Grace Period

Oh, how I love Thanksgiving time.  To me it’s the most wonderful time of the year.  It combines all the elements of a great gathering - the sights, the smells, the tastes, the textures, solitude and space mixed with friends and family – and it has the good grace to last no longer than necessary.

I especially like it because by this time in the academic year, this small break is the grace period that allows students and staff alike to refresh, rejuvenate, and refuel for the final stretch before beginning the whole cycle again in January.  

This year I was fortunate to be able to add on a couple of vacation days to the Thanksgiving break. Ironically I learned the value of structure by allowing myself to operate without it, relationships by seeking solitude, and home by being away for a few days.

A couple of days in Galena served as the perfect get-away.  Because of its proximity to Chicago, the population of this small art town swells on weekends the way Best Buy does on Black Friday.  Consequently, my strategy is to visit during the week when I can have the place pretty much to myself.  

For me the whole world feels different when I’m not rushed or crowded.  Things are much more manageable when I do not feel the need for speed to get through the day, return phone calls or endless emails, or acquiesce to another's agenda .  

I feel much better when I have some breathing space, some room to pause, ponder, play, sleep in, write with exquisite new pens discovered in my favorite stationery store, watch movies, read a book, explore a new town, enjoy an amazing strawberry salad at the Desoto House Hotel, swim laps unobserved, and soak in an over sized tub with a roaring fire in the fireplace.  

Having time to indulge in a few of my favorite things for even a few days makes me a much happier camper at family functions, holiday parties, and when the time comes to return to work.  It’s like following the flight attendant’s instructions and putting my own oxygen mask on first.  Despite my best intentions, I can’t save anyone if I can’t breathe. 

Too often I feel swept along on this frantic journey to “do, do, do” leaving the part of me that wants to “be, be, be” pleading for peace and quiet.  When I was telling my friend Tom about this conundrum, he reminded me that perhaps Sinatra was on to something when he sang, “do-be-do-be-do.” I'm sure there is a  right balance that's unique to each of us.  Knowing this and honoring it when possible makes life less stressful.

So today as I tackle the task of decorating my home for the holidays, I am acutely aware of the gift of being able to move at my own pace.  I realize to others this pace might resemble someone who has  alternately had too much turkey and too much pumpkin pie, which would explain the stops and starts, the nap (tryptophan!), intermittent  internet shopping between blogging breaks, and the competing calls to action.

Tomorrow I will be on another schedule as I head over to Prophetstown for a bustling day (Small Business Saturday) at my sister and sister-in-law’s new shop, Beans and Burlap.   I already know the day will have its way and my schedule may not be entirely my own, so my intention is to let go and flow.  Otherwise, I fear what the magnet I found in one of those great Galena shops states will come to pass.  “Let go or be dragged.”

Times Change

Today is one of those days when times literally change.  Unless you are in Arizona or Hawaii, you've miraculously gained an hour and are probably more discombobulated by this event than traveling across multiple time zones. 

As a child I dreaded this day.  I could not figure out why the light would concede to the dark and allow it to run the show for the next six months. 

This fact fueled my decision to move to the Southwest where I could experience more sunlight in 365 days than I could in two decades of living in the Midwest.

The light is different in the Southwest.  Even if its hours are limited, the sun makes no apologies for rising and shining as impressively and consistently as possible.  During Iowa winters, the sun often seems hung over, as if it were having way too much fun Down Under to make an appearance here.

Despite repeated recitations of the Serenity Prayer, I railed against this perceived solar slight upon returning to the Midwest.  In an attempt to follow the first two suggestions to accept what I cannot change and have the courage to change the things I can, I purchased a Happy Light to combat SAD  by serving as a substitute for the sunlight I was so sadly lacking.

This is when the wisdom to know the difference, the third part of the Serenity Prayer, kicked in.  Or maybe it was that song from The Byrds that played like an earworm every time the seasons changed reminding me for everything (Turn! Turn! Turn!) there is a season (Turn! Turn! Turn!) and a purpose under heaven.

