Often when you ask Kim a question, she pauses. And hmmms for a second. Occasionally, it will be a pause just long enough, in response to just a certain type of question (how are the kids? how are your parents?) that will have me worried for a second. But then her fully thought-out and emphatic response puts my mind at ease. She takes her time with her answer; she is thoughtful, reflective.
It would be an understatement to say that this little pause is something I don't do. I can hardly even wait for someone else's sentence to be finished before I am responding. Yes, of course I know it's rude! And hasty and immature and self-centered. I know all these things.
But I'm hyper. I get ahead of myself. My emotions work faster than my brain (refer to yesterday's post). My hasty words can create a verbal mess. It's not infrequently that I say something I later wish I hadn't, or simply regret that I have been more focused on how I am going to respond, than on thoughtfully listening.
When I do this, I think of Kim, and her hmmmm. I'm guessing she takes time to think about the response. At the very least, she gives her attention and the chance for someone to deliver completed thoughts. I admire this quality, and aspire to emulate Kim's moment for reflection that may allow for a more thoughtful (and grown up!) response.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Monday, January 20, 2014
14. Randi: the importance of being true to yourself
Randi doesn't settle. If there is something that isn't sitting right with her, she says so and says no.
Peer pressure? Forget it. Even in high school, Randi knew who she was and had no use for anyone trying to convince her to do something she wasn't already interested in doing. She has immediate visceral reactions (she doesn't need to think about it) to suggestions I might consider in the same situation. "No ... " comes the answer, with closed eyes, pursued lips that betray a hint of a smile, and a slow side-to-side sweep of the head.
It may sound inflexible, but it's not. This is not about flexibility. Randi can flex and accommodate with the best of them. This lesson is about knowing who we are and not betraying what we know.
My favorite movie is Elizabeth, a historical drama about Queen Elizabeth I's rise to power. Early in the story, when she has been summoned by the current queen, her half-sister who hates her, she is uncertain of her fate. Her closest confidant takes her hand in encouragement and whispers in her ear as she's being taken away "Remember who you are."
These could be words from Randi. And they translate into her immutability on things she knows would compromise who she is. We run into these situations all the time, don't we? "Listen, I hope you don't mind if ...." My default? Well okay, sure, I guess. Which eventually devolves into me regretting the assent and asking "what was I thinking?!" I tend to over-accommodate. Later, I tend to feel like a doormat. Randi's default, on the other hand, cautions against this. A great apartment with an awkward element I might convince myself I could get used to? Move on. The less expensive option, that compromises on some features? Not likely. Roommate wants to sublet her room to a stranger while out of town for a couple of weeks? No freaking way.
This strength of belief and knowing who she is, and its manifestation in how she responds to such life questions, is a quality of Randi's I truly admire. As I said, this is not my default, but I'm slowly creeping along in that direction. When I'm presented with options or requests that give me pause, rather than quickly say "sure!" I am learning to take a breath, think through how I really feel about it, and remember who I am in the situation. Oh and also, I remember to call Randi for advice, because when I forget, it's Randi who invariably remembers for me.
Peer pressure? Forget it. Even in high school, Randi knew who she was and had no use for anyone trying to convince her to do something she wasn't already interested in doing. She has immediate visceral reactions (she doesn't need to think about it) to suggestions I might consider in the same situation. "No ... " comes the answer, with closed eyes, pursued lips that betray a hint of a smile, and a slow side-to-side sweep of the head.
It may sound inflexible, but it's not. This is not about flexibility. Randi can flex and accommodate with the best of them. This lesson is about knowing who we are and not betraying what we know.
My favorite movie is Elizabeth, a historical drama about Queen Elizabeth I's rise to power. Early in the story, when she has been summoned by the current queen, her half-sister who hates her, she is uncertain of her fate. Her closest confidant takes her hand in encouragement and whispers in her ear as she's being taken away "Remember who you are."
These could be words from Randi. And they translate into her immutability on things she knows would compromise who she is. We run into these situations all the time, don't we? "Listen, I hope you don't mind if ...." My default? Well okay, sure, I guess. Which eventually devolves into me regretting the assent and asking "what was I thinking?!" I tend to over-accommodate. Later, I tend to feel like a doormat. Randi's default, on the other hand, cautions against this. A great apartment with an awkward element I might convince myself I could get used to? Move on. The less expensive option, that compromises on some features? Not likely. Roommate wants to sublet her room to a stranger while out of town for a couple of weeks? No freaking way.
