Stuck in the Middle

     While the universe christened my personal summer as The Summer of Humble, my husband Mike termed (somewhat optimistically) 2015 as our Summer of Social. We had high hopes for lots of cultural outings and merriment with friends. Unfortunately, Mike's work schedule's been significantly busier than planned, so more often than not, I've been making the trips to outdoor events, museums, and the theater without him. One July Friday, though, we managed to check out the evening music series at some beautiful outdoor gardens together.

     Sonnenberg Gardens (and Mansion State Historic Park) is a 50-acre estate in the Finger Lakes that houses a greenhouse complex, nine formal garden areas, including a Japanese Garden and a classic style rose garden, and an impressive 40-room Queen Anne-style mansion.  In the summer months, they string colored lights along their meandering pathways, and every Friday night through July and August, guests are able to walk the grounds and enjoy live music under the stars. 

     The band was set up on the wrap-around veranda of the mansion, and was cranking out classic Rolling Stones as we arrived. Most folks were sitting on folding chairs on the lawn directly in front, leaving a bit of room for dancing if the mood struck. Mike and I hung back a bit and set up farther out in the gardens where the crowd was thinner but the view was still good. We spread out our picnic blanket, got comfortable in our lawn chairs, and secretly sipped our Nalgene bottle full of homemade margaritas.

     The members of the group, like a significant swath of the crowd, looked to be in their late 50s/early 60s - Four guys sporting a healthy mix of gray, white and balding with varying eras of facial hair. They played just about everything spanning the last half century, and what they may have sometimes lacked in technique and pitch, they definitely made up for in enthusiasm. Mike and I figured that these friends had started playing together in high school and had just carried on for the next 40+ years. I appreciate that.  Nice work if you can get it!

     The band was having a great time, and so was the crowd. Most folks stayed seated to enjoy the entertainment, but there were a few pockets of daredevils that frequently jumped up and hit the dance floor. I got out of my chair, too, but stayed near our spot and enjoyed our two-person dance party. I felt like a cooler, younger kid with better moves, and I smirked a bit as I typed an update on my Facebook page:

     I leaned over and shared the sentiment with Mike, and he laughed and replied, "Steph, you are middle aged."

I had no idea.

Seriously.  When did that happen?

     What constitutes “middle-aged?” The U.S. Census Bureau doesn’t define the term “middle age” anywhere on their website, but their data refer to the group before “elderly” - ages 45-64 - as “the older-working population.” (I’m going to get that on a t-shirt: I’m not middle-aged, I’m the older-working population!) Merriam-Webster.com first defines middle age as “the period in a person's life from about age 40 to about age 60,” but then right below, it offers the FULL definition as “the period of life from about 45 to about 64.”  (The dictionary needs an editor, apparently.) Psychologist Erik Erikson defined middle adulthood as between 40-65.

     All of this is to say, none of this looks good for me.  

     I know this was not a sudden occurrence; it was, however, a sudden revelation. 

     It was a Twilight Zone episode:

     I awaken in a field, full of smiling, doughy white folks in long khaki shorts, solid cotton t-shirts, and comfortable shoes. They are gathered in lawn chairs, bobbing their heads to the music, when suddenly the band kicks into a warbly, non-ironic version of “Play That Funky Music.” They glow with nostalgia, and like one somewhat awkward blob, they rise from chairs and motion each other to the open area. They do their best to inhabit the music with their semi-balanced side to side rocking, enthusiastic shoulder thrusting, and clapping on the first and third beats of the music.  And just when I feel myself recoiling in horror, starting to yell, “Two and four! Two and four!” they notice me.  They reach out their arms to me, beckoning. Welcoming. I look down at myself and realize that I, too, am wearing a light pink cotton t-shirt, and khaki shorts.  It doesn’t matter that they’re green; a wild color can’t save me now. They recognize me.  

I’m one of them.  

I’M ONE OF THEM.

     You know, I actually thought I’d outgrown self-deception and denial, but here I am, full-on SMACKED again.

     And this is so awfully predictable for the way my life goes.  I start to look down my nose at someone else, and I spot myself in the crowd.  There is no getting around it.  I am everything and everyone I judge. I am.

