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.

Wednesday's Word -- Trust

I'm not one to follow celebrities (or think that what I think about them matters one lick), but I have to admit that I have always admired Maria Shriver.  She is a strong, smart, capable woman.  Have you read her 2009 Shriver Report on women?  You should.  Right now (whether she cares or not), my heart is aching (and still admiring her) for what she's enduring.

So this week I'm thinking about the word TRUST, and what happens when it is gone.

"Trust" means "firm reliance on the integrity, ability, or character of a person or thing."  It is "something committed into the care of another."  Like the word ENDURE, it comes from the Indo-European root deru-, meaning "hard."  The word TREE comes from the same root.  So fitting, because I really can't imagine anything more trustworthy, steadfast and immovable than a tree.  

Times like these --  trust chopped to the ground -- leave a woman sitting on the stump, mustering the strength to get up and go plant her heart in more fertile ground.           

MOMMA M.I.A.

Picture of MOM MIA.
(Notice the brown "low lights" in the hair)

Sitting in the Chicago airport yesterday afternoon, overpriced yogurt/granola parfait in hand with 30 minutes to kill until boarding, I checked my email. Among all the work-related communications, this subject line jumped out at me: "WE MADE THE PAPER!" "Oh no," was my immediate reaction. I think I know where this is going.

Let me back up to provide some context. My daughter's kindergarten class had a big shin-dig of a Mother's Day party this week, and guess whose mother couldn't be there? In this mother's defense, she did everything in her power to convince the teacher to move the date of the party. And she had no ability whatsoever to alter her work travel commitment. And she spent about 10 hours preparing all the supplies to be used for the craft projects at said Mother's Day party. To make a bad situation all the worse, this mother has pretty much the most sensitive 6-year-old daughter on the planet. Even the slightest ripple in her universe renders her weepy. So what to do? Ask dad to stand in? Ask a good friend to act as surrogate? Neither option was good. Mother put it to daughter, and her response? "I only want you." Well of course.

In the end, the mother convinced her daughter that the dad could stand in. Thankfully, it was an island theme, and not the "spa" party the other kindergarten classes had planned. No hair styling or pedicure stations involved. The dad attended. He emailed the missing-in-action mom photos taken at the party, and there were no tears on the daughter's cheeks. Yes, the daughter's hair did resemble that of a hobo or wild gypsy, and the daughter was wearing an old t-shirt and shorts instead of the cute dress the mother had carefully set out for the occasion. All in all, the mother considered the crisis averted.

Until she opened the email from her daughter's teacher.  Not only had the mother been shamed in the eyes of the teacher (who had responded to the mother's request to the move the party with "we have other working moms in the class, and THEY were able to arrange their schedules to attend . . .") and the other mothers, but now the whole failing had been documented in the Arizona Republic for countless others to see.

"Kindergarteners treat mom to 'Aloha' Day."  
"Lone dad . . .  substituted for wife [] who was traveling on business."  

The article goes on to document that the daughter drew a picture of her mother, while dad "snapped a picture of her drawing to send by phone to his wife."  "She tried to rearrange the date, but they just couldn't make it work," said the dad, "clad in a black and tan Hawaiian shirt that he'd purchased on a family trip to Kauai."  

That's me.  The mom who "couldn't make it work."  Ouch.

Happy Mother's Day!  Even to those of you who are occasionally (and defensibly) M.I.A.

Wordle Fun

Oh the fun you can have with Wordle!  You paste in text, and it creates a word cloud, sizing the words based on the number of times they appear in your text.  I'll bet you can guess the poem I used for this Wordle.  And there's the message, big and clear: 

time.

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

Sea of Binkies, Sea of Tears

Here is a collection of binkies my nearly-two-year-old used his razor sharp teeth to bite through during our three weeks of travel.  This morning, I gathered all the binkies together and had him test each one.  {suck, suck, suck} "Eww."  And repeat.

The sad thing (in addition to all the wasted dollars in needlessly destroyed binkies) is that he loves his binkies dearly.  Why he would bite through them like he does is beyond me.  It's apparently beyond him as well.  When I ask him why he does it, he responds:  "I don't know why bite, Momma."

Isn't that like life?  We hurt the things we love and sometimes we don't even know why.

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.)

Wednesday's Word -- Virtual

I was struck today by how virtual my life is.  I can't even count how many meetings (most of them telephonic and/or by live web meeting) I packed into my day today (all before zooming off at 2:45 pm to pick up my kids).  My common refrain throughout my days is "I could meet between X and Y, but I'm booked with meetings after Z."  (I will admit here that at least some of my "meetings" are with three little, but very demanding people, aka my children.)  As I was sitting in one of the meetings (a 7 a.m. conference call with a client's employees located on several different continents), I decided on the word "virtual" as my word for the day.

