Why is it, I wonder, that we are often afraid to tell people how we really feel?
From my own perspective, if I'm totally honest with myself, it's because of my own insecurities. I've found myself cringing at offensive comments or jokes that others make, but I rarely have the chutzpah to say anything. Instead, I'll excuse myself and leave or change the subject rather than have any kind of confrontation. This, I believe, is one of my worst shortcomings.
Cold comfort that it may be, I know that this lack of response is not mine alone and is also part of a greater problem. Haven't we all found ourselves, from time to time, biting our tongues and not saying what we really feel? Not only to friends and acquaintances, but to our own families as well?
There is an elaborate dance that we sometimes go through to make our feelings known in a passive aggressive way. I know that I have favored that approach in lieu of any really meaningful dialog sometimes because of the lack of confidence that I seem to have in verbalizing my feelings and convictions.
A perfect example is the relationship I have with my daughter-in-law. One of the things I really love about her is that she has always had the confidence in herself to say what she's thinking. I admire that so much and wish I was hard wired to do the same. Instead, I find myself passing things along to my son knowing that my message will eventually make it's way to her. At the time, it seems like the path of least resistance, but after some real soul searching and analysis I see that I am doing all of us a disservice.
I will tell anyone who asks that I love my two daughters-in-law and my two sons-in-law as if they were my own children. And I mean it completely. Each of us has gifts that we bring to the family table and those gifts of individuality make us all richer and more interesting people. We learn to accept and even embrace our subtle differences, knowing that by doing so we are weaving the fabric of our family quilt - one that will be a part of us for generations to come.
And part of that love - the part that means you belong to each other, come hell or high water, can only truly be honored by being able to tell each other how we feel. And knowing that the other person won't love you less or look at you with diminished eyes because there is full acceptance. To achieve that, my friends, is something that I plan to channel my efforts into full throttle. Life is too short for wasting one moment with hurt feelings or misunderstandings, especially with people I love.
To truly "walk the walk" I must be willing to understand that what I feel and what I have to say is not about confrontation, but about being true to myself. And that is a gift not only to my own heart, but to those around me. Linda 4.0 will have meaningful, loving and confident dialog from this day forward. Watch out world.... I may just have a lot to say!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Caroline No
Middle school, or junior high as it was known back then, was a bit of an anxious time for me. For one thing, 7th grade math scared the crap out of me. To be more precise, Mrs. Mead, the math teacher, terrified me even more than the elusive quotients and products did.
At the time, I thought Mrs. Mead must have been in her seventies, but I realize now that she was probably about the age that I am now. Possibly even younger, which is a sobering and disturbing thought. She was a New Englander - you could hear it in the nasally flat way she pronounced her vowels. More than that, she embodied that sort of Puritan work ethic. A kind of "take no prisoners" approach to teaching math. She was a little on the large side and quite imposing with her wire rimmed spectacles, no-nonsense black shoes and iron gray hair. She would brook no discord or monkey business on her watch and little escaped her watchful eye.
Oh, and I was beyond hopeless. Math was never my strong suit, but it was even harder to concentrate and understand what she was teaching when my stomach was churning and my knees were knocking for the entire class period. I didn't fail, but came perilously close. My parents decided that I should go to summer school to take another crack at learning the mysteries of 7th grade math. On the last day of school, I shyly waited for the classroom to empty and told Mrs. Mead that I would be re-taking math during the summer. I don't remember whether I was looking for approval or whether I was instructed to tell her, but I remember the surprised look on her face when she said "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You'll be fine." I think it was the first time I ever saw her as anything other than my own personal nemesis and it shocked me a little that she even sounded nice. Nonetheless, leaving 7th grade math for the last time was a moment of profound joy for me.
Ah, have I mentioned yet that I was a late bloomer? Just writing that makes me laugh, because in some ways, I don't think I "bloomed" until about 8 years ago. In junior high I was skinny and inept. Back in those days we didn't wear makeup or jeans to school or try to look older than we were. My hair was dark brown and I never seemed to have a good haircut. My freckles were oh-so-plentiful. No cute sprinkling across my nose, not me! Oh no, I was blessed with big old dark freckles all across my face. My clothes were just okay. I always got a few outfits before school started every year, but truth be told, many of my clothes were hand-me-downs from an older cousin. I had friends and hung out with popular kids, but I was a bit on the periphery. If I wasn't present, I wasn't necessarily thought of. I'm not saying that in a "poor me" kind of way, because I never felt that way. I've just always been the type that blends in with the scenery and doesn't stand out or command much attention.
