Directional Signs

Don't Go This WAY!
(Sidewalk note encountered on recent morning run)

If only life's directional signs were this clear. Instead, I get the Cheshire Cat telling me that any road will do!

"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"

"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.

"I don’t much care where--" said Alice.

"Then it doesn’t matter which way you go," said the Cat.

"--so long as I get SOMEWHERE," Alice added as an explanation.

"Oh, you’re sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."

[Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland]

Possible Impossible

Flying Bathtub at the local children's museum
June 2011

I've been thinking of this quote from Alice in Wonderland:

Alice laughed.  "There's no use trying," she said:  "one can't believe impossible things."  "I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen.  "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day.  Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."  [Through the Looking Glass, Chapter 5]

These days, my life feels full of impossibilities, with every option a painful one.   Maybe I need more practice believing impossible things?

Morning Run -- Here Comes the Sun (And I Say It's Alright?)

This morning's run was rushed, with anxiety and worry in hot pursuit, feet slapping the still-cool concrete.  I had to hurry, because I couldn't be late for an early-morning meeting with an important person to talk about a possible career shift.  That's nervous-making stuff for a measure-your-life-out-in-coffee-spoons person like me.  Then I came across these desert blooms, almost set ablaze by the rising sun.  Sun, sun, sun.  Here it comes.  In the valley of heatstroke, that's not necessarily a good thing.  But the beauty of the scene gave me a boost.  That, and I found another lucky penny.  Must be a sign.  Both lucky pennies came along in my suit jacket to my meeting.  Sure didn't hurt.



Monday's Metaphor -- I Lost My Child

Came across this abandoned sippy cup on a run and couldn't help but wonder about its missing child.  Made me think about the parts of ourselves we lose along the journey.

Stare Into the Circles and Take a Deep Breath

I volunteered as the "art helper" in my kindergartener's art class yesterday.  Because I needed to be at the school at 11:10, it didn't make sense to drive all the way downtown to my office.  So I worked from home.  Well, actually, I mostly sat in my home office at my desktop and pondered on the question of what else I could do with my life that would use my skill set and all the years I've invested in my career but allow me to live a more creative life. 

With this on my mind, I walked into the art room and discovered that the class would be learning about a Kandinsky painting.  Wassily Kandinsky (1866-1944) is actually one of my favorite artists.  I just like the look of his paintings.  (I remember first being drawn to him when I stumbled upon a certain room at the Art Institute of Chicago many, many years ago that was displaying several of his paintings.)  But I also really like him because he was a lawyer in Russia and used painting as a stress reliever.  I am also a lawyer, am of Russian descent, and use art as a stress reliever. 

I couldn't help but take this as something of a sign.   

I'm currently reading/listening to a book that examines (among many other things) the idea of a person's self split into two -- through a traumatic event or other life experiences.  In truth, none of us is just one person.  We each have many faceted aspects that congolmerate to form the whole we call "self."  That is certainly true for me.  (You can't help but know this about me if you read this blog.  Vocation/avocation.  Two roads diverging.  Dare to eat a peach?) 

For now, I get my fix by carving out (a lot of) time (1) to read books that have nothing to do with my profession and (2) to make (a lot of) art with my kids.  Abandoning all reason to take up residence as the permanent "art helper" at the elementary school is tempting on a certain level (I'm not trying to brag or anything, but the art teacher DID say I can come help every day if I want . . . .).  But I somehow don't think that's the solution.  I'll just have to settle for cameo art helper appearances for now.

How to Train Your 8-Year-Old Dragon [Child]

Spent too many hours working on a mind-numbingly-complicated flowchart for a client.  So naturally, I thought it would be a relief to waste some time creating this light-minded decision flowchart to address other pressing issues.  

Wednesday's Word -- Stupor

I've always been taught that if you're trying to make a tough decision and you find yourself in a "stupor of thought," it's probably not the right choice.  We're still trying to decide whether to buy a new house, and so I'm thinking about the word "stupor" today.  When I was young, I always thought the word sounded kind of like "stupid."  Turns out, it kind of does mean that.

