Undercover Runner

Anyone who knows me will tell you I am not, by nature, a runner. I don’t have the vibe.

Athletic clothes don’t look chic when pulled over my frame. They don’t even look particularly athletic, unless you consider a frump athletic. I don’t carry a bottle of water everywhere I go, and my sneakers don’t look as though they have been run over by a car multiple times. And, if you see me on a street corner, I will not be running in place in preparation to dart across the sidewalk. I will, instead, have both arms out, wing-like with fingers splayed, in an effort to hold back the child who may or may not be accompanying me. Old habits die hard.

I still look back in horror at the days of the one-piece, polyester, blue-and-white-pinstriped jumpsuit we were forced to wear in PE class. It was the era of the “President’s Council on Physical Fitness Award”, wherein middle-aged jocks with large plastic whistles invoked the memory of JFK to “inspire” children to meet a set of standards set by the federal government. One entire quarter of the school year was set aside for this endeavor, and it quickly became the longest three months of my life.

One day a week we began our day under a cloud of steam emitted by our pre-pubescent mouths. Inside the black asphalt track, the football field sparkled as dewdrops fought the sun’s effort to reclaim them. The runners bounced in anticipation, while the rest of us huddled with arms wrapped around our shapeless midsections, and grimaced against the cold. As the coach approached in his year-round uniform of t-shirt over unattractive, polyester shorts, featuring a six-inch waistband and very deep pockets, I scanned my group of shivering non-runners for the easiest mark, and set my preliminary goal of not coming in last. By the end of the quarter, I had reevaluated. My new goal was, simply, to survive. Recently, though, my experience has served me well.

In the public school system, PE is now treated as an elective that is placed in rotation with Home Economics, Computer Science, and Spanish. So far this school year, my son has learned his way around a kitchen, and mastered at least twenty words in Spanish. He returned from Christmas break full of anticipation for six weeks of PE. His excitement, however, ended when the coach, wearing a t-shirt over unattractive, polyester shorts featuring a six-inch waistband and very deep pockets, raised a large plastic whistle to his lips, signaling the class to run.

Shane is athletic. He has played football for five years. He has excelled in basketball for four years, and fills the time in between with baseball. A couple of weeks ago, I met his descent from the school bus with my usual question.

“How was your day?”

“Crummy.”, he growled.

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“PE”, was all he said.

“PE? You love PE! You were looking forward to it!”

“Yeah…”, he began. “That was before we had to run.” JFK may be a distant memory, but the President’s Council on Physical Fitness is, apparently, functioning without him.

I smiled down at my notably athletic progeny before saying, “Let me tell you a story.”

I used to joke that if you saw me running you could be sure someone was chasing me. That was before middle-age, and the realization that a simple change in dietary habits no longer reaps the same reward it did twenty years ago. At this time in my life, physical activity is just as important as logging every morsel of food that passes my lips.

I live just minutes from a park that boasts two well-maintained walking tracks. White concrete snakes over several acres between tennis courts and baseball diamonds, and a “nature trail” winds through towering pines behind the football field. The sound of my hurried, measured footsteps barely pierces the music piped into my ears through tiny, white earphones. By keeping my eyes down, I can get into “the zone”, and walk for miles. But when I raise my eyes, I see them; the runners. Loping by me, their long strides mock as I realize they will probably lap me again before I reach the end of the trail.

I want to run, but find it so boring, so tedious. And there is, of course, the picture in my mind of me running, complete with blue-and-white pinstriped, polyester jumpsuit…

Last week, the sun burned the frost out of the air, inviting me to venture outside in my shirt-sleeves. Exhilarated, I fought my puppy’s gangly legs into his harness and attached the leash.

“Let’s go, boy!”, were the last words I would speak before re-entering the house.

Murphy, my five-month-old boxer, headed out at a dead gallop. I resisted him at first, but, upon seeing the joy in his limited freedom, I followed his lead. And, we ran. We ran downhill, and around corners. We ran uphill in the center of the street. We ran into cul-de-sacs, down to the entrance of our subdivision, and back.

As I repeated the harness process, in reverse, I marveled at how good I felt. I felt loose, I felt fit, I felt athletic! And, the difference was made by my companion. Running on the other end of Murphy’s leash freed me from the inhibitions inherent in my awkward appearance in athletic clothing, and stopping to catch my breath warranted no explanation, as everyone knows running dogs stop every few feet to sniff. The presence of a dog changed the entire premise of the activity while keeping me entertained. I’m not putting myself out there as a runner, I’m just a football-Mom on the other end of a leash.

