Moving Mountains

19 Jul 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Insights Tags: , , , , ,

The curtain rises on a gorgeous, warm, blue-sky summer day.  Mother Nature is playing her role with expertise and generosity.  And so am I.  This day, I play the role of victim.

The list of grievances is long –  going to work, a general lack of vitality, the chore list……There seems no end to the tiresome slights against my happiness.  Employing my fail-safe tool, gratitude, I expect to feel better any minute now.  But the negative thoughts hold me hostage.

When friend calls late in the day, I am all but depleted of energy from dragging my sorry butt through my sorry day.  Friend asks me for help.   A situation has arisen with her parents and I am ‘exactly the person who can help.’  I am honored to try, glad to be needed, and apparently effective in lending perspective.  Instantly, I feel lighter.  Helping others does that to people.

It’s said that you can’t give without receiving.  Intrigued and eager to play with this theory a little more, I set off on a mission.  Like Superman changing into his leotard (yes, it’s a leotard) I transform myself from Deb Dunham to Super Giver.  I hand out compliments, silent blessings, hugs, courtesies – anything I can to everyone I encounter.  It quickly becomes a fun game.

And the give/get theory turns out to be true!  In exchange for my gifts, I receive countless smiles, thank yous, and not surprisingly, a pervasive rise in energy.  I am smitten with the ability to change someone’s day for the better while simultaneously elevating my own.

It occurs to me how infrequently we utilize the tools at our disposal – like service, gratitude, positive thinking, faith, love….We are well equipped to change ourselves, and therefore, the world, for the better.  I’m convinced that a concentrated focus on any or all of these can move mountains.  Like the mountains of hatred and competitiveness and resentment for example.

Mother Teresa said, “We can’t do big things.  We can only do little things with big love.”  Ironically, she was a little person who accomplished big things by giving big love in little ways.  The best part is that we don’t have to set out to move mountains.  In fact, we don’t have to try to change anything.  We just have to give little bits over and over and eventually, a mountain will move.  And we will move with it.

Playing Small

04 Jul 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Insights, Parenting, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

A friend, sitting by the community pool with several other mothers, listens with increasing irritation to their animated conversation which resembles a verbal contest.  The main theme: busyness.  The object of the game: one-upsmanship.   Who can claim the prize for the Most Overworked Mother?

Each mother in succession pipes in her list of parenting woes expecting sympathy, horror, or dare I say, admiration from the others.  The group serves as a collective listener though one is not convinced that they actually hear each other.  Rather, each is distractedly plotting her own strategy.

One woman, wearing busyness like a badge, pulls ahead in the game.  She has multiple children in multiple sports and activities.  None, of course, are grateful for what mother does to enhance their lives.  The conversation takes on a dramatic volume and pitch as this mother concludes with sweeping gestures to enhance her case.

Who will be crowned the winner?  Which poor, selfless, overworked mother has ‘it’ the worst?  Like a typical round of Monopoly, there is no end to this game.  The only real winner is the one who chooses not to play.  This is the mother who knows that complaining and blaming equal playing small.  This mother knows that an over-scheduled child does not make the schedule.  Mother does.

The pattern of giving too many yes’ and no enough no’s is one I’m familiar with.  In the blink of an eye, the family calendar fills to capacity and begins to bust at the seams, leaving mother in a puddle of exhaustion at the end of a day.  And always, though I forget sometimes, I am in control.

The desire to give children the world can obscure a mother’s judgment.  It can trick her into attempting to juggle flaming torches and spin plates on sticks while walking a tightrope.  When she tries this stunt and fails – because she will – mother may fall to the ground and, without thinking, blame her child for pushing her off the rope.  Silly mother.

Instead of egging her on with ooh’s and aah’s like a crowd at the circus, mother’s friends could say these words:

Get down here before you hurt yourself!  Your children need you in one piece.  You don’t have anything to prove.  There is no prize for scaling tall buildings in a single bound.  Your prize is here on the ground.  It is waiting for you to stop running around long enough to pick it up and hug it and tell it how much you love it.

