Category: Letting Go

My Suburban Life On The Edge

Almoose but not quite dressed
Almoose but not quite dressed

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been invested in my appearance. Some might call it vanity. I call it self-respect, and my mother insisted upon it. We were not allowed to leave the house wearing inappropriate clothing. We could follow the trends of fashion as long as we were adequately covered, and our clothing was age appropriate. This meant my parents did not buy me high heels (3″ wedges) until I was about 16. As a teen I wore the requisite four layers of preppy era clothing, ensuring my parents did not have to worry about my leaving the house in short shorts and cropped tops like I see so many young girls wearing at the bus stop today. In college, I never once went to class in sweatpants. My ironing habit is legendary among my friends, most of whom have declared me insane for bothering with ironing when I don’t work outside the home. Perhaps ironing is not the best use of my precious time on this planet, but I can’t seem to get that monkey off my back.

This morning I woke up tired and not exactly at my best after last night’s bottle of Barbera. I desperately needed caffeine to wash down my Advil. Since my coffee slave had plans to ride his bike with a friend, I hopped in my car and headed off to Starbucks sans make up and sporting an entirely unkempt outfit comprised of a sleep tee, pajama pants with moose on them, and my flip flops. I was going through the drive-thru. I knew the Starbucks barista would overlook my slovenly attire. I’m probably not the first person ever to show up for drive-thru coffee early on Saturday morning in pajamas, right? It would be our little secret.

As luck would have it, though, the drive-thru line was approximately 96 cars long, extending out well into the parking lot while parking spots directly in front of the store remained wide open. Sigh. Apparently I was not the only lazy person in Littleton attempting to stealthily access pricey, espresso-based caffeine in pjs. This would not do. I had to get home before my coffee slave went for his day-off ride. I did the unthinkable. I pulled into a spot directly in front of the door and jettisoned any attempt to maintain the persona of a respectable, 45-year old woman. I entered a business establishment in my pajamas.

I know that many people won’t understand what the big deal is. So what if I stepped out in totally age-inappropriate moose pants, right? Who cares? There are thousands of families in Colorado who are currently homeless due to the recent flooding. In the grand scheme of things, this is less than nothing. I understand that. But this was one of those “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind” moments for me. I put myself out of my comfort zone. I stood there in my pajamas and ordered and waited for my usual tall soy latte while striving to appear wholly comfortable in my moose-laden pants. I practiced what I readily preach to my sons and I tried not to take myself or life too seriously. This is not easy for me as I was raised to be decorous…especially in public. Thanks to little moments like these, though, it is getting easier to relax in the pajama pants I’m in. Take that, pride! Today, expedient coffee won out. Now I just have to convince myself that I’m evolving rather than simply becoming a bigger slob. One growth moment at a time, I guess.

Posted on by Me 1

A Perfect 97/100

A few weeks ago I watched an internet video made by a young man who spent 10 years traveling around the world on a shoestring budget. In the video, Benny Lewis discusses 10 lessons he’s learned while circumnavigating the globe. While all of the lessons he discussed were relevant to my life, one especially called out to me. In lesson #2, Benny invited me to “be an imperfectionist” because the possibility of failure too often keeps us from trying new things. But, dang it, life is too short to forgo new experiences. The older I get the more I realize how many precious opportunities I’ve squandered by playing it safe and the more I recognize that I’m too old to play it safe any longer.

At 5:55 a.m. Fresh and ready to go
Fresh and ready to go at 6 a.m.

So in keeping Benny’s words in my head this weekend, my hubby and I set out to do something I openly admit I was not entirely sure I could do. Last month I registered us (in a moment of supreme overconfidence) for the COCO Century ride.  (For you non-cyclists, that term implies exactly what it suggests: you complete a 100-mile bicycle ride in one day.) I’d been optimistic originally about our chances to complete this particular ride because it was touted as a “flat” century without the climbs you might expect from a ride in a state with over 50 mountain peaks towering above 14k feet. At least there wouldn’t be any mountain passes on the course. This should be easy peasy. Or at least not brutal, right? After I registered, someone reminded me that no hills means constant pedaling and no opportunities for coasting. Funny how that little detail had slipped my mind.