     Needless to say, I got a lot of great Facebook responses that night, but the most thought-provoking came from my friend, Peggy: 

"Silly lady... you need to be dancing and not watching... When you're dancing you feel ageless ... Never mind what it looks like... There comes a time when you stop thinking about that and just do it!!!"

Peggy's absolutely right.  For most of my life, I've managed to march to the beat of my own drummer (while clapping on 2 and 4).  Seems I'm overdue to embrace middle age with that same spirit.  

Humble Beginnings

As I was losing tennis against the handball wall this morning - the third superbly humbling experience of the day - I realized that this is my destiny for the summer. I am a teacher, so I always get the question, “What are you doing with your summer?” I think I’ve found my answer.

“I’m being humbled.”  

This is officially the Summer of Humble.

The morning began with a realization. I’ve come to hate my core.  It’s true.  

This year, something has shifted in my body.  Call it age, call it lack of any type of mid-toning/strength work, call it regular, increasingly frequent margaritas. Whatever you call it, thy name is gut.  

It’s not an overwhelming gut.  It only slightly protrudes, so a few of my loved ones have rolled their eyes when I’ve brought it up.  There have even been a couple of scoffs. I get it - they don’t live in my skin. It’s a gut to me, though.  It’s knocked my confidence a bit. It changes the way my clothes fit, it affects my decisions about what to wear. (Right now, I’m favoring shorts and t-shirts over sun dresses.)
It weighs on me.
It’s taken me years to grow into my body. Yes, I laugh at it a lot, and use it as joke fodder, but I’ve truly come to love my no boobs, no hips, athletic pre-pubescent boy look. I’ve even accepted my block of a middle.  For a long time, that block was ripped and tight, and it made me feel bad*ss. But the block is now a bit squishy - it’s thicker and rounder, which makes it even more obvious that I have no boobs and no hips.  I got used to - and embraced - my proportions when my middle was thinner and flatter.  Now, I feel more barrel-ish.
The realization that I hate my gut led to my first humbling experience of the day.  I realized that when I talk about my physical core, I may also mean the core of who I am.  This goes deep, folks.  I really pride myself on being disciplined and structured.  I like to think that I get sh*t done, and that if there’s a problem, I can and will solve it.  So, how is it that this thing - this small, inconsequential thing in the big scheme of things - is causing the most self criticism and loathing? Why can’t I stomach fixing my stomach?I
I’d had one realization and one humbling experience, and it was only 6:30AM.  I had to act.

I had to do something to save my core(s).  
I decided that I was finally going to go across the street and take advantage of morning lap swim at the local Parks and Rec pool. I’d signed up online and bought the goggles the week before.  All I’d needed was the nudge, and here it was.  

I grew up as a swimmer. I spent five years on a swim team. When I was 22, I spent the summer swimming a mile each workout.  How hard could it be to get back in the water?

My first lap was steady.  I felt sleek and powerful, like a shark.  My slightly cupped hands pierced the water and dragged down the center of my body. I was a predator!  I turned for small side breaths rhythmically after every four strokes. That’s right, the old form was still in my muscles, I thought. I still got it! I sped up at the end, held my breath an extra few strokes and tapped the side.  
When I popped up out of the water, I attributed the slight light-headedness to the rush of reclaiming a sport… until I not only felt but heard my heavy panting. I hadn’t noticed it underwater, but the sharp, jagged breathing resembled a panic attack. I pretended to readjust my goggles until my body stopped heaving and my heart rate had returned from one comparable to a small rodent’s.
I'd gone from shark to rat in one lousy lap.
Feeling deflated but not defeated, I pushed off again.  It only took two strokes to realize I’d blown the majority of my energy on my first pass. Over the next four eternal laps, whatever form I thought I had deteriorated.  My body rocked and swayed like a flat bottomed boat. My side breaths grew to largemouth bass gulps.  I churned the water around me like a drowning man.  When I finally brought my personal nor’easter to shore, I slumped over the pool gutter, closed my eyes, and prayed for lightning or a bomb threat.
Sadly, the day remained beautifully peaceful. I couldn’t bring myself to leave yet, so I decided to slow things down with some breaststroke. The next couple of laps felt slightly easier but just as uncomfortable as the freestyle laps. At least I wasn’t taking on as much water.  I stood up.  An older man working behind the reception table was looking down at me.  I shook my head and said, “It’s been a while.  Pacing is killing me.”
“Here’s what I want you to do,” he said. “This time, I want you to hold your stroke for two extra seconds.”
I nodded and repeated, “Two more seconds. Okay.”  He gave an unconvinced smile.
I turned with new enthusiasm.  I had been given a charge!  Maybe all I needed was a slight adjustment, and I’d be back to my shark self. I pushed off and elongated every stroke.  On my return, I noticed my new coach getting out of his chair and approaching poolside.
I hadn’t seen anyone else getting schooled, and I could only hope it was because he saw some special potential in me. I stood up. He bent over, put his hands on his knees, and leaned in close.
“This time I want you to hold your stroke for FOUR seconds. And I want you to look straight down at the bottom of the pool.  Put your face all the way in the water, look down, and breathe out ALL of your air.” He took a moment, then added pointedly, “ And I want you to RELAX.”
“I don’t look relaxed?” I said.

