We all hear a lot about the wisdom of children. Many of us experience this every day, in the faces of our own children, in their words, their songs, their spontaneous gestures. From children, we learn curiosity, humility, and a sense of justice. We learn that unfamiliar foods are sometimes great and sometimes yucky, that bubble baths are both really fun and really clean, and my favorite, that sharing really means letting someone else have or do something that we are not ready to be finished with yet. But still, our children constantly hear messages about sharing, from parents, teachers, neighbors, siblings, and, of course, from the person who wants what they have. Funny, we don’t so often talk about sharing with grown-ups.
I don’t want to write about sharing today. I want to talk about one specific wisdom of many children, something that I wish I were better at, something that seems to come so easily to those of us with wide eyes and unlined faces.
What I am talking about is the practice of holding grudges. I do it. I admit that I am a holder of grudges. I wish that I weren’t, but I am. Despite my best intentions, I haven’t yet learned the art of letting things go, of forgiving and forgetting.
When someone hurts my feelings, usually by accident, I remember it for a long time. I replay the scene over and over in my head, searching out new details and nuances, experiencing and re-experiencing the hurt and embarrassment, wondering about the underlying motives, until, at least in my mind, a simple interaction has grown into something huge and hairy and smelling of rotten fruit.
I’m not sure why I do this. But I bet some of you do this, too. Maybe because it makes me less vulnerable to future hurts. Maybe because there is a part of me that believes that the hurtful words or actions are true or deserved. Or maybe it is just because.
When I was little, my sister and I would sometimes fight. Usually it was over something silly. One huge fight I had with my sister happened when I was about five. We were at the beach, and I put wet sand on my sister’s doll, Diane, even after she asked me to stop. Once, she mixed up the Light-Brite pegs that I had spent several hours sorting by color, because she thought they looked prettier all mixed up. Once, I broke the ear off of her chocolate Easter bunny and ate it. I don’t know why – I had my own chocolate bunny. But we would yell at each other and call each other names, probably like most young bothers and sisters do. After a while, one of us would usually storm off, fuming and often stamping and muttering under our breath. I have spent a lot of my adult life working and playing with children. We would play by ourselves for awhile, until we got tired of being alone. Then, we would find them, say we were sorry (or stand there waiting for them to apologize first), and our game would usually pick up from where it was interrupted. I did that, the children I know do that, and you probably did it, too.
I wish that I could do that today. Life would be so much simpler if I wasn’t so committed to holding onto grudges, so committed to perpetuating my own hurt feelings. I try to let go, and the more I practice, the easier it gets. But I am still aware of the time and energy I waste, time and energy that I would prefer to put into more fun and worthwhile endeavors, like spending time with my family, playing or writing this blog. It will be a long and winding journey, but I am confident that I will get there, someday soon. I am making progress. Just the other day, I thought about emailing my sister to forgive her about the Light-Brite incident. And boy, did I feel better.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Old Friends and Happy Endings
I reconnected a few days ago on Facebook with an old friend, someone who I haven’t seen in almost twenty years. Boy, it makes me feel old to say that…I have thought about her periodically, but because I had moved many times and she had, too, I had no idea how to find her. So imagine my delight when I got her message.
After catching up on family, work, and the other vital details of life, she told me a story that I really related to. It was about her son-in-law, who was facing some challenges in his personal and professional life. Like me, he had lost his job recently. Like me, he was struggling with his self-identity, struggling to redefine himself and find a new direction. But unlike me, he, for reasons my friend has yet to discover, chose to keep his job loss a secret. Even from his family.
We have all heard stories like this. Someone, usually a man, usually a husband, father, and breadwinner, loses his job. In the story, it is usually unexpected, although in real life, it often is not. But the man, although he has a family who loves him and believes in him, is so paralyzed by what has happened that he pretends that nothing has.
Each morning, he gets dressed in a suit, kisses his wife and kids, and leaves the house with his Blackberry, his briefcase, and his mug of coffee, just like he always has. But instead of going to the office where he no longer works, he spends his days reading the paper in coffee shops, at the park feeding pigeons, or wandering the mall, killing time until it is time to go home again. And so at 6:00, he opens the door and call out, “Daddy’s home!” The kids come running, smothering him with kisses. He can smell dinner cooking and hear pre-dinner cartoons on the TV in the living room. Just like he has for years.