This strength of belief and knowing who she is, and its manifestation in how she responds to such life questions, is a quality of Randi's I truly admire. As I said, this is not my default, but I'm slowly creeping along in that direction. When I'm presented with options or requests that give me pause, rather than quickly say "sure!" I am learning to take a breath, think through how I really feel about it, and remember who I am in the situation. Oh and also, I remember to call Randi for advice, because when I forget, it's Randi who invariably remembers for me.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
13. My Mom: what the heart of a giver looks like
The giving lobe in my mom's brain never sleeps. This is a woman who can't not help if help is needed. She sees a hole of need, and plugs it with her gifts, her time, her generosity.
She's been suffering - for years with painful afflictions in her feet, and most recently with newly-diagnosed lupus. She aches and is tired and sometimes can hardly walk by the end of the day, often has trouble using her hands in kitchen tasks, is exhausted from the inability to sleep. I can't imagine her daily plight. But seriously, nothing stops this woman.
She makes regular, on-going commitments - to make dinner for the youth group at church every week, to host the annual luncheon for a benefit walk for the charity of friends with a disabled daughter, to have weekly afternoon 'camp' for a family of dear friends with four kids to give the parents a break, to lead the charge on an annual church-wide fellowship dinner and activity evening at Christmas time ... to give just a sampling. And if someone is in need (surgery, loss of a loved one, house under construction, the list goes on ...), my mom is the first one at the door, full meal of multiple courses - lovingly made and carefully packaged with detailed instructions - in hand.
These aren't just meals and occupiers of time. They are a meticulously curated set of dietary restrictions and preferences, creative and thoughtful activities, gifts prepared with great care and great love.
New to town, no family nearby? You'll be having Christmas at our house. And Thanksgiving. And weekly dinners.
Besides the time and planning and care that go into these gifts, the expense is not insignificant. And that's another thing. While she's never said it to me quite in these words, she lives her life as if to announce that any money she has really isn't hers. It's been entrusted to her ... to give away. Her generosity to such things as friends and church members in need, sponsored children, christmas gift drives for underprivileged kids, ministry support ... again, the list goes on. A commonly accepted guideline within the church is to give away 10% of the gifts with which God has bestowed us. The percentage of money that my parents give away far exceeds this, and it's never a second thought. Not to mention the (ahem) assistance they are giving to one unnamed blogger while she is in graduate school; can't walk out of their house without being loaded down with groceries, prepared food, small things I have previously mentioned I might like, or "here's $20 - so you can get a haircut." Ok, that last one might be motivated by something other than generosity ...
I could go on (and on and on) but I'll wrap it here. The great gift my dear mom has given me has been bestowed to me through the vehicle of experiencing the gifts - both tangible and intangible - she has given to so many throughout her life. These gifts of generosity, hospitality, care, attention to detail, and the giving of herself have been an incredible example to me my whole life. While I'll never live up to it, I can always aspire; but the truth is, no one has the heart of a giver like my mom.
She's been suffering - for years with painful afflictions in her feet, and most recently with newly-diagnosed lupus. She aches and is tired and sometimes can hardly walk by the end of the day, often has trouble using her hands in kitchen tasks, is exhausted from the inability to sleep. I can't imagine her daily plight. But seriously, nothing stops this woman.
She makes regular, on-going commitments - to make dinner for the youth group at church every week, to host the annual luncheon for a benefit walk for the charity of friends with a disabled daughter, to have weekly afternoon 'camp' for a family of dear friends with four kids to give the parents a break, to lead the charge on an annual church-wide fellowship dinner and activity evening at Christmas time ... to give just a sampling. And if someone is in need (surgery, loss of a loved one, house under construction, the list goes on ...), my mom is the first one at the door, full meal of multiple courses - lovingly made and carefully packaged with detailed instructions - in hand.
These aren't just meals and occupiers of time. They are a meticulously curated set of dietary restrictions and preferences, creative and thoughtful activities, gifts prepared with great care and great love.