 The prize will understand, eventually, if the love words include a ‘no’ here and there.  It may even thank you some day for setting limits in order to preserve sanity and closeness and family time.  At the very least, you will have prevailed in the Game of Life because you chose not to compete.  Instead of playing small, you kept your eye on the prize, your feet on the ground, and your heart in a grateful place.

You Can’t Judge Love By It’s Cover

18 Jun 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Love and Other Things, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

June 17th happens to be Father’s Day which happens to be my oldest daughter’s birthday which happens to be my wedding anniversary.  Guess which one never gets recognized?

Husband and I had exactly two years as a married couple before baby number one arrived.  That amounted to one anniversary trip/dinner/celebration.  Had I known it would be the last, I would have set my sights higher than a Bed and Breakfast in Maine.

For years we’ve consoled ourselves with the mutual agreement that there would be no hard feelings about a triviality like a date on the calendar.  Instead of coveting time alone we would, forever more, share our celebration with multiple reasons to be grateful.  Nary a greeting card has passed between us on this date for 15 years.  But this year, my Year of Thank Yous, is different.  This is the year I may breathe my last.  And if it is, there’s a thing or two I want to say about the man who took me on for better or for worse.

There are times when I actually hate the man who so easily pushes my buttons – and I let him know.  To the credit of his pit-bull demeanor, husband can take it. Though I try not to abuse this fact, I appreciate that he is rock solid and nearly immune to the depths of my moods.  Which is probably why, although I didn’t know it at the time, I married him.  He is fearless in the face of….me.

This was perfectly illustrated from our inauspicious beginning.  Imagine if you will, a very tired me after a long day of skiing at unusually high altitudes.  My beloved invited me to walk on the romantic shores of Lake Tahoe while we waited for our ferry.  But I wanted to sit.  Seeing that I wouldn’t go easily, he started down the pier toward the beach without me.  As he reached the end, he began yelling  – demanding actually – in front of a crowd, that I come for a walk.

Here’s the thing.  I hate being told what to do.  HATE it.  Especially when it resembles antiquated ‘woman is subservient to man’s wishes’ logic.  So I reacted poorly.

I stormed down the pier after would-be husband, calculating how many of Deb’s Code Of Conduct rules he was violating.   Immediately upon reaching him I launched into a string of infractions, “How dare you! If you think for one minute that you can command me and I’ll obey…….”

After ranting for a while I noticed that he was smiling.  Strange.  He should be mad at me.  But instead he looks like the cat who ate the canary.  Why?

“Are you done yet?” would-be husband asked with amusement.

My response is difficult to admit.  I did worse than curse.  I did something I never had before.  But recall the level of my anger – at least a ten on the Richter scale.  Here it is…..I spit!  Right at his feet.  It was all I could think of to match the imagined disrespect he had shown me with his commanding tone.  I had no idea what would come next.

Beloved fell to one knee, right there on the beach, after witnessing my immense tantrum, and reached for my hand.  “Will you marry me?”

Gulp.  S*%t.  Oh, what have I done?!

It was years before I could share in the enjoyment husband had telling that story.  Needless to say, it was a humbling experience.  One that should have curbed my temper for good.  One that should have made husband run for the hills.   But, reader, neither has happened.

Now would be a good time, lest you get the impression from my stories that husband is some sort of saint, to let you glimpse the other side of the coin.  Husband has his warts too – one that a close relative of his wanted to be sure I knew before I married him.  Before our wedding date, said relative pulled me aside to say that everyone would understand if I backed out.  I paused for the briefest second then laughed mightily.  Perhaps this traitorous relative, like many, failed to see the magic in the union of a clap of thunder and a lightning bolt.  While we were having a grand ole time lighting up the skies, we were also scaring people it seems.

But we can’t worry about that.  The thunderstorms suit us.  As do the moments between the storms when the air is sweet and the symbiotic sounds of nature return.  It’s all good.  And not to be judged.  Because love is love no matter the packaging.

If the classic love poem read at many a wedding were a test, husband and I would certainly fail.

Love is patient.  Love is kind.

It is not easily angered….

….If you have not love,

You are but a noisy gong or clanging bell.

Really?  Because at our house, there’s a heck of a lot of pots banging and voices yelling that could equate to the noisy gong in the recipe of love.  And yet, we still feel ok.