“No. You don’t look relaxed.”

I nodded. There was a pause.

“So what are you going to do this time?” he quizzed me.

“I’m going to hold the stroke for four seconds.”

“Yes, FOUR seconds, not two.”

“No, FOUR.”

“And…”

“I’m going to look straight down at the bottom of the pool, and blow out all of my air.”

“And…”

“And I’m going to RELAX.”

“RELAX.  Good.”

I failed on the very first stroke.  I didn’t have enough air in me to blow out for a whole four seconds. I was spent after two. I felt my body sinking.  I’d always learned to look where I was going. It felt unnatural to stare at the bottom of the pool.  And it sure as sh*t felt unnatural to RELAX.  
I wobbled and bobbed and strained and gasped my way through set after set of laps, just long enough to feel like I could honestly call it a workout, not simply a bath.  As soon as I felt like I could get credit for this catastrophe, I jelly-leg jumped out of the pool, grabbed my gear, and waddled home.  As I unlocked the door to the apartment, I felt a wave of nausea overcome me...until I let out a giant belch.  I was only surprised not to see pool water and an errant fish tumble out.
The burp helped my stomach but not my core.  

At this point, I decided that what I really needed was to change gears and do something I felt somewhat successful at.  Another sport I’ve been trying after a long, long hiatus is tennis.  (Well, tennis if you’ll consider the loose definition of “smacking a tennis ball against a wall with a tennis racquet.”) With new resolve, I threw on some dry clothes, jumped on my bicycle, and headed over to the local handball courts.  
Humility was NOT going to get the better of me! I was going to dominate SOMETHING!

Then why did I choose another sport I’d just rediscovered?  I’ve never been good at tennis, and that was evident once again the moment I started trying to hit a wall.  My tennis should actually be renamed retrieving. That’s mostly what I do.  And as I was chasing the ball down and digging it out of the bushes and thanking the player on the next court over for returning it, I understood the pattern of my summer vacation.  
This summer, I’ve dedicated myself to doing a lot of things I haven’t done for a long time and/or was never very good at.  

I’m trying to eat better. I’m trying to take care of my upper body and work my core by jumpstarting new tennis and swimming workouts. I’m trying to return to my writing life with the help of a Fellowship with the NYCWP, an incredible community of educator-writers.

But trying is hard. I’m rusty and uncomfortable and self conscious.  I don’t like to NOT be good at something.  I quit things I’m not good at.  Some pursuits are worthy of the struggle, though. I want to be better, so I’m going to unabashedly embrace my Summer of Humble, and hopefully learn a thing or two.

And that makes me think that the core of me is still intact.

For my 6th Graders: Advice I Offer But Still Struggle To Take

     Our 6th grade class' final literacy unit this year was speechwriting.  I knew that my speech would also be my goodbye to my students.  I won't be returning to their school next year, and I was going to share that news with them after my speech. 

 Here is the farewell that I gave.

      Well, here we are.  We have reached the end of our time together.  Every ending offers a new beginning, though, so let me be the first to congratulate you on your fresh start.