New to town, no family nearby? You'll be having Christmas at our house. And Thanksgiving. And weekly dinners.
Besides the time and planning and care that go into these gifts, the expense is not insignificant. And that's another thing. While she's never said it to me quite in these words, she lives her life as if to announce that any money she has really isn't hers. It's been entrusted to her ... to give away. Her generosity to such things as friends and church members in need, sponsored children, christmas gift drives for underprivileged kids, ministry support ... again, the list goes on. A commonly accepted guideline within the church is to give away 10% of the gifts with which God has bestowed us. The percentage of money that my parents give away far exceeds this, and it's never a second thought. Not to mention the (ahem) assistance they are giving to one unnamed blogger while she is in graduate school; can't walk out of their house without being loaded down with groceries, prepared food, small things I have previously mentioned I might like, or "here's $20 - so you can get a haircut." Ok, that last one might be motivated by something other than generosity ...
I could go on (and on and on) but I'll wrap it here. The great gift my dear mom has given me has been bestowed to me through the vehicle of experiencing the gifts - both tangible and intangible - she has given to so many throughout her life. These gifts of generosity, hospitality, care, attention to detail, and the giving of herself have been an incredible example to me my whole life. While I'll never live up to it, I can always aspire; but the truth is, no one has the heart of a giver like my mom.
Friday, January 17, 2014
12. Laurel: it's good enough
The topic of this entry, I've made before in my Africa series. (ha - I like that I think I have series). The message of this entry isn't so different from the first so I won't rehash it all. But Laurel's lesson of 'it's good enough' has long been on this developing list. I remember distinctly standing in her kitchen, her left hand leaning on her counter, sharing her revelation: "you know, sometimes it's just good enough." The image and the message have stayed with me for many years.
In this age of Martha Stewart perfection, curated social-media renditions of ourselves, and airbrushed photo-shopped magazine spreads, to name a few, it's stupid easy to forget that things don't have to be perfect. Actually, they shouldn't be perfect. It's ok to stop, and accept that good enough can just be good enough.
Ok, fine. I still get hung up about a few things. I won't go out with chipped nail polish, a coat with a missing button, or boots that need heels replaced (clack clack clack). But for most things in life, I've grown to accept, and in fact embrace, that sometimes what it is, is just good enough. Man, she's right. This simple word of wisdom washed a wave of relief over me, and let me off the hook. To dismiss the pressure I put on myself, in fact to write so publicly exposing my fallibility (gasp), has been a process - one that has been hard to cede, but a veritable relief once realized.
Ok, fine. I still get hung up about a few things. I won't go out with chipped nail polish, a coat with a missing button, or boots that need heels replaced (clack clack clack). But for most things in life, I've grown to accept, and in fact embrace, that sometimes what it is, is just good enough. Man, she's right. This simple word of wisdom washed a wave of relief over me, and let me off the hook. To dismiss the pressure I put on myself, in fact to write so publicly exposing my fallibility (gasp), has been a process - one that has been hard to cede, but a veritable relief once realized.
Life is too short to get hung up on the pursuit of perfection. I don't need to spend it worrying about things that won't mean a thing in a hundred years. I think we need to worry about things that really do matter - not external perceptions that grow from other people's hangups, but the things that truly enrich our own lives and those of others. The nails / boots / buttons notwithstanding.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
11. Christian: everyone's story is worth listening to
I can be intolerant. I get a little spun up in my own world sometimes. Christian, on the other hand, is one of the most generous-of-spirit people I have ever met. It has gotten him into trouble over the years, but I hope he never changes this about himself.
The day he was moving to Florida, his brother and I took a cab with him to Penn Station. Tim was telling a story, and the cab driver began chiming in with his own stories - about his home country, and his daughter, and who knows what-all (see? intolerant).
In the just-under-a-year that Christian had lived in New York (this time), he became one of my closest friends. We were both working non-traditional hours over the summer and early fall, so we had tons of time to hang out and wander the streets, talking about life and everything in it. I grew quite attached to him, so when he was leaving, I was sad and anxious and basically, acting like a bad version of myself. Enter the cabby's stories. With something like 30 minutes before Christian's train departed, I didn't want to listen to the cabby. And I said so. With a tilt of the head and a roll of the eyes, I drop "I don't want to listen to this guy's stories" into Christian's lap. With a tilt of the head back in my direction and a widening of the eyes, he responds softly but emphatically "I do. This guy's stories are cool." The next thing I dropped was my eyes. In shame. I don't even know if this guy's stories were cool; Christian's point was to not dismiss him.
