Best Laid Plans

I rarely plan anything.

Take vacation, for example. Work schedules require that I set time aside, well in advance. This done, however, I’ve been known to wait, until the week before, to choose a destination, ensuring that the following week will be spent in a mad flurry of telephoning, shopping, cleaning, and packing.

Don’t ask me what I’m bringing to the party. And, telling me what to bring is a complete waste of both our times. Several days before your event, I will peruse various websites, offering tantalizing recipes, and select my favorites, just before I leave to shop for ingredients. I’m a good cook. You know you can count on me to provide something unique, in taste and presentation. Just don’t attempt to build your menu around my dishes.

If you happen to be present when I rise on a weekend morning, you would be better served to go with my flow, than to inquire as to my plans. I don’t have any, and I will resent your efforts to schedule my “free” time. Of course, there isn’t any real “free” time. But, reminding me of that, when I am so intent on the notion, is not in our best interest. If we have an event that requires schedule coordination, wait until I have left my office, and have, at least, exchanged pajamas for street clothes. My wardrobe change is a signal that I am, purportedly, ready to begin the day.

“What are you wearing?”

If two women plan to attend an event together, this question will be asked, several times, in the preceding days. Some men, too, prefer to coordinate. I won’t ask, and I am loathe to answer. I will, as the event looms, conduct a careful study of the closet I carry around inside my head. I will settle upon, and discard, a number of outfit options, before allowing a select few to remain in the recesses of my mind. I will consider jewelry, shoes, and handbags; creating a slideshow of fashion that will occupy free moments, coming to the forefront, for several nights, as I lay down to sleep. Amidst a flurry of discarded clothing, that now decorates every available surface, my decision will be made minutes before you announce the “warm up” of the car.

I don’t know “what’s for dinner”, until I’ve come home, and had time to view, at close quarters, the contents of the refrigerator, the pantry, and the freezer. If, as I move between larders, you see me halt, wearing a glazed-over expression, do not be alarmed. I am “planning”, on the fly.

“On the fly”, is a term I can sink my teeth into. I am also partial to “by the seat of my pants”, and “que sera, sera”. I like to keep my options open.

“Don’t fence me in…”

All of the above is true, and, due to a symphony of circumstance, under careful review.

The start of a new year puts one in mind for planning, even if she chooses not to follow the herd intent on making resolutions that won’t last. I rise upon the dawn of a new year, to a yawning day, and, restlessness, brought on by an inherent opportunity to turn leaves.

My new workout plan is being monitored by a good friend whose fortitude has brought about admirable results. She listens, wearing a knowing smile, as I describe the measures I have taken to ensure success, and waits until I am finished, to speak.

“Have you written up a workout plan?”

Several coworkers and I share the break-room table. Conversation has turned to the weekend ahead, and one of us bemoans a lack of time.

“And, this is why I have started scheduling weekends.” A hush falls over the room, as all eyes turn towards the speaker, a part-timer, and mother of two.

“My Weight-Watchers leader recommended it, and it really works for me! I get so much done!”

Silence holds fast, until an innocent bystander enters the room, giving us cause to expel held breaths.

A friend calls, and I lay down my dust-rag to view the Caller ID. A glance at the wall-clock tells me there is plenty of time left to polish my desk, before I push “Send”. After several minutes of catching up, and political back-and-forth, he turns the conversation to my blog, punctuating the conversation with a question.

“So, what do you write about?”

Words tumble out, one upon the other, as I struggle to answer the question, finally mumbling something about “writing what I know”. He ignores my response, going on to explain his penchant for all things technical. But, the question sits between us, settling finally, firmly upon my mind.

Later that evening, I relate the conversation to a writer-friend of mine, who poses a question of his own.

“Have you written a mission statement?”

I gulp for breath, as my eyes search my desk for a suitable resting place.

“A mission statement?”, is all I can manage.

“Yes, a mission statement!” His words take on purpose, as he prepares to drive his point home.

“But, isn’t that too much like work?” The whine in my voice is embarrassing.

“But, writing is work! You have to decide what you’re going to do, where you’re going. What do you want to do with your writing?” Passion fills his words.

And, as I search the recesses of my work-weary brain, my struggle with spontaneity begins, and I realize that, just because it has worked for me up until now, doesn’t mean it’s working now.

For several days, now, I’ve received one, consistent, message. Everything in me fights it.

And, I never back down from a challenge…..

Clarity

I expected more clarity.