I have accumulated a lot of advice from various sources over my 47 (and a half!) years on this big blue marble called Earth.  Some of it, I’ve managed to follow, and some of it… well, I still struggle to achieve.  I, like you, am a work in progress. 

As you start on your new journey, I want to leave you with 20 of my most practical pieces of wisdom.  You will notice that none of them has anything to do with literacy.  While our lessons here in this classroom/sauna have been important, there are life lessons that take precedence.  As much as I want you to be great writers and readers, my ultimate wish for you is greater than English Language Arts.  So here goes:

1. Problems never go away.  Just because you are older doesn’t mean you are without problems.  You will have different problems, and hopefully some good coping skills to deal with them, but no one reaches a blissful state of non-problem living.  No one.
2. Embrace your imperfections.  They make you perfectly you.
3. Learn to laugh first at yourself. It shows great self-confidence, it lightens the atmosphere, and you will always be entertained.
4. Focus on the best in others. We all have faults, but choose the positive and your relationships will be more positive.
5. Learn to apologize with sincerity and to accept an apology with grace. Apologies are a big deal. No one gets through life without hurting or being hurt, so learn how to fix things to move forward.
6. Share the credit whenever you get the chance. No one does it alone. 
7. The greatest gift you can give is your attention. Put down the cell phone and look someone in the eye. We are a society that is so distracted. Look up and see...
8. Anything you put into cyberspace is there forever, with the possibility for all the world to see. Think twice before you share that photo or write that text. Lives have been ruined.
9. Anger can feel good and righteous in the moment but it will eat you alive. Buddha says it is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
10. If you are bored, it is because you are boring. Take an active role in your life. There is so much to learn, to appreciate, to wonder. Don't blame your lack of engagement on anyone else. You have the power to choose.
11. Nobody likes excuses. Stop making them.
12. Recognize the difference between being lonely and being alone. You can be lonely in the middle of a crowd and blissfully connected when you're all by yourself.
13. Everything can change in an instant. At your lowest moments, remember that there are bright, beautiful moments on their way, sometimes sooner than you can imagine. At your highest moments, be sure to be grateful.
14. Struggle is not something negative. Struggle makes room for growth. There is no success without it.  It’s not comfortable but it’s necessary.
15. You can't always control circumstances in your life, but you alone control how you will react. The only things you are fully in control of are your emotions, so the sooner you can recognize and harness them, the better off you will be.
16. You can't make other people happy, just like no one can make you happy. Again, we all choose our emotions. Strive to choose right.
17. Discipline and structure aren't sexy in the short run, but they are the foundation for success.
18. We are all the stories we tell ourselves.  If we tell ourselves we aren’t good, we aren’t pretty, we aren’t worth loving, we start to believe our stories as truth.  Examine the stories you tell yourself, and know that you have the power to revise them.
19. Be kinder and more generous than you think is necessary, especially when you don’t want to be kind or generous.  You never know the secret struggles that someone else is experiencing. 
20. Seek out people in your life who believe in you and can see the best in you, so they can reflect it back to you when you don't believe or see it. 

            I believe in you. I see the very best in you. I really do.  I hope you felt that during our time together. I hope you forgive me for the times I fell short, and you didn’t know.  And I hope that in the future if you ever need reminding of how beautiful and amazing you are, you will reach out to me. I sincerely love each of you and have felt privileged to know you, to teach you... and to learn from you. Thank you for being a part of my life.  I am forever changed by you.  That is incredible power.  Remember the power you possess and what real love can do. 

You've Come a Small-But-Significant Way, Baby

     Lunch is often the busiest period of my school day.  Teachers are famous multi-taskers, and to be honest, I’m not a good one.  (This is why there are always coffee rings, oil blobs, and food stains on my students’ graded work.) Last month, I was trying to facilitate simultaneous lunch meetings - one with my student teacher to unit plan and the other with the school musical’s creative team to put out fires. (With our opening night of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown less than 3 weeks away, our Snoopy got kicked out of the production.)  And even though these two meetings were in high gear and there wasn’t enough time for either, when J walked in, everything else went on hold.  

     J is one of the 8th grade teachers.  He’s smart and sarcastic and aloof - all the things that make me want to drop everything and eagerly try to please.  He’s a cool kid. 