The day he was moving to Florida, his brother and I took a cab with him to Penn Station. Tim was telling a story, and the cab driver began chiming in with his own stories - about his home country, and his daughter, and who knows what-all (see? intolerant).
In the just-under-a-year that Christian had lived in New York (this time), he became one of my closest friends. We were both working non-traditional hours over the summer and early fall, so we had tons of time to hang out and wander the streets, talking about life and everything in it. I grew quite attached to him, so when he was leaving, I was sad and anxious and basically, acting like a bad version of myself. Enter the cabby's stories. With something like 30 minutes before Christian's train departed, I didn't want to listen to the cabby. And I said so. With a tilt of the head and a roll of the eyes, I drop "I don't want to listen to this guy's stories" into Christian's lap. With a tilt of the head back in my direction and a widening of the eyes, he responds softly but emphatically "I do. This guy's stories are cool." The next thing I dropped was my eyes. In shame. I don't even know if this guy's stories were cool; Christian's point was to not dismiss him.
I think it's really easy to get spun up in our own worlds, and quickly dismiss those who are on the exterior. In deciding what's important and worth our time, we easily marginalize others. But what right do I have to marginalize anyone? That look on Christian's face, which I won't soon forget, will continue to remind me that indeed, everyone's story is worth listening to.
disclaimer: I recognize the grammar issue (mom) and went with it anyway.
10. More of the exes: the importance of asking about family
While I've dipped into the land of the ex, I'll stay here a minute. My ex is middle eastern - and not "of middle eastern descent," but born and raised there. Needless to say, their family culture and that of my white-bread, preppy, New England family were quite different.
One of the earliest things I noticed was, whenever I saw anyone in the ex-law family, the first question was always "how are your parents?" And then my sister. Fine. Why? Did something happen? Oh, they're just trying to make conversation. But the question persisted invariably, for over a decade, even after we had (many!) things to talk about. I found that this started to sound and feel completely normal to me as part of a greeting dynamic.
This is a part of their culture - in fact, of most cultures worldwide, ours excepted. I realize that when I get together with my girlfriends from university, we don't lead with this question, even though we might not have seen each other for a year or longer and many things will certainly have changed with our families.
One of the earliest things I noticed was, whenever I saw anyone in the ex-law family, the first question was always "how are your parents?" And then my sister. Fine. Why? Did something happen? Oh, they're just trying to make conversation. But the question persisted invariably, for over a decade, even after we had (many!) things to talk about. I found that this started to sound and feel completely normal to me as part of a greeting dynamic.
This is a part of their culture - in fact, of most cultures worldwide, ours excepted. I realize that when I get together with my girlfriends from university, we don't lead with this question, even though we might not have seen each other for a year or longer and many things will certainly have changed with our families.
Why don't we ask? As much as it started to feel normal to me to ask, it also started to feel abnormal not to ask. The topic will come up, sure, as some have lost parents, others' parents have struggled with illnesses, there have marriages and divorces, some have moved, many travel now since retirement, etc. Sharing stories of quirky and patterned family dynamics, especially after holidays, is always a highlight of our weekends.
But this direct "how are your parents?" is something we don't just do. It's a lovely bit of other cultures that I admire, and would like to work harder to adopt. It has always struck me as an instant way of expressing care and concern for the important dynamics of my life, and also has the potential to deepen a relationship as those life details are shared and entrusted. It's such a simple thing - a tiny question - but it's a lesson for which I'm grateful to my ex-laws.
But this direct "how are your parents?" is something we don't just do. It's a lovely bit of other cultures that I admire, and would like to work harder to adopt. It has always struck me as an instant way of expressing care and concern for the important dynamics of my life, and also has the potential to deepen a relationship as those life details are shared and entrusted. It's such a simple thing - a tiny question - but it's a lesson for which I'm grateful to my ex-laws.
Monday, January 13, 2014
9. My Ex: the importance of knowing how you feel and articulating what you need
Some lessons grow in unwanted spaces. Some lessons grow out of great negativity and regret. Sometimes we learn lessons from what we did wrong.