I bought into the old adage, “With age comes wisdom.” I hung my hat on it. As I floundered through my teens and twenties, I quieted myself with the notion that one day everything would magically fall into place, and the world would make sense. One day, I would be the one who had been there and done that, who had seen what life had to offer, plucked the juiciest bits from her burgeoning tree, and secreted her lessons inside my apron pockets, so that all that showed of my experience was a smile of complacent serenity.

It didn’t happen that way.

As I’ve aged, I’ve realized that, no matter how much life I live, answered questions are quickly stored away to make room for new quandaries. Conquered challenges are afforded only a modicum of celebration before the next hurdle comes barreling into view, and there is always more to learn.

More Than A Calendar Change

I have a thing for calendars….

Every year, around this time, I struggle with which ones to hang, and which to donate to the “extra calendar pile” at the office.

It seems every charitable organization, to which I donate, sends me a calendar. Many of these, especially the ones portraying animals, are hard to resist. One year I didn’t. I hung five different calendars around my office, so that no matter which wall you faced, you were met by a furry visage, or a magnificent vista.

Last year, during a post-Christmas shopping trip, I stumbled upon a kiosk of interesting calendars in a local hobby store. I left with one for my son, featuring unusual, black and white photography, and one for me, decorated in a colorful, quilted pattern. I was enticed by the pocket at the bottom of each page, and the large, pastel-hued butterfly that adorned it. Each month was marked in a different color scheme; one more beautiful than the next. I really enjoyed that calendar.

During a spate of time, since 2004, really, when there didn’t seem to be much to look forward to, my calendars filled a New Year’s void.

The shock of that election changed me. My television went dark, and my radio presets changed. NPR could no longer be trusted. I shut off every media outlet that might remind me of America’s folly. I adopted a mindset of entrenchment. And, if ignorance wasn’t exactly bliss, it was definitely preferable to the panic, and utter embarrassment, which set upon my heart, and mind, at the sound of our president’s bumbling speech, or the sight of his “Aw, shucks” grin.

As 2008 dawned, I had a truly magnificent calendar, and a glimmer of hope, based in the knowledge, that no matter how the upcoming election turned out, one thing was certain; George W. Bush would no longer be President of the United States.

I struggled, for months, with choosing a candidate. There seemed to be so little difference between them. The feminists would have me vote for a woman, for gender reasons, alone. Patriots would have me support a former POW, based upon his years of military service, which ended over thirty years ago. Christian fundamentalists had their man, whose shining moment occurred during an appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was impressed. I would hire him as a straight man, but President of the United States?

And then, there was the tall skinny, big-eared, black guy, with the scary name.

I live in Georgia. I wish I had a dollar for every time, over the last eleven months, I’ve heard the following:

“Well, I just can’t vote for a man named “Obama”. It’s just not right!”

I assume this phrase to be uttered by those who choose their candidate based, solely, on appropriate surname…and their sports teams, by jersey color.

The feminists’ choice floundered, shrilly, when prompted for details. The patriot lost his edge, and the Christian choice threw in the towel, as did many other, less noticeable, candidates.

And, then there was one.

I began to research. I spent hours poring over internet articles. I listened to speeches, I sought highly regarded opinions, and by the time I flipped my calendar over to reveal November’s butterfly, I was content in my choice.

As is my custom, I took my son with me to our polling place. We stood, on a sun-splashed, blustery morning, in a longer than usual line of voters. We conversed with neighbors,rarely seen otherwise, and accepted the offer of a warm beverage from an excited, gray-haired poll worker.

At one point during our wait, my son scanned the affluent, monochromatic, bedroom-community crowd, and stage-whispered, “I don’t think many of these people are voting for Obama.”

I laughed, in surprise, at his insight; reminded, again that he is an old soul.

“You’re probably right!”, I began, before bending closer to him. “But, that’s ok. That’s what makes our country great, the ability to choose. We just have to hope that enough of us make the right choice.”

And, to my thinking, we did.

My television remains, for the most part, dark, but NPR has, once again, become part of my morning commute. The economic legacy, left by Mr. Bush, dampened my Christmas, and continues to spread its pall over the new year. The devastation didn’t come about rapidly, and, recovery will take some time.

My son-in-law was laid off, with a reasonable severance package, two weeks ago. My daughter has made arrangements to support her family by increasing her hours, from weekends, only, to full-time, starting this week. One of my sons has seen his hours cut back, drastically, with the warning that lay-offs could come in January. My next paycheck will reflect a ten-percent salary cut, in an admirable move, made by our administrators, to protect all our jobs.