One of the really fun parts of junior high were the parties. One particular girl, a good friend of mine named Sue, would have parties periodically in the basement of her house. Pretty much the whole class would be invited and about 75% would show up. These parties were fairly simple affairs - Cokes and potato chips, a record player and dimmed lights. The exciting part - the truly exciting part - was not knowing if tonight would be THE NIGHT. Would one of the boys ask me to dance? Would that maybe lead to a slow dance? I knew the boys in my class pretty well, most of us had been together since first grade. But in a darkened room on a Saturday night, I could daydream most of them into interesting possibilities.
The 45's would be stacked on the record player. One by one they would drop and play. And the one I always remember because it got played over and over at those parties, was the Beach Boy's Caroline No. To this day, even when I hear it on my Ipod, I find myself in Sue's basement, hoping a boy would ask me to dance.
To be honest, they never did. The smartest girl in the class with the white blonde hair was always dancing with the most popular boy. And another girl disappeared into the laundry area with a boy with a dubious reputation and came back 2 minutes later going steady after an obvious makeout session. I was fascinated, jealous and repelled all at the same time.
In many ways, though nothing really remarkable happened while I was in 7th grade, I feel as if I learned some valuable lessons. I could be afraid of things I didn't understand whether it meant math problems or a budding relationship with a boy. These things seemed both within my grasp and completely out of reach and while I never got a B in Math or danced a slow dance to Caroline No, I never really failed either.
At the time, I thought Mrs. Mead must have been in her seventies, but I realize now that she was probably about the age that I am now. Possibly even younger, which is a sobering and disturbing thought. She was a New Englander - you could hear it in the nasally flat way she pronounced her vowels. More than that, she embodied that sort of Puritan work ethic. A kind of "take no prisoners" approach to teaching math. She was a little on the large side and quite imposing with her wire rimmed spectacles, no-nonsense black shoes and iron gray hair. She would brook no discord or monkey business on her watch and little escaped her watchful eye.
Oh, and I was beyond hopeless. Math was never my strong suit, but it was even harder to concentrate and understand what she was teaching when my stomach was churning and my knees were knocking for the entire class period. I didn't fail, but came perilously close. My parents decided that I should go to summer school to take another crack at learning the mysteries of 7th grade math. On the last day of school, I shyly waited for the classroom to empty and told Mrs. Mead that I would be re-taking math during the summer. I don't remember whether I was looking for approval or whether I was instructed to tell her, but I remember the surprised look on her face when she said "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You'll be fine." I think it was the first time I ever saw her as anything other than my own personal nemesis and it shocked me a little that she even sounded nice. Nonetheless, leaving 7th grade math for the last time was a moment of profound joy for me.
Ah, have I mentioned yet that I was a late bloomer? Just writing that makes me laugh, because in some ways, I don't think I "bloomed" until about 8 years ago. In junior high I was skinny and inept. Back in those days we didn't wear makeup or jeans to school or try to look older than we were. My hair was dark brown and I never seemed to have a good haircut. My freckles were oh-so-plentiful. No cute sprinkling across my nose, not me! Oh no, I was blessed with big old dark freckles all across my face. My clothes were just okay. I always got a few outfits before school started every year, but truth be told, many of my clothes were hand-me-downs from an older cousin. I had friends and hung out with popular kids, but I was a bit on the periphery. If I wasn't present, I wasn't necessarily thought of. I'm not saying that in a "poor me" kind of way, because I never felt that way. I've just always been the type that blends in with the scenery and doesn't stand out or command much attention.