It’s that purpose thing and possibly all that turning that had me befuddled for decades. But the great thing about midlife is what really matters makes itself known, the same way the exact location or precise name of everyday items makes itself an enigma. 

All those u-turns, detours, and other distractions that were not mentioned on the map to Success City are what brought dimension, depth, appreciation, and ultimately illumination to the one I’m destined to follow, which frequently looks like a map to Funkytown.

With age also comes the realization that we can never change a person, place, or thing by loathing it.  Dissing it – whether that be disliking immensely or disrespecting it – binds it to us like superglue.

So at the risk of sounding clique, as the days get shorter and the nights grow longer I'm attempting to embrace the idea that all I need is love... and a super-sized side order of grace.

After all, if these were pleasant people, places, or things, they’d be easy to love or forgive.  The reason I wrestle with them is because they push my buttons.  And not just one button occasionally.  Within a 24-hour time period they can easily get on my last nerve.
 

This is why having a Happy Light – or your own personal equivalent – is essential.  There are situations that require nothing less than a miracle.  Left to my own devices, I'll sit and stew in the dark for ages. 

Even though I know better, I still find myself forgetting to shed a little light on the subject simply by asking for help from my Divine Assistance Team made up of any and all deities, patron saints, good dogs who've gone to heaven, mythological figures, loved ones, and favorite authors. 

My first step is  to no longer blame the light for conceding to the dark.  The sun has a big job to do.  But so does the night sky.   

My work requires a good deal of hunkering down and hibernating before it can ever see the light of day.  So today I fall back, grab my Happy Light, and look forward to harvesting the ideas that germinate as soon as the sun goes down.

 

 

 

Fireworks

I, for one, have had my share of fire. 

At age five I watched our town’s theatre burn. Standing in our yard at 112 Short Street in Prophetstown watching the flames envelope what seemed like my whole world, I couldn’t really understand what was happening.  I only knew something had changed that would forever shape our town’s history. 

This week, decades later, I had the horror of watching it all again, this time on the six o’clock news.  And this time I know full well the devastation that follows and the new world order my home town will have to embrace.

Fire has always lived on the fringes of my awareness.

For many years I lived in the high desert, where forest fires were a constant threat.  Living in the Land of Enchantment had its price.  The real currency there was not cash but cool, clear water.  One lightning bolt or careless camper and the whole forest could catch fire.  Lives, homes, property, wildlife, and ecosystems could be destroyed.

When I left the high and dry lands of New Mexico for the flat and humid lands of Illinois, I was startled awake not once but twice to the terrifying sight of hay bales burning at an alarming rate and firemen rushing to the rescue.  Watching the product of all that labor go up in smoke was enough to make me move closer to water.

So in November of 2007, I took a job in a quiet Iowa farming community, comforted by the fact that a river runs through it.  Within three months of moving to Maquoketa, the downtown was on fire. The smoldering didn’t stop for days. The destruction gaped like an open wound for two years as the clean–up stalled and the downtown lay partially paralyzed.   

I remember standing on the steps of my home a few blocks from downtown that seriously cold Saturday in January when the town was ablaze, feeling just like I did when I was five standing in our front yard in Prophetstown.  I still couldn’t grasp the full significance the fallout of a major fire would have.  I just knew it was bad, I felt terribly sad, and firemen were good.  Very good.

Then came the frantic call on the Tuesday evening before Thanksgiving in 2010.  The building on our farm we thought was fireproof that housed our office,  garage, farming equipment, and every conceivable farm tool burned like it was on a mission to prove us wrong in the shortest time possible.

My dad was devastated, my mom was heartbroken, and my nieces had their version of trauma by fire to tuck away in their nightmares.  Firemen everywhere were elevated to saints in my book.