And, while these events are somewhat disconcerting, they are not devastating. I find myself anticipating 2009 with a sense of hope, based in the fact that, despite our former misguided choices, this time, we, as a people did the right thing; we put aside petty differences, and superstition, and bias, and chose a rather unlikely leader to guide us through, what will surely be, very treacherous times. We dared to hope, we took definitive action, and we showed the world that we can change.

And, the world expelled a long-held sigh of relief…and applauded.

“How do you measure a year? In daylights, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee…in laughter & strife. Remember the love. Measure your life in seasons of love.”
Jonathan Larson

Eleven

“Mom?” About three feet behind me, he begins to trot, in an effort to catch up. The movement, in the corner of my eye, reminds me of so many seasons of football and the characteristic way he exits the field.
“Mom, you’re lucky you’re a girl, you know that, right?” Extra effort pillows his words in gusty breaths.
“Well, I think so.” I turn and smile at him as he reaches my side.
“You want to know why?” He puffs, as we climb the cement incline leading to the book store.
“Why?” I stow my keys and check for my wallet.
“’Cause at school? All the girls have like lots of presents and stuff. I mean, they open their lockers, and there’s just all this STUFF in there, and they’re always giving each other presents, and guys just don’t do that, you know?” The extra effort required to breathe doesn’t slow his characteristically swift speech pattern.
We reach the door, which he hurries to open.
“Yeah.” I answer thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Come to think of it, guys don’t really give each other a lot of presents do they?”
“So see?”
He pushes his point home, as a coffee table book featuring a shiny, red, vintage car catches his attention.
“You’re lucky you’re a girl.”
The last word disappears between the pages.

“Mom?”
I insert one finger into the loamy soil supporting a prized cactus before lifting the watering can.
“Yes?” I watch the pot fill.
“Would you still love me if I was gay?”
I remember to take a breath, before continuing my perusal of the plant.
“Sure, honey. You know, there’s nothing you could do that would change the way I love you.”
“What if I was?”
I breathe again, lower the can, and turn.
“What if you were?”
“I mean…how would I know?” He watches his feet as he shuffles them against indoor/outdoor carpeting.
“Well, it’s a little early….” I clear my throat before continuing in my best educational voice.
“You know, I believe that a gay person is born gay. Gay is not something you become; it is something you are.”
I pause, hoping for absorption.
“It’s like having brown hair, or blue eyes. You don’t choose it; you ARE it. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” He draws the word out.
“Would you wonder if I would love you if you had blonde hair?” I search his face for his eyes, which he finally turns to me.
“No.” The word is quiet.
“It’s the same thing.”
We both breathe.
“And, its way too early for you to worry about that now, you know.” I force casualness into my words as I move to refill the watering can.
“Yeah.” Relief adds color to his words and a spring to his step. “I’m gonna go shoot hoops.”

“I didn’t have a great day.” I hear his feet as they crunch against the pavement.
“Oh? I’m sorry. You’re feeling bad?” I walk to the lobby to better our connection, and my chances for privacy.
“This guy kinda picked on me today. See? We were at the lockers, and, he was like saying all these racist things, like calling me “white boy”, and he like shoved me against the locker, and I was like “Stop!”, but he just kept on. I mean, it didn’t really hurt.”
“Well, it kinda hurt. And, these black girls where there, and, they were like laughing. And then he was like hitting my face. I mean, not really hitting, you know. Just kinda like punching at my face. And, I could feel it turning red. And, I was like “Stop!”. And, everybody thought I was like embarrassed, but I was just really wanting to hit him, but I knew if I did I would get in trouble, and you would be disappointed, so, yeah…I didn’t hit him.”
A canine welcome played in the background as he entered the house, and I pictured his face; lowered, with bright spots of color in his cheeks.
“Did you tell the teacher?” I asked, hopefully.
“No.”
His book-bag hit the floor with a crash, unsettling a kitchen chair. “She wouldn’t DO anything.” Dejection flowed over his words.
“But, you have to tell her, Shane.” I pause, deciding to take the conversation outside. “If you don’t tell her, I can’t do anything. Because if I go to her, and tell her about this, her first response will be, “Well, he didn’t say anything to me.”. Do you get that?”
“Yes.” He says the word, but doesn’t feel it.
“So, you have to tell her.”
“It won’t do any good, Mom…It’s ok. He didn’t hurt me.”
The sound of hinges squeaking tells me he is at the back door.
He fills my pause.
“Well, it kinda hurts; just where his knuckle hit my chin.”
I picture his hand rubbing the spot.