Don’t get me wrong, we try sweet and gentle.  Even pull it off on occasion.  But the transformation feels all wrong.  Like a prickly bush disguised in a rose-bush costume.  As time passes and rose-bush couples split up, husband and I gain confidence in our not-so-subtle happily ever after.

When I say to husband, “I love you because of the reasons I hate you, not in spite of them.” He understands.  He may look briefly as if he’s been slapped, but his hint of a grin assures me that he got my meaning.  He has the capacity to understand me, and I, him.  Isn’t that all we can hope for?  To be understood, appreciated, and loved just as we are?

After all these years I can say with confidence that husband is still my favorite person.  And it’s not just because he took the initiative to locate a gluten-free Happy Anniversary cake (though that does raise his stock.)  I just love him.  Plain and simple.  And I wanted you to know, in case it wasn’t clear.

City Girl In The Country

12 Jun 2012 6 Comments

by Deb D in City Girl In The Country, Crack A Smile, Foibles, Greatest Hits Tags: , , , ,

On this episode of City Girl In the Country, the family built their mother a garden for Mother’s Day.  When I, Mother, arrived home and saw this (without the descriptive sign),

I thought perhaps husband had bought a tiger.  He lovingly described his intention, “You’ve always wanted a garden.  I thought it would be a great present.”  And it was.  The most thoughtful and ambitious one yet.  And yes, I’ve long held images of me preparing a wholesome organic dinner with fresh ingredients from a garden planted, cared for, and harvested by yours truly.  But dreams and reality are very different beasts.  What  do I, a vested city girl, know about gardening?

Stifling my panic and premature thoughts of failure, I smiled at husband through clenched teeth.  Poor thing, he looked so enthusiastic and optimistic.

He may have conveniently forgotten my history of city-girl-itis.  There was the time nature boy husband was away on business and I found the ugliest little animal swimming in our pool.  With its matted grey hair, absent eyes, and what appeared to be a ‘sucker’ for a nose, it resembled a mutated mouse.

Convinced that this unfortunate creature had been exposed to hazardous chemicals hidden in my yard, I  scooped it into a bucket and marched it to the bus stop for show and tell. A country neighbor – without the courtesy to stifle his amusement – set me straight, informing me that this mutation was, in fact, a common mole.  Scraping for self-respect, I argued that it didn’t look like any cute picture of a mole I’d seen in my childhood books.  And we most certainly did not see these in the city.  Hmph.

Then there’s the time husband took me to Maine for the first time.  We sat on a deck lined with red flowers.  A hummingbird (an exotic bird by city-girl standards) appeared from nowhere and stopped to suck nectar from the flowers.  I exclaimed, “Oh, look how cute!  She thinks the flowers are a hummingbird feeder!”

Several seconds of stunned silence followed when husband realized that his Summa Cum Laude wife was serious.  Gently and slowly, as if I might be having a stroke, husband asked, “Honey, which do you think came first?  Hummingbird feeders or  flowers?”  Recognizing my grave error, I chuckled nervously and left to make a sandwich.  You can take the girl out of the city, but….

It’s been several years since I’ve moved out of the city.  I now understand the difference between septic and sewer and why we have no well water when the electricity goes out.  (Which it does on a ridiculously predictable basis in the woods.) Yes, I’ve adjusted to the country  life.  But the city is in me.  Gardening is not.

I don’t think husband should have been shocked when he had to instruct me to cut the broccoli – which had grown without my help, by the way.  (I love a self-sufficient plant.)  When I argued that I couldn’t find a pair of scissors, husband retrieved the kitchen shears and said, “Use these.”  Too quickly I protested, “But those are for food.”  Husband shouted, “AND WHAT DO YOU THINK BROCCOLI IS?!”  Oops.

Husband carried on for a long while about city brains and packaged food and grocery stores and cold eggs.  Geez, it’s not like I’ve ever claimed to be Farmer Brown or anything.  Cut me some slack.

Out I went in search of broccoli.  And I returned, proudly, with this:

My very first crop.  (Pause for admiration.)

I held that broccoli high, like a trophy.  I couldn’t have been more proud if it had sprouted from my own ears.  I’ve incubated, birthed, and raised three children, but this…the growing of a vegetable…this is a miracle.