Stupor

Stupor means a state of suspended or deadened sensibility.  It is a state of mental "torpor" or "apathy."  It is "stupefaction."  (Now, that's a word.)  Breaking it down, stup- means senseless, and the -or part means to be.  Put it together, and it is "to be senseless."  

One of the definitions of stupid is in fact "in a state of stupor; stupefied."  Broken down, "stupid" is stup- (senseless) + -id (full of).  So, somewhat paradoxically, "stupid" means full of emptiness.  I kind of like that.  

Torpor (love that word too) means a state of suspended physical powers.  It means sluggish inactivity or inertia.  It is dormancy, as in a hibernating animal.  Broken down, torpor means to be stiff or numb.  

Apathy is an absence of emotion, a lack of interest or concern; indifference.

The problem, however, is that I often experience stupefaction and torpor when it comes to making decisions, regardless of what I ultimately (should or do) choose.  I struggled to get myself out of bed this morning, but that might just mean I'm tired and lazy.  Stupefaction.  Facing a difficult choice makes me wish I could escape into hibernation, but that might just mean I have analysis paralysis.  Torpor.  The one word that doesn't fit me (really ever) is "apathy."  I'm pretty much never indifferent or lacking in emotion.  But that might just mean I'm opinionated.  

None of this means I can make a decision, of course.  Stupefy!          

Choose Your Own Adventure

When I was a kid, I went through a stage during which I read every Choose Your Own Adventure Book I could get my hands on.  The first books in the series were published starting in 1979 when I was 7 years old, and they were perfect for my little inquiring mind.

Of course I cheated and would retrace back to the page with the decision point when I didn't like the outcome.  Sometimes I would make really bad choices on purpose just to see what would happen.  It was a book, and I could do that.   And pretty much anything could happen.  You could choose to visit friends in France where you might rent a hot air balloon and hop in.  Then you could choose what direction to fly, and when you met with trouble, you could choose to engage in peaceful negotiations or attack, swim for the shore or wait for rescue.  Depending on where your choices led, you might even end up drifting away into space, where the lack of oxygen leads to your demise.

Anyway, I've always been interested in choice and consequences.  In possibilities and change.  In hope and regret.

Along those lines, here are a handful of photographs of some of the beautiful doors I chanced upon while traveling in the Mediterranean this summer.  I like to think about what might be on the other side of each.

Tunis, Tunisia

Amalfi Coast, Italy

Cinque Terre, Italy

Tunis, Tunisia

Malta

Do I Dare to Eat a Peach?

These beloved words from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" have been keeping me company today:

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I often referred (lovingly) to my late cat as "Prufrock."  He would meow and meow until I opened the sliding glass door to the back porch.  Then, with the wide world at his paws, he would tentatively stick his head out to sniff outside, with the rest of his body safely in the house.  He would do the hokey-pokey, putting one foot out, then pulling the foot back in.  Sometimes, he would eventually put his whole self out, except keep his tail in so I couldn't close the door.  If I waited long enough, sometimes he would finally step outside into the night air, and I would quickly close the door to keep the bugs out.  Within seconds, that silly cat would be standing against the door, whole furry body pressed with outstretched limbs and open, pink mouth against the glass -- begging to get back in.  

"Okay, Prufrock.  Come back in.  No peaches for you today," I would say.  

My Prufrock is gone, and I lost a kindred spirt.  I'm not losing my hair (and thus have no need to part it "behind").  I'm not even all that old yet (at least according to me).  I don't wear white flannel trousers, and I certainly don't have enough free time to walk on the beach.  I don't generally deliberate over my fruit choices.  

Oh, but I DO deliberate over life's equivalents.  And today, I'm particularly tortured.  I've made up my mind and changed it a dozen times.  

One way or another, I will either eat the peach or cast it aside by mid-week.  And then I will move on.  At least that's what I've decided for tonight.  


