to see how any action I took could hurt someone else. I saw myself as being so unimportant, so inconsequential, that my actions were irrelevant. At one point, I even blamed J for not sticking around for more of my verbal and emotional abuse. At another time, I said it was J’s own fault for being “too nice”. We stopped communicating. It was easier for me that way. Probably for J as well. I wasn’t much fun in those days to put it mildly. (Frankly, the word bitch comes to mind.)
Years later when I finally resolved some emotionally traumatic events that happened shortly before I met J (the apology I’ll never hear), I realized how cruel I’d been in my attempts to protect myself. I hurt someone who was only trying to help me. I didn’t - or maybe couldn’t - see it at the time. J was a genuinely nice person with a good heart. My inability to see past my issues didn’t give me the right to strike out at J nor did my lack of capacity to give or receive trust or love. Anyway, I’d long wanted to apologize to J. I got the opportunity. Now I have. Because I didn’t want to rehash everything - and still don’t - I simply apologized for the pain I caused. I have no idea how - or if - J will respond to the apology. I feel a little guilty that it appears J may have already forgiven me because J seemed genuinely happy to hear from me even before I apologized.
I couldn’t really apologize for something specific because it was more a general treating J badly over a period of time. Those are often the hardest things to apologize for and the easiest to excuse. Even looking at the former paragraph, my reasons look like excuses to me though I know them to be honest. We do it every day. We lash out with hurtful words because as we all learned growing up “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words never hurt me.” It’s not true. I’ve both received and given my share of hurtful words. Sometimes those words stick with us forever. The scar may not be visible to everyone we come in contact with, but those who know us , see it and feel it when we lash out at them. I’ve come to hate this phrase once used as a child’s defense on the playground because people take it as a license to say whatever they want regardless of consequences.
I felt better after I sent the email with the apology, but will J get anything from it? I have no idea. If not, then did I apologize to make myself feel better? I hope I’m not that self-centered. Did I apologize seeking forgiveness? I don’t think so, yet I’d like to believe that my actions held no long term negative effects in J’s life. I tell myself I apologized to right a wrong or at least acknowledge a wrong. Twenty years after the fact, righting a wrong doesn’t really seem possible. The damage was done, and we both moved on in different directions. From the look of things, we each built happy lives. So I doubt the apology will bring any real change to either of our lives, but it’s said. If it brings even a small amount of comfort or release, I’m glad I did it. I hope it didn’t cause more pain by stirring up bad memories.
The freedom I felt after I apologized actually frightened me. To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about this situation since I worked through my issues. Part of restoring my emotional balance (assuming I had ever had emotional balance) was to acknowledge and accept that my actions could and did hurt other people. This situation was one of these. I never thought I’d get the opportunity to apologize to J, so I put it to the side with an “if the opportunity presents itself then I’m meant to apologize. If not, life goes on.” attitude. Yet, my sense of release nudges a guilt forward that perhaps this apology was a helluva lot more about me than J. And, an apology should always be about the person hurt not the hurter.
So you tell me. Is there anyone you feel owes you an apology? Is there anyone you’d like to give an apology? Do you think an apology frees the apologizer, the apologizee, or both?
If you had the opportunity to apologize to someone you wronged a long time ago, would you do it? Or would you just hope all was forgiven and move forward?
As a writer, I often explore wrongs committed in my poetry, fiction, and essays. Unresolved issues make fabulous fodder for writers. Committed wrongs can range from personal relationships to social injustice to atrocities around the world. The written word explores all of these or at least has the potential. Sometimes I explore the apology as well, but more often than not writing the apology or other righting of the wrong is the end of the story - the resolution - especially in fiction. Real life seems to be quite a bit different where apologies are regarded. There are numerous possible outcomes to an apology.
Can you turn your need to give, or receive, a long overdue apology into a poem, a short story, an essay, or a blog? Can you find inspiration in an event from your past for which the pain has dulled but not been forgotten?