After admiring the broccoli as a centerpiece in the kitchen all day, I did eventually cook it.  Eight year old daughter deemed it ‘Not as good as store-bought.  But you’ll get there, Mom.’

Yes, darling, I think I will.  There’s hope for me yet.  Though I doubt the producers of this life of mine will be cancelling the longest-running sit-com in history any time soon.

Joy, Where Are You?

07 Jun 2012 3 Comments

by Deb D in Insights Tags: , , , , ,

Joy, where are you?  You were right here a minute ago.  I turned to talk to the Complaint Family and when I looked back, you were gone.  I know your hiding places.  We’ve played this game before.  I’ll find you eventually.

Ah, there you are.  Why are you hiding?  You look scared.  Yes, the Complaint Family is loud, I agree.  They brought so many relatives to visit this time – Stress and Depression and Frustration.  Oh and Jealousy – haven’t seen her in a while.

They always seem to visit when I’m tired.  How can I turn them away when they show up at my doorstep?  No, I don’t love when they visit either, but they’re old friends.     Well, that’s true, you’ve known me for longer.  Yes, Joy, you were my first and only friend for a long time.  But I had to grow up and meet others.

Now, don’t do that.  No fair bringing up the teenage years when I abandoned you, Joy.  I didn’t know better.  I excluded you and I’m sorry for that.  I know you were hurt when I chose Depression as my new best friend.  It hurt me, too, to be without you.  I’m so glad you didn’t give up on me.

I’m still not perfect you know.  I get caught up with Stress sometimes, and Responsibility – they’re hard to handle.  Yes, you could help me deal with them.  Your presence would quiet them.  I should try to remember that.

Look, I promise I will pay more attention to you.  Now, will you come out from that hiding spot?  Come and give me a hug.  I love you, Joy.  I need you. What’s that?  On one condition?  You want me to invite Gratitude to live with us?  Sure, why not?  I like Gratitude.  She’s a good friend to you.  I notice that when Gratitude stays with us you seem strong.  And when she’s here, the Complaint Family doesn’t come around.  I think that’s a splendid idea, Joy.  We’ll invite Gratitude to live with us.

. . . . .

And so it was.  Gratitude moved in.  Joy grew stronger.  And we all lived happily ever after.  Sure, we’ve had visitors occasionally.  But the Complaint Family stopped coming around as much.  And when they did, they weren’t invited to stay.

…..

For more on my journey with gratitude go to http://www.yearofthankyous.com

Helen Keller Could See

04 Jun 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Insights, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , ,

A blind man walks into a restaurant.  The maitre d’ says, “I’m sorry sir, dogs are not allowed in the restaurant.”  The blind man defends, “This is my guide dog.”  The maitre d’ replies, “You expect me to believe that a chihuahua is a guide dog?”  To which the blind man exclaims, “What?!  They gave me a chihuahua as a guide dog?!”

This is my favorite joke.  My children tease that it’s the only one I can remember.  This is true, but really I love it because of what it implies about human nature, and about the gift we call vision.  It leaves me thinking that vision may not be the prize we think it is.

I’ve been myopic since sixth grade.  By the time I reached high school I needed to wear glasses full-time.  I despised my limited eyesight, feeling vulnerable to ridicule and dependent on a pair of plastic frames for survival.  So scared and angry was I at not being able to see everything at all times, that I cursed God and my body for my handicap.  The advent of contact lenses provided some relief from the struggle.  But when repetitive eye infections plagued me during my senior year, and I was forced to resurrect the large, thick glasses FOR MY PROM, the venom returned.

I’ve made some peace with limited vision since then and have come to appreciate the availability of corrective lenses.   At times, I can even laugh about the predicament of low vision.   Like the morning my glasses fell off the bedside table.  The folly of trying to find the thing that helps you see when you need that very thing to see, cracks me up.

Giving up the search, I stumbled to the bathroom, hands on walls for guidance, to begin my morning routine.  After rubbing the sleep from my eyes and washing my face, I looked up to the mirror to asses the night’s damage.   Instead of the middle-aged, bags-under-the-eyes, acne-prone woman who usually greets me, was a…well…beauty.  Before me stood a healthy, trim, glossy-skinned goddess.  I could hardly believe my blurry eyes.