Virtual is an adjective meaning "being such in force or effect, though not actually or expressly such"; "temporarily simulated"; a "mirror" image.  The word virtual tends to be used in reference to things that mimic their "real" equivalents.  My favorite definition is this:

"That which is not real,
but may display the salient qualities of the real."  

This makes me think of Shakespeare's Macbeth:

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

So many of the things I concern myself with on a day-to-day basis are only pretending to be real, displaying the salient qualities of the real -- a walking shadow.  (By the way, "salient" is a cool word too.  It means "prominent or conspicuous," but also means "leaping or jumping."  I like to visualize aspects of my life leaping and jumping about in urgency, pretending to be important when they actually are not.)

Breaking the word "virtual" down, it comes from the word "virtue" and the Latin virtus, meaning "excellence, potency, efficacy."  Virtue means "conformity of one's life and conduct to moral and ethical principles."  Just as a virtual reality doesn't match true reality, our conduct usually doesn't match the "virtue" we aspire to.  Interestingly, the word virtue comes from an Indo-European root meaning "man."  So virtue is literally "manliness, manhood."  (Brings new meaning to Proverbs 31:10:  "Who can find a virtuous woman?  For her price is far above rubies," doesn't it?)  


With all this etymological information to consider, my bottom line thought is this.  I want to spend more of my life living in the real and not in the substitute for the real.  And I'm not really talking about living immersed in technology instead of in actual life (although that's also a very interesting topic.  Just think of all the teenagers who won't have the social skills to converse with a real live person because they were too caught up "speaking in thumbs" with their text messaging . . . .)  


My point is much simpler.  Too often, I appear to be in the moment, but am not.  I am a player, strutting and fretting my hour upon the stage.  This applies to all my roles and responsibilities, in all my spheres, but particularly to my home life.  When I'm with my children, I want to be with my children.  Less virtual mom, and more real and present mom.  Easier said than done, when all the "salient qualities of the real" won't leave you alone!         

Lightening Your Load {and regretting it}

Have you ever thrown something away, only to find yourself in desperate need of that very item a week later?  That sort of thing seems to happen to me with some frequency.  Of course you had zero need of the thing for the year it was sitting untouched and neglected in your junk drawer or hall closet.  But that's the way it goes.

Have you ever cast aside some aspect of yourself, only to regret it later?  It won't be the next week or the next month, and maybe not even the next year.  It takes longer.  But have you ever taken a hard, long look at yourself and missed the you you used to be?  It happens.

I have travel on the brain, so here's the metaphor.

In Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, he gives an entertaining account of his efforts to hike "the AT" (Appalachian Trail), which spans 14 states (from Georgia to Maine) and 2100 miles.  (I sometimes dream of doing this myself, but then come to, and remember that I have responsibilities . . . .)  His family has recently moved from England to New Hampshire, and he discovers that the Appalachian Trail snakes right through his town.  The idea starts as a crazy whim, but then he actually decides to do it.  He reconnects with Steven Katz, an old high-school friend from Iowa (who provides much comic relief, but uses bad language at times, so be warned).  Katz is ill-suited to the task in every imaginable way.

Bryson and Katz pack all sorts of equipment and provisions for the journey, some of which are useful and important, and some not.  Tents, sleeping pads, nested pots and pans, eating utensils, water purifiers, patching kit, sleeping bags, water bottles, ponchos, matches, pack covers, compasses, stove, gas bottles, head lamps, knives, clothes, etc.  Katz insists on some other items, many of which are hanging off the side of his pack on the first day on the trail:  grubby sneakers, boots, pepperoni sausages, rice, cookies, oatmeal, raisins, M&Ms, Spam, Snickers, sunflower seeds, bricks of cheese, canned bacon, Little Debbies (lots and lots of them), and bologna.

The first day on the trail requires a hike up Springer Mountain in Georgia.  Bryson and Katz are both completely overwhelmed by the difficulty of the task -- especially Katz, who is very much weighed down by all his provisions.  Bryson finally leaves Katz behind.  When Bryson stops late in the day to wait for Katz to catch up, it takes quite some time.  Katz finally appears, with a pack that has been emptied of much of its contents.  In his anger and exhaustion, he threw all sorts of items out, lightening his load in the process.  Some important and some foolish in the first place.  Spam?   Over the edge of the mountain.  Brown sugar, peanuts and cheese?  Gone.  Extra shoes?  Gone.  And so on.