Inspiration often comes from these sources even if we don’t realize it. Embrace it, run with it, and write authentically.
Or maybe even apologize to someone if you think it will do good.
Saturday night my husband and I watched the Eugene Ballet perform Dark Side of the Moon, a ballet based on and performed to music from Pink Floyd’s album, Dark Side of the Moon at The Hult Center in Eugene, Oregon. The performance was incredibly well executed and quite beautiful.
They started the evening with two shorter ballets, Without the Cover, exploring societal constraints and people breaking free, and Common Ground, an exploration of the constant struggle between nature, science, and industry. Both Without the Cover and Common Ground were visually interesting and well executed. Common Ground, at times was a bit too “natural” but was stunning in its presentation of message.
The star of the evening was the main event, Dark Side of the Moon. With The Floydian Slips, a Pink Floyd Tribute Band, playing live behind the performers, the event’s energy was magical. The dancers performed classical ballets moves interspersed with modern dances moves seamlessly. The vocals of the songs lent a depth to the movements on stage that left me breathless. Several times during the performance, I mouthed “Oh my God” as I marvelled at the power of the performance. The stunning visual effect mesmerized me. When spontaneous applause broke out in the audience at what would have seemed inappropriate times during any other ballet it broke me out of the my trance. The energy the dancers put into the moves and the joy with which they performed was apparent and spellbinding.
The performance by The Floydian Slips was very well done. I’ve seen Pink Floyd in concert, so I was a bit concerned I wouldn’t be able to give this part of the performance a fair chance. The Floydian Slips capture the spirit and the essence of Pink Floyd’s music very well.
The collaboration between the Eugene Ballet and The Floydians Slips created a memorable, enjoyable, interesting, playful, fun performance that was visually stunning and musically satisfying!
This was by far the best ballet performance I’ve seen yet!
Now, if I may make a suggestion. Eugene Ballet, how about The Wall next year? What do you think?
A friend of mine started a graduate program in counseling in January. While I’m happy for her, I’m feeling a little… Well, I’m not exactly sure what I’m feeling, but maybe I’ll find it as I write.
A bit about my story.
I studied Corrections & Juvenile Services as well as Psychology in college. I loved my studies. When I graduated from college in 1992, I intended to get either go to law school or get a doctorate in Psychology. After working in a home for juvenile delinquents for six months, I decided law school was for me. Working with troubled teens in the home with so many restrictions against things that could actually help left me feeling like trying to help people overcome their issues would kill me. I mean that more literally than it might sound. I was worn out physically, emotionally, and mentally by the end of the six months. Physically because I was working an unrealistic schedule. It was so bad, I still remember the precise hours to this day. (Wed 9am-11am staff meeting, Wed midnight to 8am Thursday, Thursday midnight to 8am Friday, Saturday 4pm-midnight (usually actually left around 1or 1:30am, Sunday 8am to midnight). Emotionally because I was constantly dealing with drama whether at work or at home. I wasn’t good at leaving my work at work. I identified all too often with the problems the girls expressed. Mentally because it seemed like everything I’d learned in college didn’t apply in the real world and I couldn’t figure out why. At the time, I didn’t feel like I could keep going. It was either the job, my marriage, or me. I could handle the job and my problems or my marriage and my problems, but not both. And, I knew it. I opted for my marriage and quit the job. Quitting anything was never easy for me. After some long thought, long discussions with my husband, and reading several books, I reached the decision that law school was the right way to go. A lot of factors went into my decision but in the end, it boiled down to two things. Neither of which make me especially proud. 1) The time and money involved and 2) My husband favored law school because he’d just witnessed and been affected by the turmoil, disillusionment, and helplessness I’d felt dealing with troubled teens and he didn’t get the appeal of psychology. (As an engineer, he’s more grounded in applying equations and logic to problem solving.)