With regret, the irony hit me.  Seeing poorly made me see well.  I recall a meditation instructor guiding his students to look at their faces from the inside out.  At the time, I didn’t get it.  But today, standing half-naked and partially blind in front of a mirror, I see myself for the first time from the inside.  And I am perfect.  The realization makes me cry.

I mentally flip through a list of misguided grievances that have accumulated over years of ‘seeing’ myself.    How unfairly harsh I’ve been on my human form.  How many beliefs about my worthiness do I possess that are based on false processing through my eyes? Wayne Dyer says, “Change the way you look at things and the things you look at will change.” In the absence of detailed vision, I see the whole picture.

When my daughter was two years old, I scolded her for misbehaving.  Subsequently, I frowned at her.  She pointed her little finger at me and said, “No, Mommy.  Don’t see me that way!”  She’s right, of course.  I wasn’t just giving her ‘a look.’  I was judging her, seeing her in a way that reflected my unloving thoughts.  It’s the same disapproving look I’ve given myself in the mirror.

My thoughts drift to Helen Keller who said, “I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden.  I can see a God-made world, not a man-made world.” After awakening to the limitations of my own intact senses, I conclude that perhaps blindness exists to an even greater degree in those who believe they can see.

I’m over forty years old now, which means my eyes are too.  After years of failing to see at a distance, they are deciding that, heck, they don’t need to see anything up close, either.  And it’s okay.  Seeing is overrated.

“Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn whatever state I am in, therein, to be content.”  – Helen Keller.

Let’s Be Clear

28 May 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Reconciling Tags: , , ,

On holidays like Memorial Day, I feel especially defensive of the people I consider to be heroes.  Standing under a flag at half-staff, listening to a child play Taps, choking back tears, I know exactly who my heroes are.  They are not sports figures; those are idols.  They are not surgeons who correct a heart condition or cancer; those are healers.  They are not people who died in their place of business on 9/11; those were victims.  My definition of a hero is limited to a person who  knowingly risks his/her life and safety with the idea that someone else, or something else, is more important.  They make the ultimate sacrifice – themselves.

I am in awe of the people who fight for my freedom and end up losing their own to loss of life or limb or peace of mind.

I am in awe that in the absence of a draft, our armed forces are stocked with volunteers.

I am in awe that so many have the courage and the calling that I lack.

In quiet moments I reflect on moments that aren’t so quiet – when bombs are bursting and people are dying.  And I feel that I’ll never be worthy to stand beside those who have stood up for me.  There was a time when most of the world – including those who were left behind – made sacrifices during war.  They did without, they worked harder, they mourned repetitively.  These days, war could be just another reality show on t.v.  Life goes on, uninterrupted, for the majority.  For this I am guilty and ashamed.

Yet I wonder, is this what my heroes would want?  For me to stand in my house, safe and sound, feeling bad about myself and sorry for them?  Or would they prefer that I dance in my yard, breathing in the fresh air, forgetting myself, carefree.  Isn’t that what they fight for?  This very freedom?

Today I pause, at least for a moment, to remind myself that this is not, as one woman said, ‘National BBQ Day.’  It is the day we get clear on what, exactly, a hero is.  I may follow that moment with a burger from the grill, a backyard game, and a laugh or two.  And I will enjoy it all in the spirit of the freedom that I did not earn, but that others so generously gave to me.

The Sweetness of Clarity

24 May 2012 3 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

Today I was blindsided by chaos.  I imagined it would be a mostly ordinary day – kids to school, Mom to work, and husband on a rare business trip.  Silly me.

The drama actually began late last night when teen daughter waged a war against chores and chicken for dinner and all things parent.  Poor husband sought consolation, “Can you believe her?! ”  To which I responded with my go-to justification, “She’s a teenager.”  When rational explanation fails, this single fact makes it all better.  Teenhood is not a permanent condition.  Doors were slammed, lights flicked off, and sleep was welcomed.  Tomorrow would be a new day……A day that began too early.  Midnight to be exact.

Like Cinderella who transformed at the stroke of midnight, dear son turned into a vomiting machine. This, as you fellow parents know, is a game changer.  Instantly, my day went from busy/manageable to crazy/juggling.