And then the wife enters, wearing a pretty dress and pearls like June Cleaver, with perfect make up and an adoring smile. She hands him a drink and says, predictable, “How was your day, dear?” The door peeks open for just a moment. Here is the opportunity for him to tell the truth. He knows that he should. He knows that he will not be able to keep up the charade forever. He knows that eventually, he will run out of money and run out of stories about things at work that never happened because, at least right now, there is no work. He knows that the longer he waits, the harder it will be, the more drastic the consequences. And the door opens, just a little, every day. And every day, he makes a choice. “Brutal,” he says, a grim look on his face. The rest of the evening is all the same – dinner, baths and stories for the kids, and television until bedtime. The next morning, the alarm goes off at 6, and it starts all over again. Eventually, he gets found out, but that is a different story.
When I lost my job, at first, I didn’t want to tell anybody. I was embarrassed. Would people think that I wasn’t good enough? I was sad. I was afraid. Much of my identity had been tied up in my job, and what I though about myself and how I thought others perceived me was because of my job. And so, initially, I didn’t want to tell anybody. But I did. I told my family. I told my friends. I told the cashier at the supermarket, the couple who sits behind me at church. And I found that each time I said it, it became a little less traumatic. It might have been easier, at least at first, if I had kept silent. I might not have felt so embarrassed or so worried about what people would think. But I chose not to. I trusted my family and friends who assured me that it would be okay. I trusted them when they said that people would understand and not think less of me. I trusted that things would turn out fine. And guess what? They have.
After catching up on family, work, and the other vital details of life, she told me a story that I really related to. It was about her son-in-law, who was facing some challenges in his personal and professional life. Like me, he had lost his job recently. Like me, he was struggling with his self-identity, struggling to redefine himself and find a new direction. But unlike me, he, for reasons my friend has yet to discover, chose to keep his job loss a secret. Even from his family.
We have all heard stories like this. Someone, usually a man, usually a husband, father, and breadwinner, loses his job. In the story, it is usually unexpected, although in real life, it often is not. But the man, although he has a family who loves him and believes in him, is so paralyzed by what has happened that he pretends that nothing has.
Each morning, he gets dressed in a suit, kisses his wife and kids, and leaves the house with his Blackberry, his briefcase, and his mug of coffee, just like he always has. But instead of going to the office where he no longer works, he spends his days reading the paper in coffee shops, at the park feeding pigeons, or wandering the mall, killing time until it is time to go home again. And so at 6:00, he opens the door and call out, “Daddy’s home!” The kids come running, smothering him with kisses. He can smell dinner cooking and hear pre-dinner cartoons on the TV in the living room. Just like he has for years.
And then the wife enters, wearing a pretty dress and pearls like June Cleaver, with perfect make up and an adoring smile. She hands him a drink and says, predictable, “How was your day, dear?” The door peeks open for just a moment. Here is the opportunity for him to tell the truth. He knows that he should. He knows that he will not be able to keep up the charade forever. He knows that eventually, he will run out of money and run out of stories about things at work that never happened because, at least right now, there is no work. He knows that the longer he waits, the harder it will be, the more drastic the consequences. And the door opens, just a little, every day. And every day, he makes a choice. “Brutal,” he says, a grim look on his face. The rest of the evening is all the same – dinner, baths and stories for the kids, and television until bedtime. The next morning, the alarm goes off at 6, and it starts all over again. Eventually, he gets found out, but that is a different story.
When I lost my job, at first, I didn’t want to tell anybody. I was embarrassed. Would people think that I wasn’t good enough? I was sad. I was afraid. Much of my identity had been tied up in my job, and what I though about myself and how I thought others perceived me was because of my job. And so, initially, I didn’t want to tell anybody. But I did. I told my family. I told my friends. I told the cashier at the supermarket, the couple who sits behind me at church. And I found that each time I said it, it became a little less traumatic. It might have been easier, at least at first, if I had kept silent. I might not have felt so embarrassed or so worried about what people would think. But I chose not to. I trusted my family and friends who assured me that it would be okay. I trusted them when they said that people would understand and not think less of me. I trusted that things would turn out fine. And guess what? They have.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Once upon a time on a little island...