A pure, white-hot flame of injustice combusts in my chest, as I listen to my child relate a story of racism perpetrated against a child who has never seen color; who, until the age of nine, referred to all African-American people as brown; because they were. My mind fills with all the things I would say to his perpetrator were I to run into him on the street. I picture my hand on his collar, and the look of terror in his pre-pubescent face. I feel the satisfaction of eliciting fear; before I stop.

There are so many things I want to tell him….starting with;
“You’re not alone…Look around! Everyone you see feels just like you, at least some of the time. It’s who you are! It’s where you are supposed to be!”
“And, it is temporary.”
“One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll feel like a person, again. I know you don’t believe this, but I promise; it WILL happen.”
“I’ve been there, and I got through it. I raised three before you. They all got through it. We all do!”
“You are an amazingly intelligent, outrageously witty, deeply thinking, strikingly handsome boy! You have everything going for you, and the only thing stopping you, is you.”
“And…when you feel like you can’t go on. When it’s too much…when there’s no way out…when you feel bad, and you just want to cry…”
“You can. You can cry. Its okay to cry. Go to your room and cry; and when you’re done, it’ll be better; maybe not right away, but it will. It will be better.”

And, I do. Clothed only in flannel pants, left-over shower droplets dot his shoulders as he lays, prone, upon the bed. Both arms crunch the pillow under his head as he watches the words flow from my mouth.
And, as I speak, a trace of a smile dances across the corners of his mouth before he remembers to hide it.
And, as we close, I move into the next room with his warning ringing in my ears.
“Ok…” Laughter tinges both syllables. “I’ll try it, but I’m telling you…if it doesn’t work….”

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Seven-Revisions

Day seven of the Seven Day Mental Diet, and, I’ve learned some things:

I’ve learned that being, and remaining, in a positive frame of mind requires work and attention.

Accordingly, I’ve learned that the course, when darkened, can be corrected with relative ease, when aware of your thoughts.

I’ve remembered that, with effort, there is almost always something positive to be found in any situation, and that there is merit in the search, as there are benefits to everyone involved.

I am reminded of the freedom inherent in experiencing real feelings, and in welcoming the journey, and the lesson.

Over the course of the last week, I have cried a little more often, and I have whistled, gaily. I have looked for opportunities to praise and felt appreciation from those who must have wondered if I would ever notice…

I have remembered not to worry, in a time when there is much to worry about.

And, just as the author promised, on day seven, a positive outlook comes much more naturally to me than before this experiment.

The door opens on a blast of cold air,

and you.

A relative peace, tended by careful attention, endures.

You speak, I listen, as you share your appreciation of the warmth with which I surround myself.

And, this is how it is…today.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Six-Blessings

One Christmas, a few years ago, I completed my shopping, online, with several spirit-filled weeks to spare. Since discovering the ease, convenience, and seemingly endless choices available from the comfort of a chair that has memorized the precise dimensions of my oft-perched ass, I never looked back.
The requisite shipping deadlines, too, work to my advantage. Knowing there are only “five days left to order in time for Christmas delivery” forces me out of my usual procrastination, and while I don’t always match my inaugural performance, I have yet to fall into my former mall-inspired pattern of waiting until the very last minute.
This year, it was with no small measure of satisfaction that I clicked the “confirm order” button for the last time two weeks ago, secure in the knowledge that the few, small, miscellaneous items still needed could be purchased locally at a small store free of jostling shoppers, long lines, and the need to invoke “The Secret” in order to obtain a parking space less than a mile from the entrance.
Several days ago, during a lull in workday activity, I sat in front of a different computer monitor, eager to take advantage of another handy online tool. Tracking my purchases not only assures that I have, indeed, met the deadline, but it also provides me with an exact arrival date, allowing me to game-plan the sport of hide-and-seek my delivery man delights in playing.
All but one of my purchases had been shipped, and, to my horror, the approximate delivery date of the errant package flashed in holly-adorned graphics: “For arrival after December 25th.” After several hours spent in impotent outrageous indignation, I returned to the site, cancelled the order, and resigned myself to the reality of jostling shoppers, long lines at the check-out, and a rare winter-time opportunity to break out my hikers. I strengthened my resolve by inviting my son to go along, while reminding both of us that he, too, had some shopping to do.