On the drive down to the hotel we were staying at the night before the ride, hubby and I discussed our lack of preparedness and our intentions for the event. We opened ourselves up to imperfection. We were going to do whatever we could. If we couldn’t finish it, no big deal. At least we would get in a nice ride somewhere new. We were going to embrace the day for whatever it would bring. And we determined to forgive ourselves if we could not complete the full 100 miles. Our best was going to be good enough because our best was all we could offer.

When the starting gun went off at 6, we were off. We were in small-town country filled with friendly, helpful people and a relaxed attitude. We weren’t four miles into the ride before I first suspected we’d missed a sign and made a wrong turn. We were following a few local riders, though, and they seemed to know where they were going so we pedaled on. Sure enough, we eventually crossed paths with the rest of the riders who’d taken the correct route. Oops. We shook it off, fell in line, and joined the herd. Around mile 22, we realized we’d missed the first of eight rest stops with our little detour. At mile 45, we were feeling good and completely skipped the fourth rest stop in favor of keeping up our good pace. Around mile 50, I pointed out to Steve that we hadn’t seen any other riders recently, and at about mile 55 I at last decided to consult the ride map on my iPhone. Lo and behold, we were on the right course. We were, however, going in the wrong direction. We’d missed another turn and where the others had headed east, we’d continued south and consequently missed the fifth rest stop. Oops yet again. We discussed it briefly and decided that backtracking 10 miles was not a reasonable option. We’d just ride the course in reverse. A ride official found us a few minutes later, verified our error, gave us her cell phone number, and supplied us with water for our continued against-the-grain trek.

Our two person century ride
Our two person century ride

We made the best of our two person century ride, cruising another 20 miles through Rocky Ford and Swink before finally landing in La Junta where we decided we would turn around and head down the course the right way back to Ordway with the other riders. At mile 86, though, we noticed we’d missed the final rest stop of the ride. We were 4 for 8 on the sponsor-provided rest stops. Still doggedly determined we stopped at a local farmers market, bought some fresh fruit and some bottled water, and continued on. At about 10 miles before the finish line, we calculated we had 13 miles to go. Oops times three. Our course snafu had wreaked havoc. It was nearing 3 p.m. and the last section of the course was a long and steady, albeit not Colorado difficult, uphill climb. It was about 95 degrees. We’d pedaled for over 7 hours. Although I’d been eating every 10-15 miles, I hadn’t consumed nearly enough calories to cover the 4000-plus calories I had burned, and I was fading fast. At mile 96, I resigned and told Steve I simply could not finish the full 100, as ridiculous as it sounded. I was weak, nauseous, and about to hit full on heat exhaustion. I was disappointed, but I am smart enough to know when to stop pushing myself. And so I rolled across the century finish line with my bike computer at just over 97 miles, 15,840 feet short of the goal.

Rolling in a wee bit short
Rolling in a wee bit short

As a recovering perfectionist, it’s taken me a couple days to process this shortfall. Three miles short is not technically a full century, and there are plenty of people (including an earlier version of myself) who would tell me it doesn’t count. But we did what we set out to do, which was our best. We overcame obstacles and kept on rolling despite setbacks. If we had stayed on course and been able to take advantage of more of the ride-sponsored rest stops for nutrition, we would have completed the last three miles without struggle. It simply did not work out that way. With some time behind me now, I understand that this is exactly the lesson in imperfection that I needed. Do you know how difficult it is to have spent most of your life as a perfectionist and then come within 3% of completion of a goal only to walk away? But I did it and, miraculously, I feel great about my accomplishment. We enjoyed our ride and would do it again, but I don’t even feel the need to repeat it simply to prove I’ve finished. If I do this century again, it will be for fun and not accomplishment. And trust me. That’s progress toward a future filled with more rewarding episodes of imperfection.

