You’re Doing Great

Did you know you can peel a hard-boiled egg by shaking it in a closed jar?Go ahead, try it!

I tried it once, but with mediocre success. So, I just stick with peeling it the old-fashioned way…also with mediocre success. A close friend of mine recently mentioned to me that she does this regularly — shakes her hard boiled eggs in a jar.

On the mornings when she has mediocre success, she says to herself “Oh, so this is how it’s going to be today.” I laughed out loud because I felt so seen. Are we all doing this, in our own little weird ways? Maybe your hair doesn’t look the way you want it, or the belt on your car does that obnoxious, squeaky thing before you get going, embarrassingly turning heads in your direction.

In one way, or another, I’m guessing we all have that ‘so this is how it’s going to be’ moment at least once per day.

At the moment, it feels like we are all trudging through life, as if we’re in the midst of some dark and foggy bog on the way to Mordor. It feels like that to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t intend to have a pitiful tone here. I’m not really even trying to be dramatic, but I couldn’t come up with a real-life metaphor for what I’m feeling as life’s trajectory. BUT, it’s hard. It just is.

We’re all suiting up in the morning…some of us in real suits and others in barely-more-than-pajamas…to cross the threshold into the world. Right now, it’s a world that feels like maybe it doesn’t want us.

We often get attitudes at businesses we frequent; like it’s inconvenient to take our money. I’m hearing stories of fraud. Scary diagnosis. Nasty politics (still…or always?). War. Illness. Imminent death.

People don’t seem to be pleased. I don’t have a boss, but I’m overseeing a 60+ year-old non-profit and I get a lot of feedback about what I may not be doing well rather than the things I am doing well. I hear my kids feeling worn down about not understanding concepts in school; not performing.

You may not feel it — and if you don’t, I am cheering you on. Oh, and maybe like birds flying South for the Winter, you could fly up front for a while, then? Because for the majority, I think we need a breather.

So, let’s take one. Let’s take a moment and notice what we ARE doing; the good we’re spreading and the nice job we did on ‘that thing’ yesterday. Thank you for the work you’re doing…whatever it is. You’re doing great.

You helped your kid with his homework? Terrific job. Really. You separated your garbage? You’re doing your part. High five! Today, you chose a salad rather than a cheeseburger. And you didn’t WANT a salad. I get it, and GREAT job. Keep going.

Come to think of it, maybe we’re all a bit like a hard boiled egg. We’re walking out into the world, soft on the inside and encased in our hard shells. But, they can crack and sometimes in a not-so-pretty way. ‘That’s how it’s gonna be.’ 

Maybe it is, but we keep going. So be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. We need it, and we’re all doing great.

Photo Credit: Maria Ionova on Unsplash

Weirdo

I’ve been obsessed with a bumper sticker I saw recently: You want to be different, but you’re afraid of being strange.

Maybe not everyone wants to be different. When I was young, I downright avoided being different. I didn’t want to stand out, ‘be weird,’ or make myself noticeable in any way. It was easy. Like teenagers have done for all of time, all I really had to do was copy what everyone else was doing. I listened to the same music, pursued the same activities and followed the same linguistic patterns as my peers.

I remember my Mom suggesting that I try to be different. I’m sure you heard it, too…”If everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you do that, too?” I had to think about it. I understood what she was saying, and even valued the idea of being different; of standing out amongst a crowd. But, would I? Obviously, I wouldn’t jump off a cliff, but the idea of looking different from everyone else felt terrifying.

Still, I thought about it a lot. Her words stuck with me, and early in my career, I remember her applauding me for working at unusual places, and doing a job that she deemed different from ‘the usual’ careers people were pursuing. She was proud of me.

But then something interesting happened. I bought tires. Yep, that’s it. One of the most standard things among standard things. And it exposed a simple fragmentation in my Mom’s thinking. Recommended by the tire shop, I bought tires she didn’t agree with. She didn’t believe they were quality.

“Everyone buys the tires I told you to buy. They’re the best,” she said. I had to pause. “But, you’ve always told me to be different,” I said.

To her, buying tires had nothing to do with ‘being different.’ Maybe it didn’t, but it was the first time I realized that she appreciated ‘different’ as long as it was, well, like her. It was after this that I started noticing this theme among many things I did. Turned out, she also didn’t seem appreciative or proud of moments when my creativity was applauded. Or when she did, she shoved her way in, raised her hand and said, “She got that from me.”

It had been subtle, but I noticed that I’d squelched my creativity my entire life…because in the end, it wasn’t mine. I was either conforming with my friends, or doing what I was told. And that was safe. It took a long time for me to even unearth what it was/is that makes me stand out. Then, I had to come to terms with sharing the things that do.