     No, he’s the cool kid.

     Now, I admit that I was not born with a photographic memory, and I am not a person who can remember word-for-word the way any scene goes, no matter how important in my life. (Sorry, everyone close to me.)  Forgive me this shortcoming.  Suffice it to say, the gist of our conversation went something like this:

     “So, uh, Douglas, we’ve got the 8th grade trip coming up, but we’re short girls to chaperone. You’re dying to go, right?”

     I hadn’t been referred to as a girl since my 5th grade gym teacher, Mr. Kirk, ribbed my group of friends for buying into that 1970s women’s lip movement, so I easily clipped, “Nope.”

     “Here’s the thing.  It’s always a lot of fun.”

     “Well, what’s the itinerary?  I have no idea how the three days work,” I said.

     “It’s a big camp.  Everyone stays in cabins.  

During the day, the leaders just station ourselves around the camp. If there’s an activity you want to coordinate, you tell the kids, Come over here to play softball, and then they come to you if they want to play.  You get to make the plan and the kids follow.  It’s easy. We have all kinds of sports, camp games, competitions, a talent show... 

No hard feelings if you say no, but we really need another girl and it’s a great time.  I’ve never had a bad time.”

     Hmm.

     “Can I think about it?” I asked.  

     “Sure, but here’s the thing.  I’ve got a meeting with Ailene (Yes, he addressed our principal by her first name - a rarity in our school culture) at 2:00 to give her the names of the chaperones.”  The clock said 12:40.

     “Wow, I can see how hard you thought about this and what a painstaking vetting process it’s been,” I quipped.

     “Look,” J punched, “I don’t like many people, especially for three days in a row.  But you’re actually someone who could spend that time with and not want to blow my brains out.”

     “Awesome!” (I hope I rolled my eyes.)

     “No, seriously.  my wife and I were talking last night about possible girl chaperones and she said, ‘What about Stephanie?’ and we thought you’d be perfect.” 

     My mind raced through all the reasons to go.  I love camping.  I’m good at the outdoors; hell, I’m great at the outdoors.  I’m a little rusty, but it’d be fun to return to it.  Hadn’t I been looking for a way to build/strengthen community at our school?  I’ve been there for almost two years now and don’t really have a group of friends.  I have folks I’m friendly with - I like most of the 80 adults in our school community, and I am sure to smile and chat in the hallway or by the time-clock with those acquaintances - but man, friends would be nice.

The dream state began~

     I could really impress them with my sports skills!  

     I could organize morning runs!

     I could be part of the funniest skit in the talent show that everyone would talk about for years to come!  We could even get t-shirts made up to commemorate the experience by placing an esoteric but hilarious phrase on the back that only we would understand - like a secret handshake.

     I could be the captain of the winning softball team!  We could take down J’s team and he’d pat me on the shoulder and say, “Douglas, you’re all right,” and I’d beam with pride that I’d done it, I’d really broken through.  I’d be in.

     I could, in fact, be a cool kid!  That was the biggest reason to go. It was really the only reason to go.

     And then it hit me.  

     The kids.

      I hadn’t thought at all about the kids once.  In fact, the minute I did, I thought in horror, “Oh God, that’d be excruciating!”  Honestly, have you been around a group of 8th graders?  On their own, they’re lovely, but together, they’re insane. Clinically insane.  I like teaching them but spend 3 hormone-filled days with them?  Gross!

      At that moment, I realized what would happen if I chaperoned the trip. I would be that goodie two-shoes, the straight shooter who ruins all the fun, not just for the kids, but for the adults.  I’d be the one saying, “You guys, we really can’t do that.  What if something happens?  What if it gets back to administration? Someone’s going to get hurt. That’s a bad idea. You brought what?   Bury that.  Absolutely not!  We’ll be on the cover of the New York Post for sure.” Then the adults - the cool kids I’d be trying to impress by going on this trip - would turn on me.  I’d be the focus of their ridicule and their practical jokes.  