Posted on by Me 5

sNOW Day

Snowball and dog hang time
Snowball and dog hang time

Saturday, I heard rumblings that we might be expecting snow. This is not unusual for Denver. At our mile-high elevation, we receive April snow showers instead of the April rain showers many other American cities receive. Sunday night, though, I started hearing the word snowstorm bandied about. Although I’m completely okay with the spring snows we get here that tend to be quickly followed by a nice warm up back into our regularly scheduled warm temperatures, I’m a little less than pleased with the thought of a snowstorm on a school day. So far this year, we had not had one snow day and my boys (knock on wood) have hardly missed a day of school. With just a little over a week’s time passing between the end of Spring Break and now, I was not interested in more together time with my boys just yet. After all, we’ll be together all summer break and that starts for us in about six weeks.

On Monday night at 9 p.m. as I was getting ready to leave a friend’s house, an email alert popped up. It was an advance school cancellation by our principal. After reviewing the weather reports, she had decided to call school off because of a predicted 8-12 inches of blowing snow. Ugh. I headed home as heavy, wet snowflakes began to fall, appalled that just that morning I had walked four miles with our dog on a dry hiking trail in nearly 70 degree weather. When I walked in the door, I told our boys the news. They were beyond thrilled. And as the reality of the situation began to sink in, I relaxed a little knowing that at least I would not have to make lunches or trudge out early in the morning. I told the boys not to even think of waking me up before 7:30, and we all went to sleep.

At 5:25 the door slammed behind hubby as he headed to catch the early morning train into the city, and I was up. It was one of those morning alarm situations in which you realize you will not be getting back to sleep. Resigned to my fate, I picked up my iPhone and checked my messages. By 5:50, both boys were up. I looked outside and snow was indeed falling. We had barely three inches on the ground and I wondered if all the school administrators who had cancelled school (every district in the Denver metro area had cancelled school by late Monday night based on the forecast) were drinking their morning coffee at home and kicking themselves thinking about a summer vacation that would now start one day later for no good reason.

Throughout the day as the snow fell off and on, the boys played quietly with their iPads or the Xbox. We worked ahead on school work a little together, enjoyed a laid back lunch, and then we settled into my bed to watch episodes of Arrested Development. We did very little all day. It was quiet. We were restful and mellow. We never got out of our lounge clothes and pajamas. We decompressed. Around 4 p.m. Luke ran over to play in the neighbor’s house, and I sent Joe out into the backyard in his snow clothes to amuse the dog who had refused to step foot outside in the inclement weather all day. As Joe played with Ruby in the yard, I sat on my bedroom floor looking down on him from the upstairs window. I was completely in the moment. And as my now almost 12 year old son played in the falling snow with his border collie, tossing snowballs that she tried to catch, I got teary eyed. In my yard I could still see the three year old who would play in the snow long after his friends had become too cold and gone inside. Where has the time gone? These precious days with my boys, the ones where they actually want to curl up and watch television with me or roll around in the snow with their dog, will likely become fewer and father between as they get older and become more involved with their own lives. So yesterday I stopped and made a conscious choice to soak up the sights, smells, sounds, and peace of the snow day I had not wanted so I will be able to savor it forever in my memory when Joe and Luke have moved on.

Although I had gone into the snow day with a firmly resonating noooooooooo echoing in my head, it turns out that it was exactly what I needed. Three or four years ago, I would have grudgingly made my way through the day, upset that I’d missed my workout and my peace and quiet, counting the minutes until school started the next day. Luckily, I am an older and wiser person now. I’m grateful that I’ve finally gotten to a place in my life where I can soften a bit and appreciate the here and now in full knowledge that in another minute it will be just a memory.