Once upon a time, on a little island off the coast of Maine, I worked at a daycare center. It was a really fun job, almost as much fun as my three week stint making pizzas. Mostly, I got to play all day. I happily rode my bike to the dock every morning and boarded the 5:45 ferry. Most of the time, it was just me and the island mail man on the boat. I often shared my thermos of coffee with him. During the winter, it was still dark when I left my house, and when I pedaled past the time and temperature clock on the top of the Casco Northern Bank, I would think that it was a warm day if the temperature was in double digits. I used to wear a red and gold ski mask under my bike helmet, and sometimes, the eye holes would shift a little and it would be really hard to see. But luckily I always wore fingerless gloves under my down mittens, so the problem was easily remedied.
The kids at the daycare were described as typical island kids. I wasn’t really sure what that meant – mostly, to me, they were just like any of the other kids I had known. They painted and played with blocks and rode trikes on the playground. We read books – some of our favorites were about a little boy names Alfie who lived on Trotter Street and often wore his boots on the wrong feet. Alfie and his friends had very cool four year old adventures. So did we, at the daycare. During the warmer months, we often went to the the island swamp to look for water beasties. We built massive sand castles on the beach, decorating them with shells and wild flowers. We grew radishes in a tiny garden, and ate them, only once, for snack. Another time, just before Thanksgiving, we cut up a really huge pumpkin and each kid went home with a pie they had baked themselves.
The kids also told stories and corny jokes, told on each other, and sometimes, told lies. Because they were typical kids, their lies were typical kid lies – lies so that they wouldn’t get into trouble or so they would get what they wanted. Luckily, the philosophy of the center was that, as much as possible, the kids got what they wanted. And there weren’t a lot of arbitrary rules, so they hardly ever got into trouble.
During the three years that I was there, I worked hard to be the kind of person the children could trust. I didn’t lie to them or pretend that they were invisible or try to trick them into doing what I wanted them to do. Mostly, what I wanted them to do was to play and laugh and explore and ask lots of questions. They did, and I did, and we spent many happy days together. I think, looking back, that part of the reason they trusted me was that I acknowledged that, however much fun our toys and however many exciting the activities we planned, any of them, given a choice, would have chosen to be at home with their parents. I did not take that personally, even though occasionally, my feelings were hurt. I tried, instead, to make the time that they were with us as enjoyable and full of fun as I could. I’m not saying that I never got irritated or frustrated. I’m not saying that I was perfect. But I did my best, and I expected them to do their best, and for the most part, we trusted each other.
That was a long time ago. The children I worked with then are grown and probably have children of their own. Many of them probably do not even remember my name. But I hope that they do remember that person who baked with them and read to them and rubbed their backs at naptime. I hope they remember feeling safe and warm and valued, and I hope that they help their own children feel like that, too.
The kids at the daycare were described as typical island kids. I wasn’t really sure what that meant – mostly, to me, they were just like any of the other kids I had known. They painted and played with blocks and rode trikes on the playground. We read books – some of our favorites were about a little boy names Alfie who lived on Trotter Street and often wore his boots on the wrong feet. Alfie and his friends had very cool four year old adventures. So did we, at the daycare. During the warmer months, we often went to the the island swamp to look for water beasties. We built massive sand castles on the beach, decorating them with shells and wild flowers. We grew radishes in a tiny garden, and ate them, only once, for snack. Another time, just before Thanksgiving, we cut up a really huge pumpkin and each kid went home with a pie they had baked themselves.
The kids also told stories and corny jokes, told on each other, and sometimes, told lies. Because they were typical kids, their lies were typical kid lies – lies so that they wouldn’t get into trouble or so they would get what they wanted. Luckily, the philosophy of the center was that, as much as possible, the kids got what they wanted. And there weren’t a lot of arbitrary rules, so they hardly ever got into trouble.
During the three years that I was there, I worked hard to be the kind of person the children could trust. I didn’t lie to them or pretend that they were invisible or try to trick them into doing what I wanted them to do. Mostly, what I wanted them to do was to play and laugh and explore and ask lots of questions. They did, and I did, and we spent many happy days together. I think, looking back, that part of the reason they trusted me was that I acknowledged that, however much fun our toys and however many exciting the activities we planned, any of them, given a choice, would have chosen to be at home with their parents. I did not take that personally, even though occasionally, my feelings were hurt. I tried, instead, to make the time that they were with us as enjoyable and full of fun as I could. I’m not saying that I never got irritated or frustrated. I’m not saying that I was perfect. But I did my best, and I expected them to do their best, and for the most part, we trusted each other.