Am I brave enough? Is what makes me different interesting? Why do people care?

In some ways, this website - this post - is me ‘bravely’ stepping out around the corner, eyes peering the environment for safe spaces. I have to trust that someone might find it interesting, or care. Or, maybe they won’t and I’m just the person who shouldn’t care.

Photo Credit:  Eric Prouzet @eprouzet

Reflections on a lonely easter

It’s time to grow up. No more egg hunts, chocolate bunnies or coloring kits. 

This weekend was painful. My kids are teenagers now and would likely have preferred a pair of $200 sneakers over a thematic Lego set and stuffed bunny. I wasn’t willing to pull the trigger and frankly, they didn’t even realize there was one. 

We have a small family. My parents are both deceased, and my brother is distant. My husband’s family is far off and forgetful. Everyone else is busy.

The reality left a gaping hole in the weekend, and an opportunity to feel lonely. Of course I was drawn to social media where I saw all that I wasn’t experiencing: Egg hunts, chocolate bunnies and egg coloring. FAMILY. 

People innocently promote their joyous events. I can’t blame them. I would, too. But, it definitely leaves a wake and I found myself sucking in water. 

Three days on I’m still feeling the effects, but I’m also finding comfort…even energy…in something else: AN EMPTY BOX.

When we have an empty box, we have an empty box. By empty box, I am referring to the event/weekend/happening that leaves us feeling that gaping loneliness. An emptiness. 

For several days, I’ve wallowed in that box. I’ve felt its echo-y, blank walls that lightweight felt like the best environment for insanity. When there are no windows, doors, colors or artwork, depression is an easy path to choose. 

Today, though, I’m seeing it differently. I’m starting to wonder about filling that empty box. 

What if I filled it with some of my most favorite objects? 

Or, how about visions of the undeniably inspiring sunny Spring day passing me by right in this moment? 

What about time? What if I saw that an empty box represents TIME? 

Sure, I enjoyed filling and coloring rainbow eggs. But, that time can be used for writing, or 3,000 other things I never manage to find time for these days. 

I may not have an extended family to spend the day with, but I have an Ancestry account that could use some focused energy. I have historic photographs to organize. It could be an opportunity to begin recording my own life story so my own children can oneday feel that familial extension I miss.

It’s an opportunity to meditate. To start a project. To think differently. To fill the box with whatever inspires me today, right now, and tomorrow. 

That’s what fuels us anyway. It isn’t the eggs, chocolate, or frankly…the family. It’s an empty box waiting for treasures. What’s in yours? 

Photo Credit: Clem Onojeghuo

discrepancy

She was about 8. It was 10pm on a Monday. She was determined, walking a fast pace with an end goal. Blue sneakers...likely Keds...white socks that went halfway up her calf, a blue skirt and a red top with a collar. Small book bag slung over her shoulder. Is this a school outfit? It's too much to bear. Or is it?

I can't keep up. Maybe she's heading home. Then I notice her left arm swing up to wipe a tear. And then another. Something is wrong. She's in a hurry...out of anger and frustration...or perhaps running away from someone. She doesn't want to be here, in this life. Why her? Why was she chosen for this? She has the cadence of someone who is in her 40s.

As I approach her, I debate whether I will attempt a connection, but the truth of the matter is that I probably need that connection more than she. I want to know she will be ok. Why does anyone have to suffer?

I touch her shoulder and she swiftly swings her head in my direction. I struggle to find the words to ask her if she is ok. Is she? Immediately, the same hand that was wiping her tears pulls out a miniature bobble head turtle that she wants to sell. She's working.

If it wasn't bobble heads, it would be something else. I don't want to buy a bobble head, but I'd give her $100. She has had no childhood and her adult life won't be a life. Knowing that I'm walking back to luxury, to a place where one cocktail is $15 and we are doted upon, I can barely walk by her, refusing her bobble head figurine. 

She alone has forced me to hone in on what it is that has been bothering me today. It’s the discrepancy of what I have and what I feel I’m denying her.

Photo Credit: Jezael Melgoza

You don’t know me

You don't know me anymore.

The little girl who grew up in your house doesn't exist any longer. The little girl who respected you while being frightened of you has lost respect for you and gained courage against you. Looking back, it felt as if you took my vibrant soul like a wine glass from a host, held it up high and threw it to the ground with force, shattering it in thousands of pieces... while staring blankly forward, hand outstretched for another glass.

You took a sweet little soul and handled it crudely. You took an innocent little body and touched it inappropriately. You took a smart little mind and criticized it regularly. You also took a gentle little heart and condemned it sharply. You bruised every part of me without concern or regret.