      I flashed back to my own 5th grade Girl Scout trip to Philadelphia.  Although not a leader and not my bunkmate, my mom helped to chaperone our group, and because of it, I was  Queen Buzzkill.  In our hotel room that evening, when one of my roommates wanted to jump on the bed or sing or crank call friends’ rooms, I whined, “You guys, we can’t!”  I wagged my finger at them, pleaded with them, appealed to their better judgment.  What a jerk.  Sure enough, after I’d fallen asleep, those girls put pretzels up my nose and laughed together at my humiliation. (Full disclosure: I know I did similar awful things to others, so don’t feel too sorry for me.)  

     Fast forward. I knew that with the invention and proliferation of social media in our lives today,  my cool colleagues would find me in my cabin late one night after I’d fall asleep, and they’d stick pretzels up my nose and record the event for Facebook.  They’d put my hand in warm water and I’d pee myself, and their laughter would be so loud that it’d wake the 8th graders, and then the news would spread like true wildfire.  Oh. My. God.  

     I couldn’t go on this trip.

     It would be my ruin.

     I called J in his classroom at 1:45.  I said I couldn’t do it.  I made up some lame excuse about being devoted to my 6th grade team and that I couldn’t leave them during this crucial period.  

     “So, you’re telling me no?” he spat in disgust.

     “I’m telling you no,” I said.

     With that, the cool kid hung up on me.

     For days afterward, there was still a part of me that thought maybe, just maybe I really could do it.  I could be what J and the cool kids were looking for.

     But that’s never what it’s about.  What was I looking for?

     I just want to be liked.  I really do.  It’s so true.  And sometimes I just cringe when I admit it.  There’s this never-ending inner struggle between being liked and being true.  And honestly, in that situation - in any situation - there’s no guarantee of being liked.  

...

     The trip was two weeks ago.  I asked a colleague about it when he returned, looking worse for wear.  

     “It was awful,” he croaked. He said that there were too many kids and no solid protocol.  It was essentially a three-day free-for-all.  What a disaster that trip was! 

     And while I shook my head in commiseration, I welled up with joy inside.  Because even though I feel like the same young kid who desperately wants to be liked, I’ve managed to make a few better decisions along the way.  I’ll take that small but significant win.  

     No more pretzels for me, thanks. 

Re(s)training Order

     It's been a challenging six weeks.

     In a word: BUSY.

     Well.  I was really confident in my last post about breaking up with BUSY.  I knew it wasn't working and that our relationship was going nowhere good for me. I had solid reasons - and reasoning - for dumping him.  Let's face it, he's always been a freeloader.  He's demanded so much of my time and energy.  He's controlling and jealous.  BUSY made it hard to see my friends, my family, not to mention, my husband.
     (I actually think BUSY and Mike have a past, too, which is unsettling.)

     Problem is, BUSY and I have 40+ years together, and I should have known he wouldn't go down without a good fight.

     I was sure I could make a clean break, but it turns out that BUSY is an even worse ex-boyfriend than he was a boyfriend.

     A couple of days after I announced that we were through, I came home to find him in the middle of our living room.  He was sitting in the dark, leaning back, spread out wide and confident, like he owned the place... like he owned me.

     "How did you get in?" I asked as I dropped my bag on the table.
     He smirked as he held up and dangled his set of keys. I motioned for them and he lobbed them to me.
     "I don't need them anyway," he scoffed. "I can get in any time I want."
     "Are you threatening me?"
     "Just stating the facts."
     I waited.

     “Not so easy giving me up, is it?” 

     It hadn't been easy, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

     “Can’t stop thinking about me, can you?”

     Again, this was true, but not in a good way.

     “What do you want, BUSY?”

     “I want you back.” 

     I let out a deep breath. “Of course you do.  You want everything your way."
     "Seems you liked my way for a long, long time."
     "There's a difference between living a certain way and liking it. I get lost when I’m with you.”

     “You say that like it’s a bad thing.  Don’t you want to get lost in us?” He walked over to me and leaned in close.

     “No,” I shook my head. “No, I don't. You take me down to a dark, unrecognizable place.  I don’t see myself, the self I want to be when we’re together.  You and I want different things, BUSY, and you can’t be my priority anymore.  I need to be my priority.”