May 12 Post Script:  I decided not to eat the peach.  (If you're curious, the "peach" (and the "horse" too) was a job offer.)

Hobson's Choice -- Take That or None

Today, I'm sharing more wisdom from my bulletin board.  

Thomas Hobson owned a livery stable in Cambridge, England in the early 1600s.  Hobson's stable was filled with many horses of different varieties.  But when a customer came in to rent one, Hobson offered the customer the choice of either taking the horse nearest the stable door, or taking none at all.  This was his method for rotating his horses.  

Thus the phrase "Hobson's choice" came to mean the choice of taking either that which is offered, or nothing.  You have freedom of choice, but there's only one choice.

[This incidentally reminds me of a book I read recently (another excellent book provided by my sister Becky) called The Mysterious Benedict Society, by Trenton Lee Stewart.  In the book, several very bright children go on a secret mission, undercover, at the Learning Institute for the Very Enlightened (LIVE).  The only rule at the school is that there are no rules.  In reality, there are all sorts of absurd "non"-rules.  For example, you're allowed to keep the lights on in your rooms as late as you wish until ten o'clock each night.  Freedom to choose one choice.]  

My life is filled with Hobson's choices, or at least it feels that way.  Right now, I'm chewing on a choice presented to me at the stable of life today.  But the longer I chew, the more I fear that I have no choice at all.  I fear that there is only one horse available to me, and I must continue to ride it.  (No, the horse is not a person.)

I'm all for freedom of choice.  It just irks me when the choices are illusory.  I must admit that I offer Hobson (or nearly-Hobson) choices to my children all the time.  "We don't want to take baths!"  "Okay then.  I'll give you a choice.  You can take a bath in the upstairs tub.  Or you can take a bath in the downstairs tub."  (Either way, they are taking baths and have no choice in the matter.)  It's effective with children, and I suppose it's effective with me too.    

Well, this may be cold comfort, but one could argue that choices galore actually make us unhappy.  Here's one good book that takes up the question.      

Wednesday's Word -- Consequences

Years ago when I was in college, a friend told me this little story.  Her 5-year-old sister was whining, complaining, disobeying and being generally difficult (as young children are so often wont to do).  Exasperated, their mother said "If you don't stop it, you're just going to have to live with the consequences!"  The young girl was quiet for a minute or so and then began sobbing.  When the mother was finally able to find out why the child was so very upset, the little girl cried, "I don't want to go live with the consequences!"  Poor girl thought she would be sent to live with another family, named The Consequences! 

Now all these years later, I have three young children of my own who do more than their fair share of whining, complaining and carrying on.  I have moments when I almost wish I could send them to live with the Consequences (or at least go play over there for a few hours to give me a break).  You surely know what the word "consequences" means, but let me dissect it a bit.  Come on, it'll be fun.  

Consequence

The word "consequence" means "the effect, result, or outcome of something occuring earlier."  The word comes from an indo-european root meaning "to follow."  Broken down, it is com- "with" + sequi "to follow" = "to follow with."  As in, "I ate too many robins egg Easter candies, and as a consequence, I feel ill."  Cause and effect. 

Sometimes the consequences are intended, and sometimes they are accidental. 

Sometimes the consequences are foreseeable, and sometimes they blindside you. 

Sometimes the consequences are good, and sometimes they are bad. 

Sometimes the consequences make sense, and sometimes they are incomprehensible.

Sometimes the consequences are immediate, and sometimes they take time.

Sometimes the consequences are temporary, and sometimes they are life-altering. 

But The Consequences always have room at their house if you need to go live there for a while.  Maybe by the time you get back, your children will have stopped fighting!    

Keeping the First for Another Day

Photo by sschneider101

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost

Have you ever noticed that while Frost says that taking the road less traveled by "has made all the difference," he never says whether it was a good or bad difference?  And that when he tells someone how he took the road less traveled by, he will be doing it with a sigh?  In truth, taking either of the two paths would have made "all the difference," because each (presumably) led to a different destination.  