That was a long time ago. The children I worked with then are grown and probably have children of their own. Many of them probably do not even remember my name. But I hope that they do remember that person who baked with them and read to them and rubbed their backs at naptime. I hope they remember feeling safe and warm and valued, and I hope that they help their own children feel like that, too.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Little Penguins Love Fondue, Too!
The other night, I decided to make fondue for supper. I don’t make it often, but it is one of our favorites – it works for both the veggies and the carnivore in the family, it’s delicious, it’s fun, and it doesn’t require long, messy prep or cleanup. I had a block of good (substitute expensive, but luckily on sale) swiss cheese, a loaf of crusty French bread and some sirloin tips (for that unpredictable carnivore), so I was, as they say, good to go. There was only one problem. My bottle of Little Penguin white wine was empty, re-corked and in the fridge, but empty.
To be honest, Kathryn and I are not big drinkers of any sort. I could try to sound classy and say that we enjoy a nice glass of wine with a fine meal. But the truth is that Kathryn prefers her Diet Coke and I mostly go with coffee or water. So we really know nothing about wine – fruity bouquet with undertones of sarsaparilla, whatever. When I buy wine, it is usually for cooking, and I pick the wine with the cute animal names. Thus we often have Little Penguin or, more recently, when the Little Penguin rack was empty, I chose an equally inexpensive bottle with an equally pleasant name – Crazy Llama.
A few years ago, I traveled to Bend, Oregon, for my little brother’s wedding. The wedding was held a few days before one of Kathryn’s conferences, so I went alone and ended up leaving the reception at midnight, driving the three and a half hours back to Portland, and sleeping by the Southwest gate at the airport in order to get back in time to help with the final preparations. It was really important to me to be the first one in line and the first to board the plane. I’m not sure why, but it was. (And it still is – consider this fair warning for any of you who might have the opportunity to travel with me in the future.) But back to the story. My brother’s friends had planned a wine reception for them, and each guest was asked to bring a bottle. I went into downtown Bend with a few of my soon-to-be sister-in law’s friends to visit the local wine shop. They all knew Mike and Debbie well and knew what (brand? flavor?) kind of wine they liked. I asked the wine store guy to recommend something, and he said that if people were not wine connoisseurs, he usually suggested that they pick a bottle with a label they liked. So that is what I did.
I looked at bottles with mountain vistas, trees, barrels, castles, and all sorts of pretty pictures, searching for the one that spoke to me. I was almost at the end of the final rack when I spied it – I don’t remember any of the words, but the picture on the bottle was a bear in a hat. Now, any of you who read my previous entry, Lessons from a Bear, know that I have a thing for bears in hats. I remember grinning happily as I took it from the rack and carried it to the register.
All of the others in my group had made their purchases and were waiting by the door. But I was finally ready. The clerk nodded and said, “Good choice.” I smiled. A little bear would never steer me wrong. I got out my wallet. The clerk smiled back and said, “That will be $179.99, please.” I gulped. I was thinking that it would cost, maybe, $30.00. I glanced over at the group by the door. I’m sure they weren’t, but I was sure then that they were all watching me. I know that I should have grinned sheepishly and asked him to point put something a little more in my price range. But I didn’t. I handed him my credit card and carried the bottle out with me. I did make a really fancy tag for it before that $179 bottle of wine joined a few dozen others in a wicker laundry basket on the deck. I never did ask my brother if they’d enjoyed the wine. I hope that they did, but even if they didn’t, I did learn some valuable lessons.
By now, you probably are wondering what this has to do with trust or fondue. With trust, not much. Maybe I should have trusted my instincts and asked for another bottle of wine. Or maybe not. This is what I wanted to write about today, and so I am. With fondue, a little. On that night, when the bottle of white was empty, I used the next best thing: Little Penguin Red. We had a wonderful supper of purple fondue, and we all lived happily ever after.
To be honest, Kathryn and I are not big drinkers of any sort. I could try to sound classy and say that we enjoy a nice glass of wine with a fine meal. But the truth is that Kathryn prefers her Diet Coke and I mostly go with coffee or water. So we really know nothing about wine – fruity bouquet with undertones of sarsaparilla, whatever. When I buy wine, it is usually for cooking, and I pick the wine with the cute animal names. Thus we often have Little Penguin or, more recently, when the Little Penguin rack was empty, I chose an equally inexpensive bottle with an equally pleasant name – Crazy Llama.