So I began studying to take the LSAT. I also started reading books recommended for those planning to apply for law school. The boredom and frustration I felt while reading these should’ve been my first clue. I’m a real “but what if” kind of person. I always wanted to know more about the circumstances. I wanted to know the why behind the actions of the people and the why for every decision. I wanted to know every little thing about the circumstances. I had a hard time accepting the decisions presented in the books. I undrestood there was a legal reason, but I wanted to know how the victim was surviving and if the perpertrator could be “rehabilitated”. Still, I persisted. I studied and studied. I felt prepared. Then I received my LSAT scores. I scored lower than I would’ve liked. I couldn’t afford to retake the test at that time, so I revised the list of law schools I’d created to include ones more in line with my score.
We also realized not soon after I left my job that we couldn’t survive on my husband’s salary alone. He was working as a contract employee at Lexmark. I started temping. I needed something with the flexibility to keep up my studies but that would help us make ends meet. Surviving on $10.00 a week for groceries was getting tough. Sometimes I’m not sure how we did it. After a couple of short term assignments, I was offered permanent employment by a company where I was temping. I took it. A situation arose on that job that lead me to lose faith in the legal system and revisit my fascination with psychology.
Then, my husband got a job in Columbus, Ohio. A move was in order. Since he’d been working as a contract employee and my job was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, this looked perfect to us. More money, a steady job, and I could apply to the OSU Law School. I filled out the application to the OSU Law School and mailed it in. They didn’t accept me, so I started looking at other law schools. However, looking back, I’m not so sure my heart was in the search. I started thinking about Psychology again. I temped for a while then got a job at Franklin University. I really liked that job and thought the opportunity to take some classes might help me apply to law schools when the time was right. One big thing hanging over my head through all of this was we were in debt and had no money for school, so I had no idea how I was going to go even it I got accepted somewhere.
Then, time to move again. This time to Boise, Idaho where my husband had a job offer. He’d applied for a job in California with my law school ambitions in mind, but, alas, the company offered him Idaho. No law school in Boise and no Master’s/Doctorate program in Clinical Psychology either. But, financially, we couldn’t afford for him to turn down the job or for me to even go back to college. So we moved with the idea that we’d stay in Boise three years. We would get out of debt and save some money. Then, he’d look for a job in a place where I could pursue one or the other of my ambitions. I would write full time. I’d never quit writing, so that was the one constant in my career life. However, I wasn’t pursuing publication very much in those days. Seemed like a good plan.
We stayed in Boise for 13 years give or take a couple of months. Somewhere around year 4 or 5, I stopped even thinking about pursuing either of my former ambitions. I temped a while, worked through some personal issues, wrote a lot, and eventually became involved with planning Murder in the Grove. Occasionally, I’d feel a little twinge that I’d let both of those dreams go, but life was good enough that it no longer seemed to matter. My husband, however, finally expressed to me that he was bothered that I’d given up on both. He started asking me if I regretted it. At first I said no. Then maybe. Then I’m not sure. Eventually, I started wondering if I should pursue the Psychology degree. I was totally over the law degree thing by then. So I started researching it. Me, being me, was only interested in the original ambition, and never considered anything else. It was a Doctorate in Psychology or nothing.
Part of the reason my husband pursued a position in Oregon was my desire to get my Master’s in Psychology. When we moved I still hadn’t made a decision. I had lunch with a lady from the psychology department at OSU a few times, and we talked about my goals. I left the lunches feeling happier about writing full-time and less interested in pursuing the degree. My interest I have is in why people do what they do. And, that I can continue to pursue on my own through my writing. And, I can reach a broader audience through the written word than I can through one-on-one counseling.
So am I saying I’ll never pursue that degree? Well, no, I’m not. I’m saying it’s not right for me at the moment. I don’t know if it ever will be.
So where was this going? Oh, yeah, my reaction to Kelly’s life change. Well, here’s what I know. I love my life. I love writing. I love when someone reads my words and finds something to which they can relate. So I guess what happened when I read Kelly’s news was a twinge of “what if” related to those past dreams.