As we all ascend our own personal Springer Mountains, there will be times when we cast aside parts of ourselves to continue the trek.  Some of what we send flying over the edge is good riddance.  Spam.  Goodbye.  How much of what we carry is dead weight -- something we should have never packed in the first place?  Something that must be cast off if we are to progress.

But sometimes, I think we cast off pieces that -- while perhaps not essential -- will be missed at some later point in the journey.  That has certainly been true for me.  How much of what makes up your own individual essence have you flung to the side of your path as you trudged forward toward your goal?  Have you tossed aside talents, interests and priorities only to later wish you hadn't?  Do you ever look around your destination at your fellow travelers, struck by how unlike they are to the you you used to be?  Might have been?  Or maybe only I do that.

Here's a "me" (from an old yearbook) that doesn't remotely resemble the present "me."  At least some days, I think that's a grand shame. {I don't look anything the same, but that's certainly not the part that's the shame.  Who knows why I thought this look was a good one back in the late 80s!}

*In truth, I was actually never a very good artist.  But I did have a great love for the arts of all kinds and was happiest in the midst of it.  Now, I still get my liberal arts kicks in my own way.  For me, there is a certain joy when I can insert a literary allusion in a speech, brief filed with the court or oral argument.  Even if very few of my fellow travelers notice or get it. It makes me happy, and that's enough.

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?  

One Tangle at a Time

I had a dear cat named Minino (pronounced me-knee-no).  He was a long-haired cat, and while I did a good job of grooming him in the early years, as my life got crazier, I turned a blind eye.  Over the years, his matted tangles took on a life of their own, to the point that I became too overwhelmed and even ashamed of his condition to even know where to start.  I am embarrassed to say that he perhaps could have set a Guinness World Record as the world's tangliest cat.  He had a solid, matted hump on his back the size of a kitten (or small monkey) and a second tail, among other unnatural matted formations.

One day about six months ago, I decided to start one tangle at a time.  I made a goal to cut at least one tangle off that cat each day.  Minino was not, at first, a willing participant in this experiment.  He would hide from me, hiss at me, and even try to bite me when I came close to him with the scissors.  I found myself spending more time with him each day, scratching his head, breaking down his fears and defenses, building his trust.  As my little experiment progressed, he still had his reservations, but the process got easier.  I think he himself could feel the transformation as the tangles came off, one by one.  And the transformation was deeper than his appearance.  He became a younger, more playful, more joyful version of himself.

There's nothing profoundly genius about breaking a daunting task into bite size pieces, but--for me--the effect was liberating, and I began to find myself applying the technique to all aspects of my life.

Messy, cluttered house?  Mop the kitchen floor and call it good until tomorrow.  Home decor that hasn't been updated in a decade?  Move a painting from one room to another and give myself a pat on the back.  Daughter who complains heartily about a big homework assignment?  Help her figure out how much she needs to do each day to finish by the due date and then do the minimum for the day.  Too much junk in my diet?  Instead of a major overhaul, add one fruit and vegetable to each meal.

I do have to admit that not all of my life de-tangling experiments have worked.  For example, one of my tangles is a lack of "stillness" in my life.  I made a goal to sit completely still and try not to think about anything for 5 minutes each day.  Not too ambitious.  But I failed horribly.  I found myself up at midnight, trying to steal some "still" time.  And while I was sitting there, my multi-tasking brain was jumping around, out of control.  The experiment was off within a week.  That likely means I didn't try nearly hard enough.  Like Minino, the most essential cutting may cause the one with the tangles to hiss and hide and even bite.    That only means you're on to something important.

What tangles are you dealing with?  Try cutting them off one tangle at a time, and you might be surprised!

P.S.  It was painful to use the past-tense to say that I "had" a cat named Minino.  Sadly, Minino died very quickly and unexpectedly a few days before Thanksgiving.  I found him not "quite right" one morning before leaving to pick my parents up at the airport for a visit.  I had a sick feeling about it, and when I arrived back at my house with my parents, he was dead.  I am still in a bit of shock even as I write this over a month later.

I can't help but continue the analogy.  Even when we break a problem down into manageable bites, we still sometimes don't get the chance to feel quite finished with the project.  I am, though, so grateful that I was inspired (or something) to reconnect with and nuture Minino while I still had him with me.  Perhaps there is a lesson in that too.  A week ago today, my 84 year old grandpa -- who was strong and independent and kind and amazing -- died unexpectedly of heart failure.  I don't deal well with death--whether pets or people.  This loss, leaves me with so many regrets about visits not taken and letters not written and phone calls not made.  Tangles untended.