A few years ago, I traveled to Bend, Oregon, for my little brother’s wedding. The wedding was held a few days before one of Kathryn’s conferences, so I went alone and ended up leaving the reception at midnight, driving the three and a half hours back to Portland, and sleeping by the Southwest gate at the airport in order to get back in time to help with the final preparations. It was really important to me to be the first one in line and the first to board the plane. I’m not sure why, but it was. (And it still is – consider this fair warning for any of you who might have the opportunity to travel with me in the future.) But back to the story. My brother’s friends had planned a wine reception for them, and each guest was asked to bring a bottle. I went into downtown Bend with a few of my soon-to-be sister-in law’s friends to visit the local wine shop. They all knew Mike and Debbie well and knew what (brand? flavor?) kind of wine they liked. I asked the wine store guy to recommend something, and he said that if people were not wine connoisseurs, he usually suggested that they pick a bottle with a label they liked. So that is what I did.
I looked at bottles with mountain vistas, trees, barrels, castles, and all sorts of pretty pictures, searching for the one that spoke to me. I was almost at the end of the final rack when I spied it – I don’t remember any of the words, but the picture on the bottle was a bear in a hat. Now, any of you who read my previous entry, Lessons from a Bear, know that I have a thing for bears in hats. I remember grinning happily as I took it from the rack and carried it to the register.
All of the others in my group had made their purchases and were waiting by the door. But I was finally ready. The clerk nodded and said, “Good choice.” I smiled. A little bear would never steer me wrong. I got out my wallet. The clerk smiled back and said, “That will be $179.99, please.” I gulped. I was thinking that it would cost, maybe, $30.00. I glanced over at the group by the door. I’m sure they weren’t, but I was sure then that they were all watching me. I know that I should have grinned sheepishly and asked him to point put something a little more in my price range. But I didn’t. I handed him my credit card and carried the bottle out with me. I did make a really fancy tag for it before that $179 bottle of wine joined a few dozen others in a wicker laundry basket on the deck. I never did ask my brother if they’d enjoyed the wine. I hope that they did, but even if they didn’t, I did learn some valuable lessons.
By now, you probably are wondering what this has to do with trust or fondue. With trust, not much. Maybe I should have trusted my instincts and asked for another bottle of wine. Or maybe not. This is what I wanted to write about today, and so I am. With fondue, a little. On that night, when the bottle of white was empty, I used the next best thing: Little Penguin Red. We had a wonderful supper of purple fondue, and we all lived happily ever after.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Pokes and Jabs and Crushes...Oh My!
One of my first real jobs, when I was in my late twenties, was at a Rape Crisis Center in Portland, Maine. I had had other jobs before, but this was really the first one in which I didn’t live in a tent, wear pink polka-dotted rubber boots on days that it rained, or regularly eat mid afternoon snacks of peanut butter and saltines. I was a real grown up. I carried a briefcase and a beeper. And I spent my days counseling survivors of sexual assault. I liked my job a lot, and I was very good at it.
On the second Saturday of each month, we offered a self defense class for women, run by a local martial arts expert and attended by high school, and college students, mothers, professional women, senior citizens, and many who were some combination of these groupings. They learned the eye jab, the bridge of the nose whack, and, my personal favorite, the ball crush. I attended many of these workshops, because every other month, it was my job to check people in and provide a healthy and nutritious lunch. I practiced diligently and became rather skilled and confident about my ability to foil a potential attacker and, potentially, inflict some damage myself. I was much younger and spryer in those days, and, even if the potential damage infliction went against my pacifist leanings, I felt like I was ready for anything.
I remember coming out of the sessions feeling strong in mind and body. I would scan the parking lot for danger. I would walk briskly, with my head held high, aware of my surroundings, just like the instructor instructed us. I had practiced my attention-grabbing yells, and I was pretty sure I could bellow with the best of them should the need arise. I was confident that I could poke, jab, and crush my way to safety. In short, I was the ideal student. In all ways except one.
There was one phrase which the instructor, first, and the class, in response, recited many times throughout the class. It was, “I trust my instincts.” I could say it, in a loud, assertive voice, often accompanied by a poke- jab-crush. Intellectually, I knew how important it was to listen to what my instincts were trying to tell me, more important than the whacks and bellows. I could say it. I could understand it. But I was not sure that I could do it.