One of the really fun parts of junior high were the parties. One particular girl, a good friend of mine named Sue, would have parties periodically in the basement of her house. Pretty much the whole class would be invited and about 75% would show up. These parties were fairly simple affairs - Cokes and potato chips, a record player and dimmed lights. The exciting part - the truly exciting part - was not knowing if tonight would be THE NIGHT. Would one of the boys ask me to dance? Would that maybe lead to a slow dance? I knew the boys in my class pretty well, most of us had been together since first grade. But in a darkened room on a Saturday night, I could daydream most of them into interesting possibilities.
The 45's would be stacked on the record player. One by one they would drop and play. And the one I always remember because it got played over and over at those parties, was the Beach Boy's Caroline No. To this day, even when I hear it on my Ipod, I find myself in Sue's basement, hoping a boy would ask me to dance.
To be honest, they never did. The smartest girl in the class with the white blonde hair was always dancing with the most popular boy. And another girl disappeared into the laundry area with a boy with a dubious reputation and came back 2 minutes later going steady after an obvious makeout session. I was fascinated, jealous and repelled all at the same time.
In many ways, though nothing really remarkable happened while I was in 7th grade, I feel as if I learned some valuable lessons. I could be afraid of things I didn't understand whether it meant math problems or a budding relationship with a boy. These things seemed both within my grasp and completely out of reach and while I never got a B in Math or danced a slow dance to Caroline No, I never really failed either.
Under the Lilacs
At the perimeter of the back yard of my childhood home there were ten large lilac bushes all in a row. They grew to be over seven feet tall and in between prunings provided a safe, snug den for me at their base.
Like every child, there were times I needed to be alone - away from my younger sister, away from my friends, away from my parents. I could crawl under the lilacs and sit, knees drawn up to my chin, in a space big enough for only me to spin my childhood fantasies.
The branches, heavy with the weight of rain soaked flowers, would arch to nearly the ground, hiding me from the world. The scent of the lilacs were intoxicating and I could not imagine a more perfect place on God's earth.
I could hear the drone of someone's lawn mower several yards away, accompanied by the sound of an insect buzzing somewhere in the foliage. The screen door would slam as my mother made her way to the clothes line with a basket of wet laundry, unaware of my presence just a few feet away. My plaid PF Flyers, only two weeks old were already soiled with grass stains and dirt and my short set (a hand-me-down from my cousin) was already missing a button from the blouse.
But here, in my lilac hideaway, I was a world away. I could be Meg from A Wrinkle in Time or Sam Gribley's friend from My Side of the Mountain. I could be anyone - a poet, the best softball player at school, the owner of a beautiful black horse named Sabre.
But defintely not just a plain young girl with freckles in an ill-fitting short set hiding under the lilacs.
Like every child, there were times I needed to be alone - away from my younger sister, away from my friends, away from my parents. I could crawl under the lilacs and sit, knees drawn up to my chin, in a space big enough for only me to spin my childhood fantasies.
The branches, heavy with the weight of rain soaked flowers, would arch to nearly the ground, hiding me from the world. The scent of the lilacs were intoxicating and I could not imagine a more perfect place on God's earth.
I could hear the drone of someone's lawn mower several yards away, accompanied by the sound of an insect buzzing somewhere in the foliage. The screen door would slam as my mother made her way to the clothes line with a basket of wet laundry, unaware of my presence just a few feet away. My plaid PF Flyers, only two weeks old were already soiled with grass stains and dirt and my short set (a hand-me-down from my cousin) was already missing a button from the blouse.
But here, in my lilac hideaway, I was a world away. I could be Meg from A Wrinkle in Time or Sam Gribley's friend from My Side of the Mountain. I could be anyone - a poet, the best softball player at school, the owner of a beautiful black horse named Sabre.
But defintely not just a plain young girl with freckles in an ill-fitting short set hiding under the lilacs.
Treasure
There are times, when something happens to temporarily turn my life upside down, that I need to take myself back. Back, back… to my thirteenth summer – to some of the sweetest memories I own. I pull them out of my memory and examine them, turning them over and over like a miser checks and rechecks his golden coins. These snapshots in time are almost too precious to describe – as if the mere exercise of putting words to the experience will dim the memory somehow.