Watching a fire burn your possessions, your memories, your business, or your livelihood is a surreal experience.  There is a finality to it that is simultaneously sobering and liberating.  The realization that everything is on loan to us for this short ride around the sun suddenly sinks in.  As long as lives are not lost, we can recover, rebuild, reboot.  Like a phoenix, we can rise from the ashes.  However, we might just need a minute.

The grief for what is lost comes in waves.  Many times it’s the $2 plastic sun and moon chair that a friend gave us or the box of photos from our glory days that cause a greater sense of loss than the major appliance we may have temporarily stored in the burning building.

Ultimately we can let a fire define us or allow it to refine us.  We can be the victim of a fire or we can realize how very much we have to be grateful for that cannot be taken from us.  Of course, the jury may be out while the loss is still fresh and the feelings are raw.

It always touches me how a community comes together after a disaster.  I truly believe we are all everyday heroes just waiting for a chance engage our superpowers and do something meaningful, helpful, and caring for another person. 

Whatever your faith or whatever you believe, the prayer ceremony at Eclipse Square in Prophetstown on Wednesday night helped the community heal.  The bricks the firemen handed out gave people something tangible to hold on to.  This is how we move on.  Moment by moment.  Brick by brick.

With that in mind, I’m  also going to politely ask “the powers that be” that we be given a break from the fireworks for now.   Perhaps we could simply be allowed to flex our superpowers in small yet significant ways to those who show up in need of them?

But for good measure, I might just marry a fireman.

Fishing for Meaning

Today I sit in a cabin looking out over the Canadian waters we drove ten hours to take in.  The men in my life left me at the crack of dawn, convinced there are other fish in the sea.  In this case, I sincerely hope they find them.  After all, it’s these fishing expeditions that bring them unfathomable joy and bring me to a place of peace and quiet where I can read, write, nap, or do nothing.

So far I’ve been spent most of the day observing my own dysfunction looking for stuff and avoiding the very thing I came here to do.  I warmed up by journaling long hand with my favorite pen and select journal and thought I was off to a promising start.  But my progress was foiled when I attempted to fire up my laptop and discovered the power outlets in our cabin require an adapter to plug into any one of them.

This in turn required a trip into the unchartered territory of the local bait and tackle shop, followed by a hike to the hardly handy hardware store, and a side trip to Lake of the Loons grocery.  Feeling sufficiently discombobulated by the unfamiliar layouts of each store, I was in serious need of a sandwich and a nap upon my safe return to Cabin #5 at the Borderview Lodge.  

Unfortunately the sandwich seemed to dull my sixth sense so locating the adapter the clerk cleverly hid inside the collapsible coozie prompted a further delay.  I had no choice but to espouse the 12 step approach and admit I was powerless over my writing day, my writing habit had become unmanageable, and that only a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.

By declaring this vacation a writing retreat, I may have unwittingly subjected myself to too much pressure, thereby leaving myself vulnerable to distraction.  Especially since the Wii Resorts game, which hasn’t been used for six weeks at home, seemed to insist I engage in just one round of Swordplay instead of finishing this blog post.

The funny things is, when my world is crammed full of commitments, all I can think about is creating the spaciousness that an uncommitted week near the lake provides.  Now that I’m lucky enough to be in such a place, I realize I need more discipline than usual to make the most of my time here.  

Writing requires the kind of solitude, silence, and space that is hard to come by at home.   Home remains a juggling act between time intensive work, continual home improvement projects, quality relationships with family and friends, and the need to write about how these things shape me or the world I live in. 

For awhile, six months to be exact, I tried to convince myself that not writing didn’t matter to anyone other than me.  But I was wrong.  I discovered life makes more sense when I am writing.  It helps me metabolize the events that baffle, surprise, or delight me and give meaning to ordinary occurrences that might otherwise go unrecognized as the minor miracles they are.  Sharing these insights might shed some light on a similar situation you may be experiencing as well.

We are wired to connect through stories and recognize patterns and potential and plots.  You may intuit where I’m heading long before I figure it out, but the fact that we eventually get there together is an incredible thing.  And hopefully, we’re both better off for taking the journey.