These days, I do not often find myself in situations that I would call dangerous. But I have learned to rely on my instincts, to listen to that little voice that tells me that something is not right, and to trust what it is telling me. I am no longer fending off rapists, even in my imagination. I am warm and safe, with good food and good coffee, with cats and a life filled with meaning and people who love me. But I have not forgotten my little voice. I check in with it every so often and listen to what it tells me. Just like, every once on a while, I finish my workout session with a few practice pokes, jabs, and crushes. And it still feels really good.
On the second Saturday of each month, we offered a self defense class for women, run by a local martial arts expert and attended by high school, and college students, mothers, professional women, senior citizens, and many who were some combination of these groupings. They learned the eye jab, the bridge of the nose whack, and, my personal favorite, the ball crush. I attended many of these workshops, because every other month, it was my job to check people in and provide a healthy and nutritious lunch. I practiced diligently and became rather skilled and confident about my ability to foil a potential attacker and, potentially, inflict some damage myself. I was much younger and spryer in those days, and, even if the potential damage infliction went against my pacifist leanings, I felt like I was ready for anything.
I remember coming out of the sessions feeling strong in mind and body. I would scan the parking lot for danger. I would walk briskly, with my head held high, aware of my surroundings, just like the instructor instructed us. I had practiced my attention-grabbing yells, and I was pretty sure I could bellow with the best of them should the need arise. I was confident that I could poke, jab, and crush my way to safety. In short, I was the ideal student. In all ways except one.
There was one phrase which the instructor, first, and the class, in response, recited many times throughout the class. It was, “I trust my instincts.” I could say it, in a loud, assertive voice, often accompanied by a poke- jab-crush. Intellectually, I knew how important it was to listen to what my instincts were trying to tell me, more important than the whacks and bellows. I could say it. I could understand it. But I was not sure that I could do it.
These days, I do not often find myself in situations that I would call dangerous. But I have learned to rely on my instincts, to listen to that little voice that tells me that something is not right, and to trust what it is telling me. I am no longer fending off rapists, even in my imagination. I am warm and safe, with good food and good coffee, with cats and a life filled with meaning and people who love me. But I have not forgotten my little voice. I check in with it every so often and listen to what it tells me. Just like, every once on a while, I finish my workout session with a few practice pokes, jabs, and crushes. And it still feels really good.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Pay No Attention to That Girl Behind the Curtain
A popular television personality has a nugget of wisdom which I have taken to heart. “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to have a good memory.” This is definitely true. I am sure that as you read this, many of you are nodding your heads, remembering times when you got caught in a lie because your memory was less than perfect.
Luckily for me, I have a pretty darn good memory. I am especially good at computer concentration-type games, in which you score points by finding matches within a grid. I also tend to remember minute details of situations – the song that was playing on the radio while I was waiting for an important business meeting to begin, and what I was wearing the time, in the fifth grade, when I lied to my teacher, Mrs. G. I actually don’t remember the details leading up to the incident, but here is what I know. I got caught hiding behind the drapes in the classroom of another fifth grade teacher, Mr. B, so that I and two kids from my class that I really didn’t even know very well, wouldn’t have to go out to the playground for recess. My mother had just bought me new sneakers – white with blue stripes, and I was wearing purple toughskins jeans from Sears and a pink sweater. I remember wondering if anyone would be able to see my shoes beneath the curtains. I remember holding my breath as Mrs. G stormed into Mr. B’s classroom. I even remember my shame as she yelled, and the hotness of my face, and my worry that she would call my mother. And I remember the complicated story I told as I tried to explain away my disobedience, the feel of the brick wall pressing against my back as I, a few minutes later, pressed against the side of the gym and tried not to cry as my classmates ran and threw and jumped all around me. What I don’t remember, though, is why I didn’t want to go out to play. I liked recess. The playground was bordered by some woods, and I liked to collect acorns and pretty stones and watch the squirrels. Sometimes, I was even picked for a kickball team, especially if it was cold and flu season and some of the really good kickers were absent.