It’s the first week of August, and my extended family has all gathered at the lake. After 18 holes of golf, my dad and my uncles sit in a semi-circle on aluminum webbed lawn chairs, laughing and smoking Lucky Strikes while my mom and my aunts work to prepare a barbeque. My cousins and my sister and I go down to the beach. Partly, this is done to avoid being around the kitchen where we’re likely to be called in to do some random chore, but partly because the sun, sand and water call us so urgently that it’s as if we have no choice.
My cousins are older than me – eighteen, nineteen and twenty one. The girls are sitting on the side of the pier, their tan legs swinging to and fro, their painted toes skimming the surface of the water. Their beach towels are arranged in a line, punctuated with plastic squeeze bottles of Sea & Ski and three transistor radios, all tuned to Johnny Mathis singing “Chances Are.” They are like exotic butterflies to me, colorful and beautiful, but not belonging to my world.
My boy cousins are roughhousing in the water – racing each other to the raft and back and noisily dunking each other. They, too, are older that me, but act like rambunctious puppy dogs with their splashing and good natured joking with one another.
I’m on the periphery, laying face down on my green and black striped beach towel near the midsection of the pier. The air is filled with the scent of the suntan lotion and the sound of displaced water as one of the boys cannonballs off the raft. As I lay there sunbathing, I peek through the slats of the pier, lazily count the minnows swimming by and the occasional strands of seaweed floating near the piling. The water is clear and I can see the sand, with it’s meringue like peaks and valleys. I want to touch the lake bottom then, to lay the palm of my hand against the sand or trace my finger along the indentations. Instead, I take it all in – every sound and scent, every moment being stamped and saved into my memory. How could I have known back then that times like this would be a salve against whatever came my way? I am so grateful for my childish foresight. This moment – suspended in time, has never lost its luster or its effect on my soul. It has helped define the essence of me.
It’s the first week of August, and my extended family has all gathered at the lake. After 18 holes of golf, my dad and my uncles sit in a semi-circle on aluminum webbed lawn chairs, laughing and smoking Lucky Strikes while my mom and my aunts work to prepare a barbeque. My cousins and my sister and I go down to the beach. Partly, this is done to avoid being around the kitchen where we’re likely to be called in to do some random chore, but partly because the sun, sand and water call us so urgently that it’s as if we have no choice.
My cousins are older than me – eighteen, nineteen and twenty one. The girls are sitting on the side of the pier, their tan legs swinging to and fro, their painted toes skimming the surface of the water. Their beach towels are arranged in a line, punctuated with plastic squeeze bottles of Sea & Ski and three transistor radios, all tuned to Johnny Mathis singing “Chances Are.” They are like exotic butterflies to me, colorful and beautiful, but not belonging to my world.
My boy cousins are roughhousing in the water – racing each other to the raft and back and noisily dunking each other. They, too, are older that me, but act like rambunctious puppy dogs with their splashing and good natured joking with one another.
I’m on the periphery, laying face down on my green and black striped beach towel near the midsection of the pier. The air is filled with the scent of the suntan lotion and the sound of displaced water as one of the boys cannonballs off the raft. As I lay there sunbathing, I peek through the slats of the pier, lazily count the minnows swimming by and the occasional strands of seaweed floating near the piling. The water is clear and I can see the sand, with it’s meringue like peaks and valleys. I want to touch the lake bottom then, to lay the palm of my hand against the sand or trace my finger along the indentations. Instead, I take it all in – every sound and scent, every moment being stamped and saved into my memory. How could I have known back then that times like this would be a salve against whatever came my way? I am so grateful for my childish foresight. This moment – suspended in time, has never lost its luster or its effect on my soul. It has helped define the essence of me.
A Reminder from Dorothy
A few weeks ago I became completely exasperated with my iron. The bottom plate had spray starch residue that wouldn't budge when I tried to clean it off and I finally chucked it into the trash with the intent of going to Target that day to pick up a new one.
I was shocked when I checked the prices of irons at Target online beforehand. $89 for an iron? Really?? As we near retirement I've tried to be more fiscally responsible - to research before I buy and separate wants from needs, but the inexpensive irons were bereft of features with dubious life spans. Sigh. All right - I'd forego a new pair of shoes or outfit that would have cost the same $89 and buy a nicer iron.