As it were, I was scheduled to drive my usually-bus-riding daughter and a friend to school for the Architecture Fair.  SHOOT!   This is the event that husband was supposed to attend to fulfill the ‘at least one parent should show support’ thesis.  But he is away on business which means I should go. But when? How?

The phone rings, breaking up the rapid-fire problem-solving in my head.  It is friend, wondering if we’ve forgotten her or are we just running late?  Scrambling to the car, bagel in one hand, trifold display in the other, we settle into a comfortably illegal pace on the highway when teen daughter exclaims (too hysterically) that the written portion of her project has been forgotten at home.  Would I go back and get it after dropping her off?

I gaze at the Heavens with a ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ look.  Is this level of chaos all in one day really necessary?  Daughter gives further instruction on the location of said paper.  It’s beside the computer which, by the way, “crashed when I was trying to print off another copy.”  Lovely.

I am torn.  Yes or no?  Go out of my way, taking more time than I have, in order to save my daughter?  Or help her to learn responsibility by suffering the consequences?  She was, after all, a beast last night.  She wasted valuable project preparation time with her tirades.  I’m not feeling especially generous toward her.  But there are other factors to consider too: a younger child in tow who needs to be at a different school momentarily, a son who clearly shouldn’t be left alone, a dance carpool commitment (of all weeks!) and oh yes, a job that is expecting me.  My mind is on a spinny ride at the amusement park and I want to get off.

When Chaos arrives like it has today, Clarity eludes me.  She loves a game of Hide and Seek.   Sometimes it’s easy to find Clarity.  She’s like a small child who hides in the same obvious spot every time she plays the game.  Other times she gets sneaky and hides somewhere in next week or next month – so far away that I have to give up searching for her, knowing that eventually she’ll return to me.  So I keep the door unlocked.

Today, Clarity jumps out at me from behind the phone.  Grandpa calls and would LOVE to drive  45 minutes to spend part of the day with a sick child so mother can take care of the rest of the world. Mercy abounds!

This one monumental gesture of kindness lights a spark in me.  My cold and confused heart warms from the gift it has received and it feels like giving too.  It feels like calling work to say that business is never more important than children.  It feels like fetching and delivering the forgotten school report.  It feels like completing the child chores that were left undone last night.  It feels like attending the Architecture Fair to support not only it’s own child, but the others whose parents didn’t hear their hearts today.

My heart is rewarded with immense gratitude in the form of bear hugs when I arrive back at teen daughter’s school.  It is further elated when it returns home from a brief stop at work to find that, without prompting, the dishwasher has been unloaded by the very same teenager.  The heart knows this path.  It gives generously and without expectation and ends up receiving.  The mind is not as smart.  It would have me judging and measuring out gifts, and calculating retribution.  I really should learn to consult my heart first.  It would save me, and my mind, a lot of trouble.

Fifty More Shades of Grey

22 May 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Reconciling, Uncategorized Tags: , ,

Yes, reader, I’m one of the millions who has been swooped up by the curiosity storm that is Fifty Shades of Grey. And it has me thinking about, well, lots of things – many of which I dare not share here.  If you’re a self-described prude as my neighbor is, fear not, it’s not what you think.  This is not a shock-jock type of post.  Nor is it a literary review.  There are plenty of other forums exploring this cult-like explosion and what it means.  Which is why I want to ask, ‘What do you mean, what does it mean?‘

Does the book’s crazy-big popularity have to point to some dire deficit in womankind – or mankind? Do we really have to pull out the holier-than-thou judgment card?  Experts will have you questioning your motives, doubting your core stability, worrying over betraying a secret desire, and making excuses for why you did or did not enjoy the book.  The bottom line is this:  there are as many different acceptable reactions to Fifty Shades of Grey as there are, say, shades of grey.

Which brings me to my story.  It’s a very different story than the one referenced above.  It involves a seven-year old girl, a first-time mother, and a rainy day….

My daughter and I were driving along on the kind of day that makes me want to curl up under covers with a cup of hot tea and warm pajamas.  The rain came and went and threatened to return.  My daughter stared out the window blankly, sharing a similar distaste for the weather – I thought.  “I’m so glad we have color in the world,” she observed.  “I agree!  We need color on a dull day like this,”  I absent-mindedly replied.  Puzzled, my daughter disagreed, “No.  I was thinking how great it is that there are so many different shades of grey – the pavement, the clouds, the puddles….It’s beautiful!” 