Life works best when we let go of what we expected it to be, embrace the now, and move forward.
Several months ago my husband and I decided to experiment with removing meat from our diet. We wanted to see if we’d notice a difference in our health. We started out with an easy enough goal. We would go two weeks without eating meat. Of course, he decided he wanted to try this the day after I do the grocery shopping and have filled the freezer with chicken, beef, lamb, and salmon. I’d been pushing him to try this for several years, so I didn’t voice a single complaint. Besides, we’d just decided to start fixing our cats homemade food (post on this coming soon). I decided to use the meat for that.
We met our two week challenge easily, so we added a month to it. That wasn’t quite so easy. My husband had a business trip, and he indulged. We decided to have upside down - a chicken dish - for my birthday.
We’re now still mostly meat-free. I call it a quasi-vegetarian diet. We’ve eaten fish or poulty a few times in the past few months. We don’t make a fuss when we visit other people. If they’re serving meat, we just eat it at least for now. For years, we’ve had some kind of meat, poultry, or fish almost every night with the occasional vegetarian meal thrown in for variety. My husband complained almost every time there wasn’t meat on the table.
It can be a struggle to get enough protein in a vegetarian diet, and the fact that already we ate a low-carb diet created some challenges to eating meat free. Plus, we avoid processed foods. However, I tend to like a challenge. And, I love cooking. Those who know me well are nodding right now.
As soon as my husband said he wanted to try this, I got out a stack of my cookbooks and started searching for all the vegetarian recipes I’d been wanting to try for ages. I ended up with over 50 recipes to try or try again, bought a low carb vegetarian cookbook, and downloaded some recipes we saw on television. I still have several cookbooks to go through once we get through the first list of recipes. I’ve also bought two more vegetarian cookbooks in the last month and expanded the original list. There are a few recipes we liked enough to eat several times.
We don’t really miss the meat. It seemed like a treat to have turkey on Thanksgiving, but we were over that pretty quick. We sent a nice portion of the turkey home with our guests. After the second day of turkey, we gave the rest to our cats. We roasted a duck on Christmas, but the cats enjoyed it more than we did. I ate about half a breast. My husband ate a little more than I did. Our three cats ate the rest over a couple of meals. While the cats feasted on duck, my husband and I ate portobello burgers and were much happier with that.
So, are we going vegetarian? I don’t know yet. We may still eat fish in season. There are a couple of chicken dishes that we like. My husband loves a couple of lamb dishes. So I’m guessing we’ll continue to eat our favorites on occasion. And, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not about depriving ourselves. It’s about feeling better and about supporting humane lives for animals.
The idea that we treat animals like products instead of living, breathing beings saddens and angers me. When we watched an episode of “How It’s Made” that focused on chicken, I lost my appetite for chicken. To watch baby chicks being pushed along on the conveyor belt and sorted like apples broke my heart. I had to leave the room to keep from crying or throwing something at the television.
Over the weekend, my husband told his Mom we’re vegetarian now, so I think he’s embraced the idea and is enjoying it. I haven’t told my parents yet though I did tell them we were experimenting with the idea. I still have a hard time saying we’re full on vegetarian because I don’t think we’ve been “meat free” long enough to make it official.
We’re not going vegan though. We discussed it but were both reluctant to give up half and half in our coffee, cheese, and eggs. I think I could quit eating scrambled eggs (the only way I eat eggs by themselves), but I don’t think I could give up all the foods made with eggs.
I’ve almost quit having heartburn since we stopped eating meat every night. I think I’ve even lost a little weight. That’s surprising because we kind of fell into a habit of eating more carbs than usual as we adjusted. I feel overall lighter, more energetic, and more focused.
So, all in all, I love our meat free experiment. I’m enjoying cooking new recipes. I like the way I feel. Strangely, I don’t miss meat at all. At least not yet.
I’ll keep you posted…