Posted on by Me 3

The Power of No

Random crop circles in our yard...just for fun
Random crop circles in our yard…just for fun

Some people are born speaking the word “no.” It rolls off their toddler tongues before you can finish your sentence. These are the children who know what they want and plan to get it without negotiations. I was not that child. While I in no way possess a people-pleasing personality, I was raised to be accommodating when at all possible. When I go out of my way for others it’s not because I am deeply thoughtful but because I’ve been taught it’s the right thing to do. As a result of upbringing, I often add just one more item to my already long to-do list because someone asks nicely. Consequently, my life is a non-stop blur of frenetic activity. Whirling dervish? Guilty as charged.

Last night I sat down and took a sobering look at our family calendar for the next 9 days. On March 20th at an unreasonably early hour we will be boarding a plane…destination Kauai. Between now and that moment when we’re checked in at the gate awaiting our boarding call, I have about a gazillion things to do. Yes. It is a first world problem, but it’s my first world problem and so it matters to me just the same. As I went over the calendar and my to-do list on my iPhone last night, hubby caught me shaking my head.

“What’s wrong?” he inquired.

“So much to do between now and the 20th.”

“It will all be fine,” he reassured.

“Oh…I know it will.” I don’t doubt my ability to accomplish things, just my excitement about doing them.

“Aren’t you excited about the trip?” he asked.

“Not really, no. I will be excited when we’re sitting at the gate and not a minute before. I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to fit in a well check for Joe and a trip to the vet for Ruby. The next week is packed.”

“You always stress and it always gets done,” he said.

“It always gets done because I always stress and push myself through every last detail,” I retorted.

Today, staring down the barrel of an ungodly busy weekend, I started packing for the boys and I. I dug through last summer’s clothes, which have been stored for their long, Colorado winter’s nap, and put together Hawaii-friendly outfits. I located sunscreen, snorkeling gear, and rash guards. I dragged suitcases up from the basement and began assessing what might fit where. Then, in the midst of this busy-ness, I got an email that added another layer to my stress. It was a request for yet another social visit in our already overbooked weekend. Between hair cuts for all of us, two birthday parties, a social event at the boys’ school, brunch at my mom’s, dinner with our Wine Gang (which we are hosting), and a couple book reports the boys need to have completed before we leave (not to mention packing and preparing our house for the puppy caretaker), I cringed at the idea of attempting to fit in even one more quick thing.

Being unaccustomed to disappointing people, though, I scoured our plans looking for wiggle room for the requested, short get together either Saturday or Sunday afternoon. I weighed the costs of not honoring this request against the stress it would add to an already overbooked weekend. Then, I did something I rarely do. I went against my usual habit. I said no even though it’s very likely that the persons whom I turned down will be hurt by my refusal. But even those of us who strive to be amicable and accommodating have a breaking point.

If there’s one good thing that is coming right along with the sags, bags, spots, and wrinkles of middle age, it’s gumption. I’m no longer under the impression that I have to do things to please people. I understand that there are some people who will never be pleased, no matter what kind of back bend I contort myself into for their benefit.  I’m learning that sometimes it’s not just okay to say no. It’s downright necessary. While I do feel a bit bad for shutting out this latest request, I know it was the right thing to do. This weekend will still be crazy busy, but at least it might prove I’m not insane.

Posted on by Me 7

Mama Said

Two boys in a jogger stroller and a 75 pound dog on a leash? Yep. I got this.
Two boys in a jogger stroller and a 75 pound dog on a leash? Yep. I got this.