I was backing out of the driveway when I dimly remembered a couple of cast off irons in the closet of the guest bedroom. They were probably broken or cheap - left overs from my children moving out after college, I told myself. Keep going and get over to Target so you can get back to attack that pile of Mike's shirts before the day gets away from you. That somber, humorless voice in my head that keeps me from blowing our budget on "wants" got the better of me and I stopped and went back in the house to check and see if there really were irons in the closet.
There were three. The first two were indeed broken, low cost models which made me marvel that they sat several years in the closet taking up real estate without having been thrown out. The third, though, was a nice one. Would it work? I filled the well with water, plugged it in and waited.
As I tipped the iron over to begin pressing a shirt there was the familiar and reassuring hiss of the steam as it met the fabric. Yes!
And at that moment, I realized that my morning had been filled with research and thought processes about a simple appliance when all the time there was an eminently suitable replacement just a few feet away in my own home. I was reminded of Dorothy, at the end of the Wizard of Oz, telling everyone around her that she realized that before she went to search for her heart's desire in the future she would first look in her own backyard.
I know that comparing my heart's desire to replacing an iron is a huge over simplification, but I think it's also a bit emblematic of something I needed to be reminded of.
I've found myself envying my friends sometimes for the nicer, bigger houses that they have or the newer models of cars. There have been many times when I have resented having to watch our pennies or regretted career choices that my husband and I have made that netted us less income than my friends. But suddenly, in this iron-inspired light bulb moment, I took stock of what I had and it nearly took my breath away.
A husband of 32 years that I am madly in love with and who loves me right back. Four wonderful, well adjusted and happy adult children who keep in constant touch with us and choose to live close by so we can all stay connected. A precious new granddaughter and a grandson on the way. Jobs that we have been able to hold onto throughout uncertain economic times. A house in a nice area that's paid for. Our health. Our faith. The list goes on.
So I spent the afternoon ironing shirts and I can honestly say I never felt more content and happy with my life.
I was shocked when I checked the prices of irons at Target online beforehand. $89 for an iron? Really?? As we near retirement I've tried to be more fiscally responsible - to research before I buy and separate wants from needs, but the inexpensive irons were bereft of features with dubious life spans. Sigh. All right - I'd forego a new pair of shoes or outfit that would have cost the same $89 and buy a nicer iron.
I was backing out of the driveway when I dimly remembered a couple of cast off irons in the closet of the guest bedroom. They were probably broken or cheap - left overs from my children moving out after college, I told myself. Keep going and get over to Target so you can get back to attack that pile of Mike's shirts before the day gets away from you. That somber, humorless voice in my head that keeps me from blowing our budget on "wants" got the better of me and I stopped and went back in the house to check and see if there really were irons in the closet.
There were three. The first two were indeed broken, low cost models which made me marvel that they sat several years in the closet taking up real estate without having been thrown out. The third, though, was a nice one. Would it work? I filled the well with water, plugged it in and waited.
As I tipped the iron over to begin pressing a shirt there was the familiar and reassuring hiss of the steam as it met the fabric. Yes!
And at that moment, I realized that my morning had been filled with research and thought processes about a simple appliance when all the time there was an eminently suitable replacement just a few feet away in my own home. I was reminded of Dorothy, at the end of the Wizard of Oz, telling everyone around her that she realized that before she went to search for her heart's desire in the future she would first look in her own backyard.
I know that comparing my heart's desire to replacing an iron is a huge over simplification, but I think it's also a bit emblematic of something I needed to be reminded of.
I've found myself envying my friends sometimes for the nicer, bigger houses that they have or the newer models of cars. There have been many times when I have resented having to watch our pennies or regretted career choices that my husband and I have made that netted us less income than my friends. But suddenly, in this iron-inspired light bulb moment, I took stock of what I had and it nearly took my breath away.
A husband of 32 years that I am madly in love with and who loves me right back. Four wonderful, well adjusted and happy adult children who keep in constant touch with us and choose to live close by so we can all stay connected. A precious new granddaughter and a grandson on the way. Jobs that we have been able to hold onto throughout uncertain economic times. A house in a nice area that's paid for. Our health. Our faith. The list goes on.
So I spent the afternoon ironing shirts and I can honestly say I never felt more content and happy with my life.
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