Lists in hand, we set out early, determined to complete the task well before his 1:00 tip-off. Careful planning set our route, and we finished with an hour to spare, thanks to several very helpful salespeople. We sat down to lunch at my son’s favorite hamburger joint, where the portions are so big that neither of us could finish.
As was his usual custom, Shane had shed his coat much earlier in the day, encouraging his rush towards the car ahead of me in an effort to escape December winds. I aimed my key fob and clicked the locks open. A young girl with dulce-de-leche skin approached in my periphery. She held a cardboard box underneath her needy expression.

“Ma’am?” Her voice was soft, hesitant; prepared for refusal.
Shane, his hand already lifting the door handle, stopped, and turned.
I looked down at the girl, giving her permission to launch a whispery, mostly unintelligible pitch. My hand went to the wallet stashed in the back pocket of my jeans on finally deciphering nine words of what proved to be a rather lengthy, possibly practiced, speech.
“….so we can buy some presents for my Mom.” Her facial expression never changed.
I handed her a five dollar bill, and selected two plastic-beaded key chains from her boxed collection. Her hand folded the money while heading towards her pocket before she stopped and asked, more clearly this time, “Do I owe you any change?”
Somehow, the values spoken by her words assured me I had done the right thing.
“No, honey. Merry Christmas!”
I barely heard her wispy “Thank you.”, as she disappeared behind another car.
“Who was that, Mom?” Burgeoning masculinity laced Shane’s voice with protectionism.
“I don’t know honey…a girl trying to earn money to buy gifts for her parents.” I answered, distractedly, as we slid onto our seats.
“But, how do you know?” His skepticism surprised me. I stopped and considered my answer.
“You know? I don’t. But, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. In this case, she was offering something for sale, and I chose to buy it; whether that be a hand-made key ring, or hope that my contribution may brighten another family’s holiday, does it really matter?”
Shane thought in silence.
“We can’t control what others do with the gifts we give them. All we are responsible for is the spirit in which we give.”
As our seatbelts clicked into place, his silence continued, even as my blessing doubled.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Four-Surrender

As challenges go, today rates right up there…
Beth Hart wailed me to a good start, and as I exited my car in a driving downpour in order to pump gas, I anticipated the opportunity to “fluff” the raindrops into my hair, accentuating the “bed-head” look I had embraced on hearing the weather forecast.
Rhonda Byrne purred in my ear, between guitar riffs, and time stood still, once again.
The morning went swimmingly. As a controlled chaos persisted in my periphery, I was neither needed, nor involved, and managed to complete a trying Sudoku while ferrying telephone calls.
Curry, for lunch, was the perfect antidote to the dreary landscape outside the office windows. I finished, with fifteen minutes of my self-imposed time limit to spare, and used the time to check in on friends.
And then it began…

As my chair rolled to a stop in front of the telephone, it began to ring, and the noise didn’t let up for the next three hours. As soon as I disconnected my head-set with a promise to fax requested information, the ringing began, again. A yellow legal pad/desk blotter/armrest filled quickly, with the names and demographic information of prospective clients, and, as I struggled to keep all their balls in the air, the “right” side of my brain appreciated the interest, while the “wrong” side wondered when I would have time to satisfy all their demands.
One particularly eager client called five times in less than an hour. I memorized his telephone number, without effort, as it repeatedly paraded across my Caller ID, and, on seeing it, yet again, I squelched the desire to tell him he had absolutely no chance of qualifying; choosing, instead, to press “hold” as I collected my positive wits about me.
As the “big” hand on the clock over my desk creeped towards freedom, I turned my thoughts to the evening, and my son’s basketball game.
“Got a game tonight!”, I called through a co-worker’s open office door. “I’m hoping for another double-digit game!”
“Cool!”, he answered without raising his head. “Good luck!”
Pewter colored clouds, floating overhead, promised more precipitation, as I rolled to a stop, in rush-hour traffic. I remembered the forecast, and hoped the dark clouds would hang around long enough for the temperature to drop, while making a mental note to warn my northernmost friends of the darkness blowing their way. And later, while riding the passenger seat, on the way to the gym, I clutched my jacket about me, while thrilling at the obviously plummeting temperature, and the continuing chance of snow.
Sharing a spot along the gym wall with friends I hadn’t seen since football season ended, I readied my camera. As I positioned it, in anticipation of a “moment”, my friend leaned in to point out how short our players were in comparison to the other team. I smiled, benignly, while setting up the shot.