As I was exiting yoga today and walking towards my car, I noticed a mother with two young sons standing by a minivan. I’m not a highly observant person as a rule (ie., you would not want me to pick someone out of a line up), so it’s fair to say that the reason I noticed them at all was because her oldest son was mid-tantrum and wailing terribly. She was holding her younger son on her hip while the older son rolled on the pavement in the parking lot. Next to him were the spilled remnants of what appeared to be a large cup of fro-yo complete with toppings. She was talking to him in a stern voice in an attempt to quell the tantrum, but the whole thing wasn’t going so well for her. I knew she was having one of those Calgon-take-me-away moments to which all moms can relate (even if they don’t want to admit it). She was young, or at least younger than me, and she was beside herself and becoming increasingly frustrated. I averted my eyes lest she feel inadvertently judged, got into my car, and quietly thanked the heavens that my boys are no longer toddlers.

I don’t miss those days, although I do remember them as if they were yesterday. Like the mom today, I too bear the scars of dropped ice cream cones that gave way to full-fledged meltdowns in public places where passersby shot me derisive looks and shook their heads. I recall the amazement I felt when I realized I’d been reduced to a spineless, kowtowing dope by a 30-pound, 3 year old boy who was only standing on this planet because I dropped him here. Literally. It was a sobering moment. As I watched the mom struggle in the parking lot today, a part of me wanted to approach her and tell her she was doing a good job. I wanted to tell her that despite what all the books tell you some days being a parent feels more like a curse than a blessing. I wanted to let her know that I had been standing exactly in her shoes and that some day she would be standing in my shoes watching another mom struggle through the same situation. It happens all the time. But, I didn’t go talk to her. I didn’t say anything because I know that when I was at that point in my life, any comment about my parenting experience was like nails on a chalkboard. When people would see my young kids and tell me to “enjoy them because they grow up so fast,” I wanted to smack them for asking me to cherish something that was beyond unpleasant for me in that moment. I get it now, but then I was bitter.

When I think about my experience parenting over the past almost 12 years, what strikes me is how unfair I’ve been with myself. I’ve berated myself and belittled my efforts. I understand now that I’ve only ever done the best I was capable of at the time with the knowledge I had in that moment. Sure, in hindsight I made some stupid decisions, but I didn’t know any other way. I wish I could go back in time and tell that younger me, standing there in the parking lot at the mercy of my tantrum-enhanced child, that it was nothing more than a bad day. I would tell myself to relax. Ice cream gets dumped. Kids throw fits. It happens, and it doesn’t mean that you’re an overly indulgent parent or that your child is a spoiled brat. It simply means that gravity won that round.

Some days being the parent truly sucks, as the minivan mom in the parking lot of the Vitamin Cottage today can truly attest. Parenting books offer suggestions, but they don’t know you, your unique child, or your family circumstances. Some days you have to sing Kumbaya  and practice a trust fall with yourself, knowing that in the end it will all work out. Mama wasn’t lying when she said there would be days like this. What she failed to mention, though, is that you shouldn’t sweat it. You’ve got this.

Posted on by Me 3

366 Consecutive Days of Now and Zen – Check!

Time for a little celebration. Salud!
Time for a little celebration. Salud!

“Sometimes I get nervous when I see an open door. Close your eyes. Clear your heart. Cut the cord.”                                                                       ~The Killers

Well, I did it! If I were Victor Cruz, I’d be doing my end zone salsa dance right about now. Three hundred sixty-six consecutive days of blogging completed and thus my personal experiment has come to an end. When I started this quest last December, my goal was to write every day for a year. I have done that. Each and every day I wrote, although a handful of posts didn’t actually get published on their own actual day because I was up editing into the wee hours of the morning. But, each and every post was written on the day intended. Through the process I’ve grown quite a bit. I find that it’s now easier for me to write. The words flow more quickly. My editing skills, long since lost in my brain after years of hearing only about Thomas the Tank Engine, dinosaurs, Star Wars, sharks, Ninjago, and now My Little Pony, have been resurrected. I feel, for the first time since I left my writing and editing career to stay home with my infant son in June 2001, like an actual writer and not just someone who claims to be a writer but has no proof. It’s been stressful, frustrating, enlightening, challenging, inspiring, exhausting, and rewarding. There were many days when I nearly called it quits, but I soldiered on, sometimes begrudgingly shoved by my loving husband who would never let me give up and who constantly reminds me how capable I am. I’m not actually closing my doors and folding up shop. I’m simply cutting back so I free up time for other types of writing. I’m taking a few, solid days of sabbatical each week so I can explore the path before me. I’m not disappearing, just cutting back.