     “I see,” he stepped back, nodding slowly, pretending to reflect on my words  I know this act.  I’ve seen it before.  "So, that's it?"
     "Yup."
     He straightened up. "You know you can't cut me out. Your friends are my friends. They won't choose you over me."
     "That's for them to decide, BUSY."
     "I'm not going to just disappear. I rule this town."
     "That may be true, but you won't rule me."
     "We'll see," he said.  BUSY stopped at the door. "See you around, Stephanie.  See you around every corner.  Every single corner.  Just when you think you're alone, I'll be there."
     "Get out, BUSY."
     "Oh, and uh... nice speech." He closed the door, but I knew he was still there, standing on the other side.  I walked over and flipped the deadlock and heard him laugh.

...

     So, now what? Well,  I'm working on a re(s)training order.  The most important part is firm consistency.  Sometimes I feel myself slipping back, softening to him, missing whatever that was, but I need to recalibrate my thinking and behavior.  I need to change my muscle memory. BUSY continues to lurk. He appears out of nowhere, often at the worst moments, and it always unnerves me.  But every day that I don't reconcile is a hard-won victory.

     I know this is difficult for you to read.  I know this hits way too close to home, because you've been with BUSY too.  Oh, he told you that you were exclusive?  BUSY gets around.  What, he told you his name was Productive?  Yeah, that's his brother.  Don't be fooled, they are not the same.

     BUSY is serious trouble. You may want to file a re(s)training order, too.

Busy Signal

It’s February 9, 2013, and I am still mailing out our Holiday 2012 cards. 

Let me clarify.  They’re not holiday cards anymore.  In January, I repackaged them as New Year cards.  The cards sported a snowflake design, so I felt justified in considering them seasonal.  Then February appeared, and I had almost a dozen still unsent.  Every year I manage to address and stamp envelopes for a few sad cards that never make it out of the house, but I was determined to change course this year, so I bought some heart stickers, and voila~

Not my classiest move, but worth a chuckle, right?  If someone is on my holiday card list, then I imagine he’ll understand my odd humor.  (Soroko Family, this last one is yours, and I’m sending it today, you lucky ducks!)

Yes, I tried to stay light-hearted about my Holiday/New Year/Valentine’s Day card project, but a nagging guilt pervaded.  How is it that other people managed to complete a simple act of kindness and communication and I had not?  I've sent handwritten, personalized messages every year for as long as I can remember, and this year, not one went out before January 4. 

My mind and tongue kept returning to that word... 

BUSY.

“I’M BUSY!  I’M SO BUSY!” ran on continuous loop.

Why the constant buzz of BUSY?  Who isn't BUSY?  Why did I have such an overwhelming need to say that word? 

Justification. Being BUSY justifies everything I have and haven't done.  It's been my excuse for whatever project I couldn't complete but also for every second I've wasted.  I watched "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" because I deserved it!  After all, I'm very BUSY and I need some time to decompress. Oh BUSY, BUSY, BUSY me!

Competition. Let's face it.  I'm trying to keep up with everyone around me.  There's a part of me that wants other people to know that I'm not slacking.  I want to have a list of things to tick off when someone asks what I've been doing lately.  It seems too embarrassing to answer, "Nothing, really."

Last week, I heard myself say the word BUSY one too many times, and all circuits overloaded.  I'm so sick of that word, so sick of the guilt and the never-ending buzz around it.  BUSY is a four-letter word, you know.

And that's why I broke up with BUSY.  I decided to change my words and let my actions follow.  It's only been a week, and the adjustment has been challenging, but it's been really (and I'll try to say this without eye-rolling) transformative.

Language really creates the relationship to what we do.  I've often written or said "I have to..." or "I need to..." and those both make me feel obligated and pressured.  So, I'm switching to "I choose to..." or simply, "I am..." in the hopes that they let me feel like I've got the power.  I'm in control of my choices, 24/7/365.

I've also decided that I'm just going to talk about spending or enjoying time.  No more judging it by referring to time wasting.  By God, I can spend time watching bad television without any justification or apology. I mean it.  I have a finite number of hours to fill in whatever way I do, and a natural ebb and flow is necessary.  

Finally, all time schedules are temporary.  I had dinner with a best friend the other night and I started to lament that we both have so much else going on that we haven't spent time together like we used to.  I know, though, that the time will pass.  I will finish up with these other things I've chosen to do right now, and my focus will change. I have chosen how I'm spending time right now for good reasons, and soon, other priorities will come into focus.  