Confessions of a Spoiled Brat

The goal leading to my latest psychological growth spurt was to better deal with a person with whom I must deal daily, and with whom I have constant difficulty. Isn’t that always the way? We almost never enjoin in any kind of spiritual or psychological journey because of some fault we sense in ourselves. We journey in an effort to relieve pain, to decrease stress, or to “fix” someone else.

Two weeks into my latest exercise, I made an unsettling, yet wonderfully emancipating discovery. I am a spoiled brat. And, true to form, I’m not just your garden-variety spoiled brat. I am a self-made spoiled brat. I studied to achieve this status. I worked at it. Work, though, is too small a word; I persevered.

“Spoiled brat…”

I’m sure I heard these words burst forth from my mother’s mouth, initially, and apparently more than once, as they come to mind fairly easily. My mother was given to name-calling when angry. She had several favorites. I believe “spoiled brat” was used in situations when her use of the word “No!” was met with some complaint, or perhaps when she sensed we were behaving in an ungrateful manner. I’m sure she directed these words at me on more than one occasion, though I’ve never felt deserving, until now.

My epiphany arose from a single question; “Did he mean to hurt?”

At the risk of sounding simple, I must admit I had never considered this part of the equation before. The question was aimed at a woman detailing her husband’s latest transgression. It seems he had forgotten to take out the trash, or something equally heinous. Then came the question, and I lost my sense of hearing as my brain began to whir, filled with misdeeds I had logged over the years. As they flashed before my eyes, the question repeated; “Did he mean to hurt?”, and inevitably, the answer was “no”.

It was an amazing exercise, and I recommend it to everyone. It’s hard to comprehend how much room is taken up by imagined slights. As I took out each hurtful memory and held it under this light, it disappeared, leaving me lighter, freer, happier. I began to experience people differently and give more of myself as the part of me that had been holding onto hurt was available for real interaction.

Strangely, though, as the hurt peeled away, I noticed a disturbing recurring pattern in my thinking. Roger called to ask if I could come to the gym a little early. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. The dog trainer called to say she couldn’t make our Thursday evening appointment, but Saturday afternoon was open. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. Shane asked if I could swing by the school after work to pick him up, so that he could stay for the basketball game. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. The point is not whether I did these things, because I almost always do. The point is that my thinking immediately turned to what I wanted, and, chances are, if I did do the things I had already decided I didn’t want to do, my demeanor displayed my reticence.

I also became aware of how much of my quiet time is spent in thinking about what I want. Rush hour is prime time for this kind of ruminating. Usually, by the time I get home, my evening is planned according to my desires, and I don’t appreciate interruptions that divert me from my chosen endeavors.

The natural response to uncovering such a distasteful aspect of one’s character is to ask “why?”. The answer came easily. It was survival, really. My divorce left me a working, single mother of four children. Circumstances leading to the divorce left me ill-prepared for this, or any other challenge. After a pity-party that lasted several weeks, I looked around and realized five people were counting on me, and only me…for everything. I pulled up my boot-straps, just as my father had taught me, and forged ahead. In the process, as I felt the pressure of four sets of eyes trained solely on me, my eyes, too, focused inward. Somewhere along the way, I had come to equate strength with doing things my way. This may have worked, then. It may, in fact, have been the only way. But, blessedly, circumstances have changed, and that kind of self-interest is no longer in my best interest.

It will take some time to change a habit I worked so hard to develop. Awareness is the first step. This evening, as I sat amidst hundreds of other weary commuters, my cell-phone rang. The voice on the other end of the line suggested a diversion from my well-thought-out plan for the evening. My first thought was “I don’t….”.

That’s as far as it got…

And, that’s a start.

Too Little, Too Late?

I went to work at the age of fifteen, mostly in an effort to ensure that my wardrobe reflected my tastes, and of course current trends, instead of what was on sale at Sears/Roebuck. As I flipped through the racks at Lerner’s, Gloria Steinem turned the world on its ear.
I remember wondering why she had chosen to thread the earpieces of her large, tinted, aviator glasses over her hair, instead of hiding them underneath, as the rest of us did. She had to be close to my mother’s age, but instead of going every six weeks to the beauty shop for a style and set, Gloria grew her hair long, allowing the strands to drape her painted face along the line of a stylish center part. She wore short skirts and knee-high boots instead of the polyester pull-on pants and knit tops my mother favored. And she spoke, in measured, succinct tones, of the oppression of women, and their unheralded strength and value. I had discovered a hero.

