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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Better than Shiny Red Shoes

I was in a job-related workshop once a couple of years ago. I don’t remember what we were supposed to be learning, but we were wrapping up the session by doing one of those exercises where you go around the table and everyone says one nice thing about each other person. Sometimes, I like that kind of activity, and I have been known to use similar techniques to promote bonding and group cohesion. But in this case, we really didn’t know the other people in the group well enough for the exercise to be effective. As a result, most of the things that people said to each other felt kind of contrived and trivial. “She seems to be a nice person.” Or, “He helped me wipe the snow off of my car once last year.” And I, because like the others, didn’t know the other people too well, said similarly insincere things, although I am sure I had a very sincere and earnest expression on my face as I said them.

But when it was my turn to hear something nice about me, one of the people said something that I still remember. I had heard all of the typical things, including one person who told me that she liked it when I wore my shiny red shoes. I like it when I wear my shiny red shoes, too, which I often did when I anticipated a particularly long or frustrating day. As I remember I was wearing them often during that time in my life. Sadly, I actually dropped one of them out of my bag when I was trekking through downtown Boston one day to catch a train. They were pretty shoes, and it made me happy when I wore them, but they were not all that well suited for long walks, on the beach or through the city.

It was not the red shoes I remember that day though. It was this. “I think that your family is very important to you.” Even though I did not know the person who said this too well, she was totally right. My family is very important to me. They are, in fact, the most important thing.

My family gives me unconditional love and support. They encourage me to pursue my dreams and grant me permission not to be perfect. They laugh with me, and sometimes, but only when I really deserve it, they laugh at me. They know all of my foibles, and believe me I have many, and they love me anyway. They trust me, and I trust them. With them, I can be my best self and my worst self. I can be strong and confident or small and vulnerable, and I know that they will still love me.

And that is a really good feeling. It is better than thinking about a party platter of sushi, better than a Hawaiian vacation, and better even than coming home after a long and frustrating day at work and kicking off my shiny red shoes.

Trust and the Glowing Maggot of Doom

As many of you already know, when I was much younger and much less decrepit, I worked at an Environmental Education school in Maine. It was a very cool job, perfect for a just-out-of-college-trying-to-decide-what-to-do-with-the-rest-of-my-life girl. I lived in a tent most of the time, not because I had to but because, particularly at that time of my life, I had some pretty strong hermit tendencies. Besides usually being cold, damp, and possibly a little moldy, it was a good place for me to be. And it paid me $75 a week.

Most of the people who worked there were a little weird; Birkenstocks and wool socks even in the winter and an unnatural obsession with Dr. Bronner’s Organic Peppermint Soap, even for tooth brush related activities, so I fit in pretty well.

I spent most of my days teaching nature and group challenges to school kids. In many of the challenges, the group had to accomplish a complex physical and mental task based on the 4 C’s: cooperation, confidence, communication, and compassion, and the big T: trust, in order to escape from the dreaded Glowing Maggot of Doom. The Glowing Maggot is an imaginary but very real relic from the nearby Maine Yankee Nuclear Power Plant. (Imagine former President Bush and Homer Simpson saying, “Nuc-u-lar.”) Maine Yankee was so close that we had a Geiger counter constantly clicking in the office, and during summer camp, we always had a couple of school busses on site in case we had to evacuate in an emergency. Luckily, we never did. I think that the plant has shut down now, and rumor has it that it is now a kitty litter factory.

But back to trust and the glowing maggot. In order for our groups to have a “positive learning experience,” we had to learn to trust each other. That was pretty tough. The groups were mostly elementary and middle schoolers, usually randomly mixed and placed in groups of about ten. We would camp out, rain or shine, cook all of our food over a campfire, explore forests, fields and salt marshes, rock climb, barn climb (an indoor high ropes course), wall climb, and as a culmination of a week of progressively challenging tasks, conquer the gulch. The gulch was about 100 feet across and fifty feet deep, a coastline chasm full of ocean at high tide and mud at low. We had a few ropes, a steel ring, a helmet, harness, and some other safety equipment, and a couple of carabineers. It was, in many ways, the ultimate test of trust. We had to trust that the group would use the skills they had learned throughout the week to solve the puzzle and figure out how to get the ropes across the gulch and fastened securely, get the entire group across, and retrieve the ropes, all while trying to escape from the glowing maggot of doom. We had to trust that the ropes would hold, and that we would be able to pull ourselves across the gulch while suspended from the elephant rope. The elephant rope, as I remember, was about two inches thick and was supposed to be strong enough to support the weight of ten dancing elephants. We had to trust that if we did not have the strength or the courage to pull ourselves across, the group would help with their muscles and their words of encouragement. But mostly we had to trust that we would be accepted for all of our strengths, weaknesses, and idiosyncrasies, that we would be supported, physically and emotionally, when we needed it. We had to trust that we would not be teased, ridiculed, or excluded.

For me, and for many of the kids I worked with, this was not easy. Trusting other people, particularly people who were acquaintances rather than friends, was probably even scarier than the glowing maggot of doom. But during the week, my job was to help them learn to trust each other. We ate together, often cubes of congealed spaghetti if the cook crew forgot to stir the noodles. We worked together to build fires in the rain, to stay warn and dry, to find our way with a map and compass. We talked about being afraid: afraid to try new things, afraid of heights, afraid of spiders, afraid of the dark, afraid of being teased, afraid of looking foolish. In the light of a campfire, some of the kids were able to relax a little, let down their guard, and speak from their hearts. Others weren’t there yet, but sometimes even they were able to fall backwards from the steps into the arms of the group. Sometimes they were able to ask for help, or to share their ideas, or to admit to feeling scared. On Friday afternoon, when they got back onto their bus to go home, they were always tired and always dirty. But I know that at least some of them got onto the bus a feeling little more confident, a little more secure with themselves and their abilities, a little more honest, and maybe with a few new friends. And hopefully, many of them felt a little more trust, for themselves and for each other. After all, if they could trust each other and successfully foil the glowing maggot of doom, I’m pretty sure that they can do anything.