Mawwage. That bwessed awangement. That dweam within a dweam. Successful or failed, we learn more than we ever wanted to know about ourselves in marriage. Mine was in jeopardy from year one. After a failed attempt or two at some requisite marriage counseling, we finally found one counselor who changed everything. The most memorable thing he ever said to us, he said in our first session: "I've never known two people with as much of an inability to communicate with one another as you two." (gasp) What?! I talk more than anyone I know - what do you mean I'm not communicating?! Well, it turns out that not all communication is successful communication. Who knew. My form of "communicating" with my husband was passive-aggressive, sarcastic, non-verbal, loaded. I discovered that when I was feeling hurt, I had no ability to accurately articulate what I needed. This was in fact because I was unable even to identify how I felt. I could react, but I lacked the ability to express my reactions in a consumable way. Instead, I attacked, sniped, shut down. It got me nowhere. I had no idea he couldn't read my mind. How dare he... As it turned out, he was in exactly the same boat. Two people with this precise inability to express their feelings and needs in a relationship? Recipe for disaster.
Growing in this area has been an uphill journey. I don't claim to have mastered it, even a little bit, but I'm getting better. In my next relationship, I worked so hard - sort of hard-to-believe hard - at broaching a subject without bringing all of that along. I would run it in my mind, over and again, and like a writer crumpling up sheet after sheet of writing paper with false starts, I would clear the slate and start again. How can I say this without sounding like that person who makes things fail? How can I do this without sarcasm and finger-pointing? How can it be different this time? When I'd finally find the right combination of message, words, and tone, I would do a little victory dance. In my head. It still hasn't become easy, but it's definitely moving in that direction.
I don't pretend to think that if I had mastered this art of not-loaded communication, my marriage would have been saved. No chance. But things would have been really different and way less painful. And less drawn out. And less blame-filled. I can't have too many regrets because <insert cliched adage here:> the experience and its inherent failures, and the lessons gleaned, made me the person I am today. And I'm pretty happy with that person, who now appreciates - among other things - the value of understanding how she feels and being able to articulate what she needs.
Mawwage. That bwessed awangement. That dweam within a dweam. Successful or failed, we learn more than we ever wanted to know about ourselves in marriage. Mine was in jeopardy from year one. After a failed attempt or two at some requisite marriage counseling, we finally found one counselor who changed everything. The most memorable thing he ever said to us, he said in our first session: "I've never known two people with as much of an inability to communicate with one another as you two." (gasp) What?! I talk more than anyone I know - what do you mean I'm not communicating?! Well, it turns out that not all communication is successful communication. Who knew. My form of "communicating" with my husband was passive-aggressive, sarcastic, non-verbal, loaded. I discovered that when I was feeling hurt, I had no ability to accurately articulate what I needed. This was in fact because I was unable even to identify how I felt. I could react, but I lacked the ability to express my reactions in a consumable way. Instead, I attacked, sniped, shut down. It got me nowhere. I had no idea he couldn't read my mind. How dare he... As it turned out, he was in exactly the same boat. Two people with this precise inability to express their feelings and needs in a relationship? Recipe for disaster.
Growing in this area has been an uphill journey. I don't claim to have mastered it, even a little bit, but I'm getting better. In my next relationship, I worked so hard - sort of hard-to-believe hard - at broaching a subject without bringing all of that along. I would run it in my mind, over and again, and like a writer crumpling up sheet after sheet of writing paper with false starts, I would clear the slate and start again. How can I say this without sounding like that person who makes things fail? How can I do this without sarcasm and finger-pointing? How can it be different this time? When I'd finally find the right combination of message, words, and tone, I would do a little victory dance. In my head. It still hasn't become easy, but it's definitely moving in that direction.
I don't pretend to think that if I had mastered this art of not-loaded communication, my marriage would have been saved. No chance. But things would have been really different and way less painful. And less drawn out. And less blame-filled. I can't have too many regrets because <insert cliched adage here:> the experience and its inherent failures, and the lessons gleaned, made me the person I am today. And I'm pretty happy with that person, who now appreciates - among other things - the value of understanding how she feels and being able to articulate what she needs.
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