In fact, there was never any concern or regret because to you, none of it ever happened. After all, look at the successful woman you've raised.

Photo Credit: Guilherme Stecanella

Exclusion

Maturity. Sophistication. Noguchi tables and a 'strong finish on the palate.' Miles Davis, simple salad dressing recipes, shopping at Tiffany’s and Ivy League colleges. In truth, they've always been there, but you haven't truly seen them until now and suddenly, they matter. Your parents just might have known a little something. These items, they're a part of your very being...a distinction that differentiates you from a lower grade. Your family has been there and while you're not unusual, you're certainly not typical.

You have what it takes to get there; it's just inherent. You speak the same language and understand value when you see it, so if you don't make it, it's a shame. This knowledge, this gift of simple awareness has been bestowed upon you without consciousness of any giving or receiving. 

What you know is relevant. Your knowledge is referenced in conversation. It's used in business, and drives decisions. Stores are built around what you know and in fact, it's part of an elite popular culture. It's an undercurrent, yet ever-present in awareness amongst peers of all kinds...hippies, baristas, bakers and music aficionados...everyone, you might think.

But, not me. I'm not everyone. Until a handful of years ago, I wouldn't have known a Noguchi table if I banged my shin on it. My family didn't drink wine and in fact, cooking wasn't even something that was done...in ANY of my family's homes. For my family, cooking was a chore...understanding a Bechamel sauce and knowing how to cook fresh yams was never even a consideration.

I was raised without awareness and understanding. While this has left me with countless opportunities to spend my adult years learning fabulous things, I wonder if it rendered me too naive and uneducated in my 20s...when this level of knowledge paired with youth could have actually worked to my benefit.

Shit, I was trash! This girl could shout expletives with the rest of 'em and I took pride in being able to be 'one of the guys.' Holy shit. I just now remembered that...'one of the guys.' Anyway, I find myself questioning this lack of awareness and my comparison to you, the person who while you may not have had an ideal upbringing, you at least received the gift of knowledge and cultural awareness.

Speed

I should have gotten a speeding ticket today. You know that moment where you're driving on autopilot, not 100% realizing that you may be approaching up to 15 miles per hour over the speed limit? And then, you see a highway patrol car?

Yeah, me neither. My brother once made me laugh out loud about this kind of experience...where you're driving along, and suddenly it's too late. In a flash, you notice the police car and the officer standing outside the vehicle with his radar gun pointed directly at you, as if it's some sort of futuristic 'truth weapon' that can read your guilt in an instant. At this very moment, (if you're speeding, of course), it's impossible to feel anything but the same sensation as a gazelle with a broken leg running from a cheetah. You're THE ONE, picked out of the pack; the individual getting the ticket. Right? But here's the funny clue (per my brother's brilliance):  If you see the cop slide his radar gun into his hip holster, you're done. Your instincts are correct, and he's chosen you, swiftly coming in for the kill.

There it was, the definitive sign that he'd caught me. I even saw him get. In. The. Car. I felt my pulse quicken. My upper lip was sweating just a slight bit as I feverishly checked my rear view mirror for his approach. Is he there? Are his lights on? Which lane is he in? How fast is he driving? ...where is he?

These thoughts ran through my mind with tremendous speed, even though my physical speed was slowing by the second. This is it. It was my time, and there was no preventing the inevitable. It was time for my ticket. Who am I to complain? I mean, for all the times I'd gotten away with speeding, I certainly deserved the ticket. I might even just owe it to the judicial system at this point.

In one moment, I saw his lights...but then, he was gone. Turns out it was a brother, a fellow auto-sibling who had been easily traveling at equal speeds to the rest of us, who was picked off. For some unfair reason, he was chosen out of the pack before the black muscle car with the angry headlights, the gutsy Prius and ME, who was leading the group to victory. How could this happen? Is there some penance owed to a divine karmic bank account? I will pay, I promise. 

Suddenly, I'm conscious of my speed. My overwhelming sense of gratitude leaves me focused on the present moment...my hands at 10:00 and 2:00, my directional choices and cautious lane changes are presented with care and precision. It's all good; I'm an honorary driver...who gets to live another day.

Photo Credit: Jonathan Allison

I wish

I wish I could say how proud I am of you, Dad. I wish I could say, "Thanks for everything you taught me, Dad." 

If only I had learned how to balance a checkbook, what to expect from boys and how to be more athletic from you. Or wouldn't it be lovely if perhaps we'd gone to a daddy daughter dance together? What if you were an inspiration to me; a wise man who made me a better person?