I don’t know why I chose that day to disobey my teacher. I don’t know why I hid behind the curtains in the classroom across the hall. I don’t know why I thought I might get away with it. And, when I was caught, I don’t know why I chose to lie. But I did. Luckily, I was usually a very compliant, obedient, polite child, and maybe Mrs. G saw my embarrassment and remorse. I don’t remember if I was punished. I don’t remember being sent to the principal or having to write 1000 times, “I will not hide behind the curtains in Mr. B’s classroom when I am supposed to be going out to the playground and then lie about it when I get caught.” I don’t remember, even, if the school sent a note to my mother. But what I do remember, even to this day, more than 30 years later, disappointing someone I liked and respected and who I desperately wanted both to like me and to think that I was a good girl, the feeling of disappointing them, and in turn, disappointing myself.
I would like to say that, from that experience, I learned my lesson and never told another lie. Trust me, I could tell you that, but it would not be true. What would be true, however, is that the next time I chose to lie, I remembered hearing Mrs. G’s footsteps as she strode across the room and the look on her face as she pulled back the curtains and saw me huddled there. I remember vowing to myself, afterward, that I would never tell another lie; that, whatever I would gain from lying wasn’t worth the bad feelings it caused; that only bad kids lied, and I was a good kid, really I was. Those are the things I thought about the next time I found myself avoiding the truth. And I hope that every once in a while, when I am tempted to lie, the memory of that fifth grade lie and its consequences will make me stop and think, take a deep breath, and tell the truth, no matter how hard it feels to be honest. Trust me, I never want to feel that way again.
Luckily for me, I have a pretty darn good memory. I am especially good at computer concentration-type games, in which you score points by finding matches within a grid. I also tend to remember minute details of situations – the song that was playing on the radio while I was waiting for an important business meeting to begin, and what I was wearing the time, in the fifth grade, when I lied to my teacher, Mrs. G. I actually don’t remember the details leading up to the incident, but here is what I know. I got caught hiding behind the drapes in the classroom of another fifth grade teacher, Mr. B, so that I and two kids from my class that I really didn’t even know very well, wouldn’t have to go out to the playground for recess. My mother had just bought me new sneakers – white with blue stripes, and I was wearing purple toughskins jeans from Sears and a pink sweater. I remember wondering if anyone would be able to see my shoes beneath the curtains. I remember holding my breath as Mrs. G stormed into Mr. B’s classroom. I even remember my shame as she yelled, and the hotness of my face, and my worry that she would call my mother. And I remember the complicated story I told as I tried to explain away my disobedience, the feel of the brick wall pressing against my back as I, a few minutes later, pressed against the side of the gym and tried not to cry as my classmates ran and threw and jumped all around me. What I don’t remember, though, is why I didn’t want to go out to play. I liked recess. The playground was bordered by some woods, and I liked to collect acorns and pretty stones and watch the squirrels. Sometimes, I was even picked for a kickball team, especially if it was cold and flu season and some of the really good kickers were absent.
I don’t know why I chose that day to disobey my teacher. I don’t know why I hid behind the curtains in the classroom across the hall. I don’t know why I thought I might get away with it. And, when I was caught, I don’t know why I chose to lie. But I did. Luckily, I was usually a very compliant, obedient, polite child, and maybe Mrs. G saw my embarrassment and remorse. I don’t remember if I was punished. I don’t remember being sent to the principal or having to write 1000 times, “I will not hide behind the curtains in Mr. B’s classroom when I am supposed to be going out to the playground and then lie about it when I get caught.” I don’t remember, even, if the school sent a note to my mother. But what I do remember, even to this day, more than 30 years later, disappointing someone I liked and respected and who I desperately wanted both to like me and to think that I was a good girl, the feeling of disappointing them, and in turn, disappointing myself.
I would like to say that, from that experience, I learned my lesson and never told another lie. Trust me, I could tell you that, but it would not be true. What would be true, however, is that the next time I chose to lie, I remembered hearing Mrs. G’s footsteps as she strode across the room and the look on her face as she pulled back the curtains and saw me huddled there. I remember vowing to myself, afterward, that I would never tell another lie; that, whatever I would gain from lying wasn’t worth the bad feelings it caused; that only bad kids lied, and I was a good kid, really I was. Those are the things I thought about the next time I found myself avoiding the truth. And I hope that every once in a while, when I am tempted to lie, the memory of that fifth grade lie and its consequences will make me stop and think, take a deep breath, and tell the truth, no matter how hard it feels to be honest. Trust me, I never want to feel that way again.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
How I Learned to Trust
It was bedtime, one of my favorite times of the day, time to settle into a soft, warm bed under soft warm blankets, with my head on a soft, warm pillow. It was time to relax, to unwind, to review the ups and downs of my day and think about all of the possibilities that tomorrow might offer. I thought about the day that had just passed, the people I had talked with, the things I had done and not done, the exciting and the more mundane. As the pictures flashed through my memory, it felt almost like I was watching a rerun of a 1970’s sitcom with me in the starring role, a sitcom in which everything turned out happy in the end, with laughter and hugs, and, too often, earnest conversations about lessons learned by a one-dimensional character who somehow got herself into, and miraculously, out of a series of hysterically precarious predicaments.