Who thought I would be so grateful for a busy signal?  

Wishing one for you, too.

***

By the way, everybody, my amazing friend Carol is a life coach and has started a website and practice devoted to the power of our words. Check her out:
http://wordforgood.com/
http://www.whynotthrivecoaching.com/
You can also find her on Facebook.

The End of the World As We Know It

     While some were calling yesterday the end of the world, college friends and I had already experienced our abrupt ending in 1988.  December 21 marked the day that Pan Am 103 exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland, killing 35 Syracuse students who were on their way home from a semester abroad.  It was, in a sense, an end of our world.  Our understanding, our outlook, our perspective was permanently altered.  Each year as I acknowledge and celebrate the winter solstice, I do so in remembrance of those who don’t anymore.  The day is marked for me.  

     On December 5, the end of the world came again with the news that my friend Tad had died.  The world was forever changed.  

     Last Friday, the world ended in Newtown, CT.  How does any of us stay the same after a tragedy like that? Something shifts in us that never quite goes back into its original place.

     Each of us has experienced a world-ending moment, a loss that cuts to our core.  How do we carry on?  Somehow we do.  Somehow we do.  Until yesterday I’d thought that death is the most humbling of things, but you know, surviving is the ultimate test.

...

     I’ve started meditating.  Each weekday morning, I gather with a handful of colleagues to sit in a dimly lit classroom and focus my breathing for a measly five minutes.  I’ve found the process an interesting one, but I alternate between feeling peaceful and frustrated.  There are mornings I let go of the world around me and just enjoy feeling the breath enter and leave my body.  Other days - most days - I fight back the cascade of sounds, thoughts, worries, and plans that my mind wants me to acknowledge and take care of right now.  I’m told not to judge this constant barrage and my inability to slow it, but it’s hard not to.  It seems like it would be an easy thing to do, to just focus on one thing.  Not so much.

     My beautiful friend Tad died two weeks ago. I still haven’t really processed it, except that every morning since, as I concentrate on my breathing, I think to myself, “I am breathing, and Tad is not.  I’m breathing for both of us.  Tad lives right here with me.”  Yesterday, I added other names of those who’ve gone.  “Today I breathe for Miriam, for Nicole, for Kevin, for Juna.”

     I have been lucky that I’ve lost very few people in my life.  But I’ve made it a point to try to honor those lost loved ones in some way.  I’ve tried to honor Miriam by being fearless with funny, Nicole with my devotion to a higher power, Kevin by being a receptive, loving teacher, Aunt Juna by being generous...  My attempts often fall short, but I do consider Miriam, Nicole, Kevin, Juna and others as I try.

     Now, to honor Tad.  He brought incredible beauty to everything he did. 

(Take a look at the detailing on the wedding cake he made for Mike's and my Cookout Wedding. The two of us were dressed in t-shirts and shorts, so Tad brought the beauty that day, for sure.)

     Problem is, bringing beauty to the world is a serious challenge for me.  I’ve never been much on beauty.  I’ve done perfunctory jobs of wrapping presents, decorating for holidays, dressing myself.  Rarely will someone comment that I’ve made something beautiful.  I’ve had small bursts of inspiration, but they’re usually followed by short-lived effort and lightning-fast concession.

     

     What I love about this challenge, though, is that it will keep Tad in the front of my mind.  He’ll be right here, right where he should be.  I’ll probably swear at him for leaving beauty to this clumsy novice.  I’ll tell him off for shirking his responsibilities.  What a unspeakable loss.

     Honoring each of the people I've lost reminds me that the world will never be the same, but it doesn’t have to be the end.  It can’t be for those of us here.  Still here.  Still present.

     Mike and I often say to each other, “It can all be over in a moment.”  It can.  And it makes the other daily stuff seem so utterly ridiculous.  

     So indulge me this moment to say how incredibly grateful I am that you have spent time reading my words, reflecting and sharing your thoughts with me, and simply being present with me.  I wish you the most joy and love you can wring from this holiday season. May you continue to honor those who have gone before by having the sweetest year yet.