‘Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!  I’ve been schooled by a child,’ I thought. (One of many occasions.)  Here I was, lamenting the effect of the sky on my mood and wrongly presuming it was  universal sentiment.  In so doing, I might have conditioned one unprejudiced little girl to fall into the trap of mindlessness.  Thankfully, she dared to contradict an elder with her impartial view of beauty.

It’s been said that the whole world can be seen clearly through the eyes of a child.  Since that momentous day, I’ve made it a point to let my children show me the world, reserving my opinions on most any topic until I’ve heard theirs.  It’s been my experience that their assessments are often more enlightened.  And the teacher becomes the student.

The most important thing I’ve learned from this practice is that I know nothing with certainty.  Well, not nothing exactly.  I do know my name most days.  But seriously, that’s where it ends.  I’ve grown fond of the notion that I am but a child, still, with much to learn.  Some days that means I need to see the world, and me, in a different light.  Which is exactly why I am grateful to both my daughter and to E.L. James for showing me the many, many shades of grey.

Brain Shrinkage

16 May 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Foibles Tags: , , , ,

I messed up royally – again.  Before I tell you what I did, I want you to understand why it’s a big deal.

If there’s one quality my mother embodies, it’s dependability, which is closely related to her extreme organizational skills.  I don’t exaggerate when I say that Mom has never lost anything or failed to do what she says she’ll do.  Her linear, and possibly photographic memory is backed up by an elaborate system of note-taking and filing.

Claiming to have inherited her affinity for organization myself would be disingenuous.  But, for what I lack in natural talent, I was trained to make up for in discipline.  I can chart with the best of them.  Or I could, until I had children.

Husband used to rib me about ‘pregnancy brain’ citing research theorizing that women’s brains shrink during pregnancy.  I went to great lengths to disprove the theory by covering up for my all-too-frequent memory lapses, which I secretly feared amounted to permanent brain damage.  As you know from recent blogs, my mind never did fully recover.

I remember clearly the day I decided to surrender to imperfection in the memory/organization departments.   I simply removed the mask of Utter Competence I had rented and declared myself a mere mortal – free to make mistakes andforgive myself without excuses.  That very month, I forgot to invite my daughter’s godmother – on my husband’s side – to a birthday party.  (It’s always worse when you mess up with the in-laws rather than your own kin.)  

My error registered as an immense transgression.  Shock waves shot through the family.  You’d have thought the sun forgot to rise by the way people reacted.

Determining not to let their disappointment scare me back into perfectionist tendencies, I simply said, “Oh, I forgot,’ and prayed really hard that would suffice.  Vaguely, I recalled something I read about ‘giving up perfect.’  The sage warning was, ‘When you stop being perfect, don’t expect it to be a popular decision.’   People were used to my dependability in these matters.  Well, they’d have to adjust because imperfect me was here to stay.

Further proving my committment to imperfection has been easier – and more enjoyable – than I could have imagined.  Aside from the occasional frustration it causes, I rather like imperfect me.  Of course, I do occasionally feel a bite of horror, like today when I was informed that I forgot to acknowledge my mother-in-law’s birthday (two weeks ago!)  Yes, it is my husband’s mother and he forgot too.  But then, men aren’t laden with the same expectations as women in this regard.  Ultimately, I take ownership.  After all, I am the one in charge of the fancy calendar.  How did I miss this?  It’s not like it’s a new entry!

I can’t be sure my mother-in-law forgives me this oversight, but truthfully, it doesn’t matter.  Harsh sounding, I know.  In defense, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my imperfection training, it’s that self-approval is more important than approval from others.  I am sorry for forgetting, but I cannot – will not – revert to perfectionism.  It hurts my head.  I choose, instead, to offer my soggy, over-saturated brain some compassion.  It can only do so much.

Years from now, this too will be forgotten.  It will be replaced by subsequent mistakes and hopefully, some triumphs as well.  I hope the scale will be balanced, so that I will be balanced too.

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