Play ensued, and our sons’ challenges became quickly apparent. Unfortunately, they had nothing to do with height. The score became lopsided, long before the halftime break, and I cringed at the expression on my son’s sweaty face, while determining to remind him of the importance of positive leadership after the game was over.
As we exited the gym, I drew my jacket closer, and lowered my head against what I hoped were snow-bearing winds. My son and I danced anxiously, outside the SUV, while his father/coach gave a trite-ridden, post-game speech to a supportive mother.
Three car doors slammed with emphasis, obscuring the first few words of my son’s post-game diatribe. A team-mate, touting an as yet unproven pedigree, had loudly announced his intention to quit the team. I listened as the two of them shared their experiences and opinions on the night’s activity.
A jar of peanut butter sat beside a sheaf of buttery crackers on the holiday-themed placemat in front of him. My son’s hand disappeared inside the peanut butter jar as I took a seat at the table beside him, while his father retraced his steps, in search of his jacket. Their conversation continued, as though uninterrupted, as I waited for a pause.

“Found it!” Roger’s call came from an adjacent room.
“You need a defense.”, I ventured.
Shane chewed as his father re-entered the room with purposeful, rubber-soled strides.
“Do you run plays?”, I asked. “I didn’t see plays. Do you have any?”
Roger’s head dropped to one hand as he slid onto a padded wooden chair.
“They won’t do it.”, he answered. “I tried. They won’t do it. Did you hear me calling “three”? That’s a play.”
“It’s a “pick-and-roll”, right?” Shane’s voice begged for confirmation.
“What about half-time?”, I asked, while re-running visions of seven aimless eleven year-olds, heaving the ball at the goal, in a game of “Me, first”.
“You can’t introduce plays at half-time!” The face Roger lifted from his hand was florid. “There’s not enough time! You don’t do that!” He paused to reposition his head inside his hand, while moving, from frustration, to defeat. “I tried.”
“Ok, so it’s only the second game of the season, and you’ve given up trying to teach plays?”, I asked.
“Mom!” This time, Shane spoke through a mouthful of butter-coated crackers. “He stopped after the second practice!”
“They don’t get it.”, Roger finished.
“I’ve seen it done.” My voice was resolute; full of experience, positive, and sure.
“When?” Roger rose up, placing his hands upon the table.
“Mandledove.”, I answered, simply, sedately; invoking the name of a former coach.
Rising to his full-while-seated height, color filled his face, and his voice, and frustration, flowed from his mouth.
“I’m sick of hearing about Mandledove! So, I suck!” He sucked a breath. “I suck at coaching.”

Numbers floated across the surface of my mind as I struggled to decide, at which point in puberty, his maturation had stunted.
“You’re a good coach, Dad.” Shane’s voice, free of buttery debris, remained weak, and indecisively supportive.
And, I watched, as a fifty-year-old man gave up, while an eleven-year-old boy struggled to determine the difference between what was real and what was important; and, I learned.
I learned that a positive outlook must be desired before it can be obtained.
And, with that, I raised my hand, in the universal sign of surrender, before training my eyes upon my son.
“Two minutes until shower time.”

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Three-Hope

Upon my arrival in Destin, no matter who is accompanying me, my first order of business is a trip up two flights of concrete stairs that lead to my father’s condominium. After hours of mindless, sedentary driving, the sprint is welcome, as is the artificially cooled air that greets me as I reach the top, pushing open the storm door that separates him from heavily humid ocean breezes. He is, almost always, ensconced in an ergonomically perfect chair, placed strategically, in front of a flat panel television. Salt infused sunlight pours through vertical blinds meant to defray it, highlighting a conglomeration of books at his burnished bare feet.
The titles range from bestseller to obscure, dogmatic non-fiction, and he will read from each of them before the sun sets.
If reading is his favorite hobby, golf runs a close second. Philosophy ties both of them, and anything else important to him, together.
Marking my birthday, his celebratory telephone call has become a ritual. He delights in reminding me of my age. And, every year, I react in the same way.
“Well, if I am old, what does that make you?”
He laughs, as though considering the question for the first time, before answering.
“Really old!”

Over the years, our telephone calls, regardless of original intention, almost always stray onto another subject; something deeper, an arguable point, an opportunity to wax philosophical. And, as we talk, my father leafs through all the knowledge lying at his feet, and shines.
Today, after discussing my sister’s recent hospitalization, our conversation meandered into the state of our economy, and despite the horrific landscape, my determination to remain positive won the day.
“You want to know what I think?”, I ask, rhetorically.