I've spent some time over the years trying to decide whether I've taken the path less or more traveled by.  To a certain extent, it's both.  I took a safe route professionally (which could be considered the path more traveled by), but given the particular circumstances of my life and the roughness of the terrain, my path is indeed less traveled by (at least by travelers that fit my description).  In the end, I'm not sure it matters.  As I said, whatever path any of us chooses can make all the difference if we keep traveling instead of just plopping down on the side of the road.  

What I'm particularly taken with is the idea of keeping the road not taken "for another day."  (Notice that the poem is entitled "The Road Not Taken," rather than "The Road Taken" or even "The Road Less Traveled By.")  Frost doubted that he would ever come back to the divergence point, because "way leads on to way."  But why not?  And why--necessarily--must the two roads continue in completely separate directions?  Isn't it possible that the roads might converge again at some point along the way?  

I--like you and every other person--have stood staring down personal roads as far as I could see, only to choose one and not the other.  The biggest divergence I can identify in my life occurred at the point at which I chose between a path of creativity and a path of practicality.  I chose practicality (for more than the practicality, of course -- nothing is so simple), and it has indeed made all the difference.  I do, however, intend to come back and explore the road I kept for another day.  To some extent, I'm doing it now with this blog.  

Who's to say I can't "travel both and be one traveler"?  Who's to say you can't?  

To [Not] Do List

The comments to one of my last posts have me thinking about "to do" lists, "to not do" lists, and the importance of perspective in the midst of it all.  I am a list maker.  I record reminders of things I must do on tattered scraps of paper slipped into the pockets of whatever I am wearing, tucked into my bag, sticky-tabbed to surfaces, captured in emails to myself, and wherever else I can think to make my lists.

But I must say I have never thought to make a list of the things not to do.  Even if we don't list them, we all do make choices every day about what we will do and won't do.  What we DON'T do makes room for what we DO.  Here are a few entries from today's unwritten "to not do" list:

To NOT Do:

1.  Make anything elaborate for dinner (jump on the trampoline with the kids instead)

2.  Sleep for an extra 30 minutes in the morning (get out of bed and go running instead)

3.  Sign up to volunteer at my child's school (accept that I can't be everything to everyone)

We all have our lists, and we all have our tradeoffs.  There's the good, there's the better, and there's the best ways to spend our limited time, and it's surely different from person to person and at different times in the life of any one person.   What's on your "to NOT do" list?   

Preparing a Face

I sometimes browse and sometimes purchase on one of those popular-these-days on-line private sale boutiques.  This lovely item, amongst hundreds of other more practical items, sold out in less than a half hour the other day.

I have to ask myself, where does a person wear such a gown?  And what kind of person has somewhere to wear such a gown?  Someone far fancier than I, that's for sure. 

Wondering about this red taffeta gown (it also has an accompanying shrug, in case you care), which I would certainly never wear even if I wanted to spend the hundreds of dollars it costs and had somewhere to wear it, makes me think about a principle of happiness that sometimes alludes me.  As a general rule, most people aren't happier than you are -- even if they buy red taffeta ball gowns on a whim and have somewhere to wear them.

Several years ago, I read an interesting book called Stumbling on Happiness, by Daniel Gilbert, and then, last year, read Predictably Irrational, by Dan Ariely.  Both books look at why we do what we do, and why our choices so frequently make us unhappy.  The first focuses in particular on why and how our brains trick us into thinking we know what will make us happy, and the second focuses on hidden forces that shape our decisions -- including the principle of relativity.  A big part of the problem is that we make so many of our decisions based on faulty comparisons.  Anyway, it's something to think about.  I once heard someone say that "the people you think are the happiest are the ones you don't know very well."  As T.S. Eliot put it in his "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," so many in this world are "preparing a face to meet the faces that [they] meet."

So I'll forget the red taffeta dress and the fancy ball those women who bought it must be attending.  I'm wearing my pajamas at the moment, and that's just fine by me.