The birth of my first child ignited in me, a breed of love I have never experienced before, or since. When my daughter was six weeks old, I reentered the job market, as promised, and worked for two weeks in a local department store. Coming home to two miserable females convinced my husband that our financial obligations could be met by one salary. Nine months later, I was pregnant, again. The prohibitive cost of daycare for two babies made me a stay-at-home Mom, who contributed to the family finances by caring for three unrelated children during the day.

Following a pattern set by my mother, I developed an interest in soap operas, timing my morning chores around the television schedule. As theme music began to play over the final act, I reached for the telephone, beginning a daily marathon of conversation with another mother, that ended precisely one hour before the sound of rubber crunching gravel announced my husband’s arrival home. Dinner rolls browned as he showered, and if I timed it just right, they both emerged at the same time.

Gloria, and others like her, referred to me as a “couch potato”. Soap operas and well-timed dinners had brought with them my mother’s wardrobe, and as Gloria stylishly stomped across the stage to shake Mike Douglas’ hand, I looked down at my widening, polyester draped hips. She flipped her hair back, and I self-consciously fingered the clip that tamed my un-coiffed mane. She spoke words that used to come from my lips, before my vocabulary consisted of the single syllables of my children’s picture books. And, with those words, she urged me to own my life, to shake off oppression, to look my husband in the eye and demand my right to make my mark.

Within weeks, I was dropping my youngest son at a local church daycare before the sun’s warmth had dried the dew from the grass we used to play in. My two older children were in school, and my presence, when the school bus pulled up in front of our house every afternoon, assured me that I was living “the life”, “having it all”. And, I’ve never looked back. My path has followed the course Gloria promised. I’ve risen in the ranks, I’ve padded my pocketbook, and I’ve got the big-screen TV, late-model automobile and designer handbags to prove it.

Last week, as I urged my shiny, red car down rain-slick streets in an effort to be home in time for my son’s basketball game, the radio dial came to rest on one of hundreds of satellite enhanced offerings. A young woman bemoaned the travails of working-motherhood; the pressed schedules, the unreasonable demands, feelings of inadequacy. The measured tones of a well-known, conservative talk show host filled my car, and Gloria urged my well-manicured index finger towards the dial, but before I could reach, I heard.

“Did you ever think that the reason you don’t enjoy being a stay-at-home Mom is because YOU don’t appreciate your own worth; YOU don’t think what you do is valuable? Did you ever think you may have been sold a bill of goods?”

My eyes strayed, again, to the clock in my dash; thirty minutes to game-time. I thought of my daughter, draped in polyester, passing her days in manufactured housing twenty-five minutes from the closest grocery store, standing at the bus-stop with an umbrella in one hand, and a dog’s leash in the other.

Her lack of drive has always bothered me. The decision to enroll her in classes for the gifted was not an easy one. I worried about the pressure, and possible ostracism from those who were tracked for mediocrity. I placed her, and she excelled until an older boy from the “wrong side of the tracks” bounced his seemingly permanently affixed cigarette in her direction.

Despite every intervention offered in every psycho-babble book I’d ever read, and a few I came up with on my own, she was lost to me, until an inevitable stint in state prison interrupted their courtship, as my nemesis traded his Camels for a neon-orange pant-suit.

His departure from her life took with it nearly thirty pounds. Fit and lithe, she marketed herself, again. Eric fancied himself a guitarist the likes of Jimmy Page. His black, leather jacket was expensive. His vocabulary included words like “please”, and “thank you”. His eyes sparkled over a Greek menu he was more than willing to try, and I was sold.

Six months later, when my daughter called with the news of her pregnancy I asked her in measured tones, “Are you prepared to raise this child alone?”.

“But I won’t, Mama”, was her answer.

And she hasn’t. Christopher, her husband, is a kind, calm, wise, loving father who went to work, everyday, at five-thirty in the morning. When he came home, around four, he liked to play video games until supper was ready, which he followed with a shower, and bed. Two weeks ago, the air conditioning plant in which he worked succumbed, as have so many, to financial crisis. On the day she got the news, my daughter called to tell me she would be going full-time at her former weekend job.

As I sat in my car, with eyes darting between dashboard clock and traffic light, I finally appreciated her sacrifice. I arrived home amidst a flurry of game-time preparations, and as my son went in search of yet another missing sock, withdrew my check book from my bag. Wrapping the check in a scribbled note, I handed the envelope to my over-anxious basketball star directing him to drop it in the box while I locked up.