It’s difficult sometimes to see the familiar past as it fades to black in your rear view mirror. Although I’m not a sentimental woman, it will be different not moaning every day that “I have to go write my blog.” Now a couple days a week I’ll instead be whining that “I have to go work on my book,” whatever that book may be.  Right now, I feel like an endurance athlete who has been training religiously for a long-distance event. Today was the last day of training. Now I start my around-the-world trek. I’m nervous, but it’s in that really cool, the-universe-is-full-of-opportunities sort of way. Truth is that I like looking forward rather than looking back. I prefer the width and breadth of the future to the confines of the past. In the future, there is no box into which I must fit or mold into which I must fall. I’m free. That freedom is both liberating and terrifying, but it’s time. I need to stop talking about doing what now, after 366 days, I am certain I can. Taking a deep breath, closing my eyes, clearing my heart, and cutting the cord.

Posted on by Me 9

What To Expect Is The Unexpected

My most unexpected expected things

A week ago tonight, my husband and I were not in a good place. We were grappling with the knowledge that our youngest son (our easy one) might be severely dyslexic and in need of a lot of help. We couldn’t decide which news was worse…the fact that he was dyslexic and would struggle with language, writing, spelling, and reading his entire life or that perhaps the best thing we could do to help him in the long run was to move him to a “special” school that caters to children with learning disabilities. The whole thing stunk worse than a dead mouse in a car’s heating duct.

When you find out you’re pregnant, you run out and get a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting because you want to know what you’re in for. You’re excited about what the future has in store. Last Monday night, after we’d received the less than positive news from the dyslexia specialist, we took the boys out to fulfill a promise we’d made a couple days earlier. We went to Target to buy more Skylanders because, well, why not? While browsing around in Target, I saw a copy of that ubiquitous pregnancy bible. I suddenly hated that book. I stared at it with contempt.

“That book is worthless,” I told Steve.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it doesn’t matter what happens when you’re pregnant. When you’re pregnant, you believe everything is going to be perfect. You’re going to have the delivery of your dreams where everything will go exactly as planned. Your child is going to be born healthy. He’s going to be strong and flawless enough that he can do all the things you hope he will do. He will speak two languages by age 5. He will make the winning catch in the baseball game. He’ll take calculus in 10th grade because he’s just that smart. He’ll get accepted to five, Ivy League colleges and give the commencement address to his high school class as valedictorian. When you’re pregnant, you can see no other outcome. What they need is a book called What To Expect Is The Unexpected,” I said quite bitterly. I was in a very bad place.

The past week of my life was far longer than I wanted it to be. Last Wednesday night I remember looking at Steve and asking him how it could ONLY be Wednesday. Hadn’t we lived a lifetime since Monday? I wasn’t sure how I would make it to the weekend. But, I did. And with each passing day and with each little bit of additional information about dyslexia, we began to feel better. What had looked so bleak was beginning to look palatable. On Saturday after we saw the James Redford film, The Big Picture: Rethinking Dyslexia, we understood that dyslexia is no longer the brick wall that it once was. There are programs that can help a dyslexics greatly. And, we’re in the position to help our son. No matter what he needs, we’ll be able to make it work. They say knowledge is power and they are right. The more we learn, the more we recognize that this diagnosis does not equal doom. Luke’s already on the road to getting the help he needs. With some hard work and a little perseverance, Luke will still be able to do a keg stand at college someday. And, unlike most parents, we’ll be proud because he worked hard and made it there on his own.