“What do you think?”, he answers, automatically, through a smile.
“I think things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.” I pause here, for emphasis. “I think next year could get really rough, and, I don’t think we’ll ever get back to where we were. And, you know what?”
“What?” The word carries appreciative anticipation.
“I think that’s ok.” I pause, for the sake of argument.
“You might be right.” I picture him shifting inside ergonomic perfection.
“You know? I look at my son. And, he’s not alone…I look at my son; he’s eleven years old, and trotting out onto the football field. He’s got $200.00 worth of padded plastic on his head. Another $200.00 sits beneath his jersey, in the form of shoulder pads. His shoes cost $125.00. And, his gloves! He wears $30.00 on his hands, and he’s eleven years old! Add to this, the cost of registration, and the expense of fuel, required to travel back and forth to the practice field and games, which can be as much as twenty-five miles away! All told, Pee Wee football costs almost a thousand dollars to play!”

“Yeah….”
“I’m not involved in the expense. I leave that to his Dad. But, he’s not alone. This is what is expected…And, I look at all that money and think about what it could do!”
“Yeah…I understand.”
“So, I think it could be a good thing to get back to real values, you know? Obama talks about caring for our fellow man, and he’s labeled a socialist. I just think it would be a good thing if this economic crisis forced us to take a look at our excess, and reminded us of what’s really important.” Another breath.
“Truthfully?”, I ask, without waiting for an answer. “Crazy as it sounds, I welcome the challenge!”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right…I know.”
And, I feel good. Not just because my father allowed me to win the point; there is more. I welcome the realization that instead of worrying I am welcoming. Instead of wringing my hands, I am going forward; with an open mind, and, more importantly, an open heart; confident in the knowledge that this, too, shall pass, and, with any luck, we’ll come out better on the other side.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Two-Attention

“I stole the outside
Runnin’ into the sun
I ‘m alive
I’m loud, as a golden gun
I killed my pride
So once again I’d see

Live and learn
You’ve fallen, one thousand times
I feel the burn
There’s fire from a crazy sky
I sealed concern
So once again I’d be

[Chorus]
And it lifts you up
Then it puts you down
And it feeds you life
Then it lets you drown
While it holds your heart
Then it slowly tears you apart
And you know – that life is what I mean”

For the last several weeks, these words have jump-started my work-day. As Beth Hart slides into my CD player, “Lifts You Up” draws me in with guitar chords before pulsing, staccato drumbeats drive my hands against the steering wheel. Midway through the song, I’m dancing in the driver’s seat and singing at the top of my lungs. It depends on the day; some days, once is enough, others, like this morning, for instance, it takes three plays.

It was a late night, as are so many; making the sound of the alarm nothing more than a harsh reminder of the cold conditions outside my flannel cocoon. I rise, finally, allowing myself thirty minutes to complete a morning ritual that requires a minimum of forty-five. As I race about the house, my eye strays to an array of clocks in a variety of rooms, until, shrugging on my jacket, one last glance assures me I will be at least fifteen minutes late for work.
Strapped in, I man the wheel with one hand and crank the volume with the other. My toe taps the gas pedal in anticipation of rousing drumbeats, as I muse, again, on the lateness of my departure. The first red-light catches me, and as I sit, and tap, and finger the steering wheel, Rhonda Byrne’s soothing tones flow in underneath Beth’s growl, and I remember.

There is an entire passage in “The Secret” dealing with time, and its relativity to our existence. Quite honestly, when listening to it, this portion of the book is usually scrambled by the white noise that plays in my brain whenever numbers are required to understand a maxim. Fortunately, Ms. Byrne chose to illustrate her point with a life situation I experience on a regular basis, as she suggests an alternative to worrying about time. Following her suggestion, I remind myself, over and over again, to mentally repeat the following mantra, which I still hear in a lovely Australian accent: “I have MORE than enough time.” And, this morning, my one and a quarter hour trip was completed in one hour. This is not the first time this has happened, and, after today, it will not be the last.

I must admit, day two of my The Seven Day Mental Diet did not go as swimmingly as the first. As Joy related her husband’s disappointment in a vacation cancelled by economic forecasts, I found myself leaning forward, eager to share my own war story. As my co-workers sniped about a particularly difficult customer, I threw in my two cents, without a second thought. And on the way home, as I rolled in behind another weary commuter, I eyed the streams of glowing red lights in front of me, and realized rush-hour traffic was compounded by its proximity to a popular shopping mall and Christmas sales.

It was while bemoaning my sad state to an unfortunate caller that I realized how far I had strayed from my original goal, and I immediately slung one leg back over the saddle. Since that time, despite unruly dogs, the realization that my son’s cellphone is, indeed, dead, and math homework, I have maintained a positive outlook. And, I have learned….
I have realized that, for me, maintaining a positive outlook will require fervent attention; that while sneaking a glance at a clock I must remind myself that “I have MORE than enough time”. And, when friends invoke the misery of their days, I can smile knowingly, without comment, before leaving them to their travails. And, when a particularly unhappy customer bends my ear, I can picture them as they are; sad, lonely, in need of an audience.