Remembering this, I postpone Swordplay until this evening and work through my distractions so I can finally settle into a rhythm and write.  And though I may be on the Canadian border hanging with the loons, when my fishermen return with their catch of the day, I can say I, too, have had my “catch up” of the day with some of the finest fish in the blogging seas. 

If teaching a man to fish feeds him for life, teaching this woman to read and write, guarantees she'll write for life, with only the occasional sabbatical. 

  

Sweat It and Forget It

Popular wisdom advises us not to sweat the small stuff.  This bit of advice is often followed by the big reveal that it’s all small stuff.

I'm all for not fretting and sweating unnecessarily.  But I've come to realize that left unattended, the small stuff can and will come back to bite me. I’m also aware that unless I sweat from time to time, I get lazy.  

For instance, my six month sabbatical from blogging or my reluctance to participate in several one minute bursts of activity throughout the day or my inability to produce the right receipts for an unexpected IRS audit for 2010 may not seem like things to get all steamed up about.  But the cumulative effects of not posting consistently, not exercising daily, or not keeping Quicken records up to date can lead to serious sweat later.  Or now, as the case may be.

Like the protagonist in any good story, we don't want perfect. Even if we think we want our life to be all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, or at the very least void of IRS audits, our weapons of mass distraction will quickly convince us that the good life alone is a wee bit boring. We’ll start demanding drama.  Or it will hunt us down.

We secretly want what we want our heroes to be; challenged, flawed, quirky, able to overcome all odds, and capable of wielding super powers at strategic moments.  We want them to face the things we avoid at all cost and be forced to do the things we think we can’t so we can test the “what would we do” waters without getting in over our heads.

Of course our heroes must be just different enough from us so we cannot be expected to perform the miraculous feats we fully expect them to perform. Their stories must consist of big, dramatic, cliff-hanging stuff.  They must be agile enough to run backwards in heels without wondering where they are going or why and will naturally be accompanied on their life-altering adventures by sexy sidekicks who are always ready with clever comebacks or brilliant solutions.

By contrast our stories consist of small, mundane, every day irritants like lost keys or cracked windshields.  Despite impressive juggling abilities, we are middle aged, slightly arthritic, and unable to retrieve the name of everyday items and/or our youngest child at will.  However, we shall overcome.  This, in itself, is miraculous.

Because our brains are designed to figure out the “who, what, when, where, why and how” of stuff, we readily escape into our heroes’ story lines far more often than our own.  What we forget is fictitious characters have writers and editors who meticulously edit out anything that isn’t essential to the moving their story forward. These stories are supposed to be riveting.

The small stuff makes editing the events of our day to day lives more difficult, rendering our lives less riveting.  Many at midlife are fine with this.  We're tired.  But we’re still wired for a good story. This brings me to the conclusion that a better motto for us might be, “Sweat it and forget it."

An engaging story demands ongoing effort, i.e. sweat.  I'm not saying it has to be hard.  I'm just saying once we sweat it, we'd do well to “forget it”. (It being the attachment we have to things working out according to our plan.)  If not, we run the risk of sweating the small ego stuff.  Trust me, sweating that stuff is not attractive.
 
Regardless of the blood, sweat, and years I have already spent writing, exercising, or futilely looking for random receipts, the only thing that matters now is what I do now.  

Even though I have written a few books, if my royalties do not exceed my expenses, the IRS will call my writing a hobby.  Because I've now been a certified fitness professional for more years than I've not, if I don't show up at the gym for a few month, people assume I've retired.  And who knows what the fallout will be to my unintentional blogging ban?  In an world of instant messaging and infinitesimal attention spans, what happened an hour ago is old news. In cyber years, I may already be extinct.

Clearly it's time to get back to basics in hopes that paying attention to the small stuff now will prevent future perspiration when the tax man comes calling, the YMCA can use a senior fitness instructor, and friends mention that they haven’t seen a blog post since Christmas.

What about you?  What's worth sweating this summer?