I long for an adult upon whom I can depend. I would be so grateful for holiday getaways that were created - and maybe even paid for - by you. I'd love to be able to share memories of you suffering through yet another fancy tea with my stuffed animals.

I'm not saying I don't appreciate what you were able to provide...good laughs about inappropriate jokes that I didn't realize we're inappropriate until I was inappropriate for telling them. I have fond memories of the time we spent in the outdoors even though the focus for you was on Budweiser and your friends. There was that time you taught me about how there were tiny magnetic granules in the sand...I liked that. But there really weren't enough of those magnetic moments to create a solid foundation for my relationship with you, myself, or the world.

I'm also not feeling sorry for myself even though it sounds as if I am...well, maybe just a little bit. I suppose I would just love to have had an apology from you; an acknowledgement that things went really wrong. I would have loved for you to have been aware that absolutely any relationship with the adult 'me' is a privilege and not a right. 

Photo Credit: Zaur Giyasov

Isolation

Let me tell you something. Everyone in that group was flawed. That is the absolute truth. However, with the exception of a select few, they were always ready to exclude people for THEIR flaws.

It's interesting to me to watch them gather, frolic, and laugh about the good 'ole days. I find myself looking at each person, digging out at least one fault for each, in an effort to make myself feel better for being excluded.

But, my reality is much deeper than my silent accusations. They have a power over me. Looking at their posts and frivolity, I feel as if I'm lesser-than, untalented and a failure. Remember all those mistakes I made? Why are mine remembered and theirs conveniently forgotten? Why wasn't I liked? Why wasn't I valued? ...because I wasn't of value.

This experience today, a Facebook viewing and witnessing of being excluded has made me feel incredibly alone, worthless and unknowing. I hate them. I hate myself.

Photo Credit: Viktor Talashuk

Look at me

Aviators. An Etsy store. Patterned scarf with perfect strands of curled-the-night-before locks. You run. And you make a perfect gluten free quiche for Easter. The tulips are wilted just so. Everyone gets a handmade basket with artisan goodies and a vintage bottle of wine. But this isn't for just everyone...only people who are like you. People who have never had a 'high school job,' known what it was like to paint your own toenails or scrape for change under the seat of the car to buy a bagel...and not have enough.

None of you have ever been stripped of your naturally-given possibilities or came so close to homelessness that you wondered what it would be like; if you could survive a night without shelter or food. You pursue your dreams without concern of failure because even behind failure is another option. Your talk of 'being present' is sincere because you understand the value, but the truth is, you haven't truly known a distraction from the present besides your own pursuit. Your day is yours.

Your heartaches have been delivered, but not received. You brush by others with an air of peaceful rush without noticing any strife. The parking space for your Range Rover was right out front as if they were holding it for you. What's to be concerned about. Isn't life grand?

Saving facebook

Let us find value in the time we have rather than in the time we do not; measure a day's success in its connections rather than its accomplishments. Rather than striving to impress others, maybe we should strive to INSPIRE others. And perhaps we should practice a bit more self deprecation and a little less self elevation.

It seems we're all better when we're connected, when like meets like, rather than when we're merely striving for more "Likes." The challenges of moving through life are softened when we understand we're not alone. When we see that others have also felt limited, unheard and placated, it tends to lift the burden of those feelings for ourselves. Life isn't perfect for anyone yet it is REAL for everyone. Shall we find where we relate rather than where we differentiate?

Facebook provides us a terrific gift. Easier than ever in history, we can avoid isolation in a matter of moments with the tap of a finger pad. So, why is it that we spend more time promoting only our fantastic, funny and fanciful experiences to paint a rosy picture; an illusion that tends to segregate by comparison?

This also isn't a request for more sadness, sensationalism and scare tactics, but rather a cry for support, solutions and sameness. I'd prefer to see an action I can take to help a friend rather than a post on behalf of a non-profit to help ALL who are in need, or even one stranger in desperation. One movement to help a friend tends to create change while the other moves me to tears. 

Maybe we should start poems and ask others to contribute lines. Start a list of dream destinations and ask our friends to contribute theirs rather than gloating by listing their exhaustive airport codes for the week's business travel. Post DIY projects and clever creations, particularly the ones that have failed. Ideas, stories of triumph, and can-do attitudes conceived out of difficulty would leave me feeling full of motivation instead of self doubt.

Invitations. Hello. I see you. Call me. Remember when...these are communication starters 
where we feel comfortable opening our hearts. And isn't social media about being 'part of the conversation?' On Facebook, let's meet here and not always where we feel left out, where we can see the parties where we weren't invited, when you were saying goodbye, and ultimately, when we felt absent from each other.

Photo Credit: Priscilla Du Preez