One Thought at a Time

Like most women, I’m almost always on a diet. Ok…there, I said it; the “D” word. It strikes me as funny how unpopular that word is in a country in which nearly everyone is on one. The truth is, whether it be termed a “lifestyle choice”, or a decision to “watch what I eat”, or a goal of “making better food choices”, it all comes down to the same thing.
Merriam-Webster gives several definitions for the word “diet”. The first, and arguably most universally accepted is: “food and drink regularly provided or consumed”. There are others that might apply just as well, but given this definition, I feel it safe to say nearly everyone follows a “diet”.
Probably one of the most interesting, and short-lived, diets I have ever tried is the Eleven Day Diet. The theory behind this plan is that by mixing and matching a precise combination of nutrients, the body will burn fat rapidly, making this diet a seemingly viable option for those times when an upcoming event is looming, and the dress you have chosen to “wow” the crowd is just a smidgen too tight.
The dieter chooses a prescribed number of food items from a specific list and a computer program calculates a plan that must be followed, to the letter, to insure the promised results. Unfortunately, the computer doesn’t know breakfast from dinner, and after a couple of weeks of boiled shrimp and peaches for breakfast, Dr. Atkins was looking pretty good.

I recently came across a post on a blog site I frequent in which the author introduced a different type of diet. The link she provided (http://vst.cape.com/~rch/fox.html) directed my browser to an article called “The Seven Day Mental Diet”. My experience with the Eleven Day Diet notwithstanding, I reasoned a person should be able to withstand most anything for a week, and I began to read.
The premise of this diet is “you are what you think”. We’ve all heard this said a hundred different ways at least a thousand times. I was originally introduced to the concept by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale who wrote the book “The Power of Positive Thinking” and coined the phrase; “Change your thoughts and you change your world”. The book was published, originally in 1952, remained at the top of the bestseller list for 186 weeks, and sold five million copies in six years after publication. The most recent example of this treatise is probably the phenomenon known as “The Secret”.

I made the mistake of buying the Books-on-Tape version. Rhonda Byrnes dulcet, Australian-scented tones seduced me. For days on end, she and I ferried our way across Atlanta suburbs on my way to work, and, as I turned the key to begin the drive home, she was there, waiting to accompany me home. She knew how to solve all my problems, and the key was inside my own head. Sure, it did occur to me that if all I had to do was think about something in order to have it, it would seem my circumstances would already be much different, but every time I began to have those thoughts, she purred, and I resolved to try harder. This phase lasted approximately a month. Shortly after, I gave the book, and the DVD, to my daughter, reasoning that it couldn’t hurt, and may, possibly, help. I kept the book-on-tape. Rush hour traffic can be so stressful, and that voice…
As the concept was not new to me, the inspiration I felt upon reading the details of the Seven Day Mental Diet had more to do with challenge. The prescription suggests that for seven days the dieter be mindful of all her thoughts, and at the first sign of negativity, change course towards a more positive mind-set. It follows, of course, that the dieter not participate in any gossip, complaining, or self-deprecating.

I am, for the most part, a “glass-half-full” kind of person. But, I have to fight for it. I am skeptical. I am jaded. I am realistic. And, none of these qualities predispose a person towards positivity. So, I work for it. The premise of this diet is that if one follows, closely, the directions given, the work will be done, and a more positive frame of mind will become a natural state. Furthermore, all of the aforementioned treatises suggest that when one develops a positive mindset, she will transform her environment, spreading positivity wherever she goes. This is the part that intrigues me.
So it is that, with my skeptical, jaded, realistic, heart, I have accepted the challenge. The universe has thrown down her gauntlet, and I have answered her, in kind.
Today, day one, was a success. It was, and will be, difficult. I am, as are most of us, surrounded by negative people, hoping to draw others into their misery. At one point, I found myself commiserating with a co-worker, but before the words I had formed escaped my lips, I pursed. They remained unsaid as I returned to my office. For the last thirteen hours I haven’t lost patience with anyone, I haven’t sighed heavily, or scowled, or raised my voice. There are those in my periphery who would consider this a minor miracle.
I plan to journal my journey here in hopes of chronicling a change.
Wish me luck, or, better yet, send me loads of positive vibes…