My life is usually not like a sitcom. I usually don’t figure everything out in a single episode. There is usually not a laugh track or a producer to make sure that everything turns out happily. But that was okay with me. I have learned to trust that life will have its ups and downs, its unexpected twists in the road, those things that, as popular wisdom confirms, will make us stronger if they don’t kill us. And I have learned to trust that everything will, eventually, be okay.
I am sure that we have all experienced those things, those curve balls that disrupt the normal and predictable patterns of our lives. They are situations that have no clear cut answers, conflicts in which, no matter how hard you try to avoid it, someone will be hurt. They are the times when I wish that Mike Brady would have that earnest conversation with me to help me figure out which fork in the road to follow. But real life does not come neatly wrapped up in a twenty-two minute package with a guaranteed happy ending. That would be nice, sometimes, and occasionally, problems do seem to fix themselves, just like on TV.
But I actually prefer the unpredictability of a real life lived by a real person with real problems and real feelings and real relationships. I prefer a life where people are not perfect, a life where many of us spend a good portion of our days just living life and coping with both the predictable and the unexpected.
Sometimes and hopefully more often than not, life is fantastically exciting. We make a new friend, learn something new, or discover an awesome new blog about trust. At other times, things are lousy. But most of the time, life is just plain good. Not great, not terrible, just good. And to me, that is not a bad way to live my life. What do you think?
That is what I think about as I settle into bed each night. Most often, I feel satisfied and sleepy. I think about the day that I have just lived and am filed with anticipation for tomorrow. I hope that tomorrow will be a day of curiosity and smiles. I hope that there will be sleeping cats, an email from a friend, and sushi. I fall asleep, not knowing what tomorrow will bring, but secure in myself and my commitment to find the best in every person and every situation I encounter, secure in the love and support of my family and friends, secure even in uncertainty and occasional fear, that life is good.
That is how I learned to trust.
My life is usually not like a sitcom. I usually don’t figure everything out in a single episode. There is usually not a laugh track or a producer to make sure that everything turns out happily. But that was okay with me. I have learned to trust that life will have its ups and downs, its unexpected twists in the road, those things that, as popular wisdom confirms, will make us stronger if they don’t kill us. And I have learned to trust that everything will, eventually, be okay.
I am sure that we have all experienced those things, those curve balls that disrupt the normal and predictable patterns of our lives. They are situations that have no clear cut answers, conflicts in which, no matter how hard you try to avoid it, someone will be hurt. They are the times when I wish that Mike Brady would have that earnest conversation with me to help me figure out which fork in the road to follow. But real life does not come neatly wrapped up in a twenty-two minute package with a guaranteed happy ending. That would be nice, sometimes, and occasionally, problems do seem to fix themselves, just like on TV.
But I actually prefer the unpredictability of a real life lived by a real person with real problems and real feelings and real relationships. I prefer a life where people are not perfect, a life where many of us spend a good portion of our days just living life and coping with both the predictable and the unexpected.
Sometimes and hopefully more often than not, life is fantastically exciting. We make a new friend, learn something new, or discover an awesome new blog about trust. At other times, things are lousy. But most of the time, life is just plain good. Not great, not terrible, just good. And to me, that is not a bad way to live my life. What do you think?
That is what I think about as I settle into bed each night. Most often, I feel satisfied and sleepy. I think about the day that I have just lived and am filed with anticipation for tomorrow. I hope that tomorrow will be a day of curiosity and smiles. I hope that there will be sleeping cats, an email from a friend, and sushi. I fall asleep, not knowing what tomorrow will bring, but secure in myself and my commitment to find the best in every person and every situation I encounter, secure in the love and support of my family and friends, secure even in uncertainty and occasional fear, that life is good.
That is how I learned to trust.
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