When my boys struggle, and they do it a lot, I remind them that every single hardship they are enduring while they’re young will only make them stronger and more resilient as they get older. I tell them that the kids that have it easy now one day won’t have it so easy and, for those kids who’ve never had to fight to overcome an obstacle, life will seem suddenly, incredibly, and insurmountably difficult. For my boys, though, and for all kids who have to put in longer hours, life’s hardships will just be another day at work. My boys may have it rough on the front end but once they get through these challenges, they will know they can tackle anything. And, although it does not seem like it to them now, that experience is a gift.

Twelve years ago I was expecting my first child. I had the book. I thought I was ready to go. What I realize now is that even with the book, I had no clue. What I thought I wanted for my sons was the wrong thing. The universe corrected me and, as hard as I took it sometimes, it was absolutely the right thing. Life is not for sissies. And if there’s one thing I know now about my boys for certain it’s that they’re not sissies.

Posted on by Me

No Matter Who Is President We’re Still Damn Lucky

“The essence of a free government consists in an effectual control of rivalries.” ~ John Adams

This morning as I was perusing my friends’ status updates on Facebook, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. The election is over. The persistent, negative, and mostly misleading ads will cease. I won’t be getting a half-dozen extra phone calls a day asking me to vote for someone or against someone else. No more flyers on my door. All of this is welcome news. Despite the end of the election, given the postings I saw as I sipped my latte, this country is still a hot mess. And, it’s hard to celebrate anything with that in mind.

Half the citizens of this country are disappointed this morning. Disappointed might be an understatement. Words like disgusted, sick, embarrassed, angry, confused, and bitter are being bandied about by those whose preferred candidate did not win. I’ve seen prayers for help for our misguided nation and entreaties for the second coming to happen now to save us from the next four years. I understand the chagrin. Indeed it was the same sense I had in 2000 and again in 2004 when my preferred election result was denied. I get it. It’s rough.

As my kids were going to school today, we were discussing the outcome of the election. I told them that they need to understand that many people are upset and angry and worried today because of the last night’s election results. I told them that they need to be compassionate and understanding and patient if they hear things said in disappointment that seem not fair or right. We all have had occasion to feel that same way and we should be able to understand where others are coming from.

Last night, after the results had largely come in, we had the chance to talk to our boys and to tell them about the struggles ahead for this country when we are not a nation indivisible but rather a nation split 50/50. We need to find a way to bridge the gap, but I have no idea what that is. People have become so entrenched in their own views that they’ve stopped listening to others. Everything that someone from the other 50% says is immediately negated. People don’t take the time to view the news from different, disparate sources. We like hearing what we want to hear, and this is why we are in trouble. There is no room for disagreement, discord, or discussion. We’re all acting like petulant, stubborn, snotty children. If we get our way, we gloat like we’ve won King of the Mountain. And, if we don’t get what we want, we whine, complain, point fingers, and call names. It works both ways. I’ve seen it now from both sides during two similar elections. It’s not good. The fear mongering, the partisanship, the intractability…it’s unbearable and downright childish.

We try to teach our children to play fair, to be gracious winners, and good losers. We tell them to take turns and share. We remind them not to jump to conclusions or place blame. And, we ask them to be the bigger person, to be respectful, and to be kind. Yet, we’re not setting that example for them. We’re out there making disparaging remarks about the other candidate and calling our president an incompetent boob. Our children see this. What they’re learning from us is that it’s okay to be mean-spirited and that when you don’t get what you want you should cross your arms and pout. They’re learning compromise is failure.

Most of the things I voted on went the way I hoped they would last night (and, no, I did not vote in favor of the legalization of marijuana as I’m sure some of you suspect I would being the liberal I am). I’ve not, however, felt good about any of the victories because it’s hard to be positive when I know so many people who are feeling lost, hurt, and disenfranchised by the very same things that let me sleep easily last night. I’ve been digging around looking for something, anything, that would offer me a reason to feel optimistic. Then, in the midst of the tempest of animosity, I saw a post this morning from someone I know whose candidate did not prevail. He simply wrote: Tomorrow is another day. This is still the greatest country in the world. This man is a Marine. He’s a Christian and a loving and devoted family man. I am deeply touched by his sentiment and by his positive attitude when so many people are seeing the election result as the end of freedom and of life as we know it. This is the type of positive example we should share with future generations. At the end of the day, no matter whose candidate wins, we’re still incredibly lucky to live in this country and we’re still all in this together. We held free elections yesterday and millions upon millions of people voted. That’s an amazing thing. It might be good for us to focus on that as we embrace the next four years and whatever they may bring.

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Slow Poison

All that matters is the path that lies before me.

“Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” ~Malachy McCourt

My friend, Heather, posted this quote on her Facebook page today. I am certain I’ve read it before, but it washed over me then because I had no use for it. Today, though, it hit a little closer to home. I took the time to think about it as I was on my long, open space hike with my dog, Ruby, this afternoon. As much as I’d like to be able to say I’ve never felt resentful, that would be a whopper of a lie. I’m guilty of letting the green-eyed monster take control of my brain from time to time and allowing it to work me over. Sometimes, I fail to recall how very lucky I am and find myself focusing instead on what I don’t have rather than what I do. In those times, I become resentful of those friends I have who appear to be living my dreams. There are quite a few of them.

It’s stupid, really, the energy I have expended feeling annoyed, frustrated, or depressed by opportunities that others have had. In the time I’ve wasted begrudging someone their happiness, I’ve deprived myself of my own. I suppose this is one of the reasons that I began this blog. Although I’ve so far been unable to stop completely the greedy gimmes that vex me, I at least now understand that I need to spend more time living in the present and letting go of the things that don’t serve me. This, unfortunately, has always been easier said than done. I am working on it, but I’ve a long way to go.

Why do I find it difficult to remember that the only road that matters is the path that lies before me? ME. Not the gal next to me or the guy across the street. Their journey is their journey, and I don’t know what it’s about. I have no right to judge it as preferable to my own. I don’t know where they’re headed. Perhaps they’re going somewhere I’ve already been. (Of course, if to reach that place I’ve already been they have to travel through Italy, it hardly seems fair.) It’s no wonder I’ve been tripped up on my journey because, as I’ve been looking over someone else’s itinerary, I’ve not been paying careful enough attention to where I am going.

 

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Not Just A Laughing Matter

Dang…this movie is funny!

After the debate tonight, I did something I never do. I flipped through channels, found a movie, and watched it. The movie was Bridesmaids. The first time I saw it, I saw it in the theater with my friend Heather. We laughed until we got to that point of no return when everything you hear is funny. We would get ourselves under control and then laugh again when someone else in the theater started laughing. In fact, I remember that I laughed so loud that I snorted, and then I laughed because I snorted. (I am nothing if not dignified.) When the film came out on DVD, I bought it. I forced my husband to watch it. Tonight, I knew it would be the perfect debate relief. It was. I once again laughed until I wanted to cry.

As the credits were rolling tonight, though, I thought about the story line between the police officer and the main character, Annie. I like him, not just because he’s got that darling Irish accent, but because he knows she’s batshit crazy and he likes her anyway. He seems to sense she’s going through a rough patch and rather than judging her for her irrational behavior he hangs around long enough to see her through it. I think that’s beautiful.

We don’t do that often enough for each other these days…give each other the benefit of the doubt. We don’t accept apologies willingly enough. We don’t overlook faults quickly enough. We hold onto grudges and keep our guard up so we won’t get hurt. It’s too bad, really, the amount of misunderstandings that occur because we’re so concerned with things being equitable and neat. I know I am so guilty of this. I should try harder to be like Officer Rhodes, to see past the imperfections of others (and myself) and just be nicer.

Not all things in life that are a laughing matter are without a lesson.

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