Two days later, just as I had expected, the telephone rang and I answered to the sound of my daughter’s appreciative voice.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t. You didn’t ask for it. But I wanted you to have it, and I want you to know why.” I plopped into my office chair, rolling to the spot offering the best view through the bank of windows that comprise the opposite wall.

“You and I don’t always see eye to eye. I know I’ve pushed you to do more, be more. Today, I realized that what you have been doing is very important, and while forces outside of your control have dictated that you change your priorities, I hope that change will be temporary. That money is between me and you. I expect you to use it to meet needs left unmet by your income. But, I also expect you to support Christopher by encouraging him to get out there and find another job, so that one day soon, you can go back to being…just a Mommy. This is my way of letting you know, I get it.”

She was silent for a few moments before saying simply, and quietly, “Thank you, Mom.”

Word of the Day: Mercurial

I like the word “mercurial”. It virtually dances on the tongue, fraught, as it is, with alphabetical curly-cues and trills. When I say it, out loud, I immediately flash on the word “ethereal”. On first thought, I supposed this to be an accident of pronunciation, but, in truth, there is an other-worldly essence to them both.

Mercury, dubbed Hermes by Greek mythologists, was the messenger god. He was also associated with trade, travel, and speed, as symbolized by winged feet. Early Celtic art endows him with three heads, and sometimes three penises, all of which he put to good use.

Borrowing from Norse mythology, followers of the occult assign Mercury dominion over all things magical via a circuitous route that ends, apparently, on Wednesday. The French word for Wednesday is “Mercredi”, and in Spanish “Miercoles”.

Mercury enjoyed great popularity in early Rome, inspiring many heroic stories, even though, interestingly enough, he may have lacked initiative; acting, almost always, at the behest of someone else. Apollo, Zeus, and Odysseus used him to do their dirty work, as he was well versed in the art of trickery.

He was born of an illicit union, and embraced his father’s tradition, on a grand scale, enjoying some of the most beautiful of mythological women; among them, Aphrodite, Penelope, and Chione. The fruit of these unions mirrored his duality of nature. His son, Pan, was lauded as the god of shepherds, music, and fertility. More recently, however, his image has been borrowed for use as the depiction of Satan. Another son, the beautiful Hermaphrodites, suffered gender reassignment after spurning the advances of a scornful nymph, and later, exacted his own revenge by praying that an entire body of water be spoiled, such that anyone who swam there lost his virility.

Mercurial: “2) having qualities of eloquence, ingenuity, or thievishness attributed to the god Mercury or to the influence of the planet Mercury, 3) characterized by rapid and unpredictable changeableness of mood”

I like to say the word. I like to hear it. But, recently, I have realized I don’t enjoy people who are it.

Broken Circles

“Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

An aching silence sucked the air out of her, making it impossible to breathe.

“Which is it? Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

Challenge rode in, on words spoken matter-of-factly, without malice.

“For some reason you felt you had to settle. For some reason you felt like you weren’t good enough. Which was it?”

Unspoken words sparked the air, clenching her teeth, as she fought an overwhelming compulsion to cover her ears. She knew what was coming, and wasn’t sure she could hear it again.

“Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

She whimpered, softly.

“Who was it? Who was the bad guy?” Kindness and compassionate appreciation tinted words spoken barely above a whisper. “Was it your mother? Your father?”

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, closest to her nose, as she felt, at once, relieved to have been given permission, and desperate to maintain composure. And, even as she battled, she recognized that the fight, too, was a problem.

Feelings rushed in on the image of her mother’s face; a scowl, a smirk, a sneer. She tried, for years, to find a smile, one smile; a smile of doting adoration, a smile of gentle understanding, a smile of quiet gratitude, a smile of genuine enjoyment. There were no smiles; not for her.

And, the words came; sharp words, strong words, words children shouldn’t speak, and can’t understand; “Idiot”, “Stupid”, “Imbecile”. And, even as they repeated, in her mother’s voice, inside her head, she wondered if, in some bizarre way, she should thank her. Did epitaphs flung at her school-aged head, in some warped way, spark an interest in vocabulary, a love of words, a need to understand? Did the constant state of confusion, mixed with a certainty of her valuelessness, spur, in her, compassion?

The vision she conjured was one of abject submission, as the picture of her mother, hate-filled sneer firmly in place, loomed down at her, hands on hips. She never understood what she did, or how she did it. She never understood the hate, the sadness, the feeling that her mother would rather be anywhere else.

With time, the feelings became memories she only had to feel on the drive down at Christmas, or Easter, or some other holiday. Placing one hand on a doorknob she’d turned thousands of times before, she held her breath, allowing her features time to compose a practiced mask of confidence, strength, and composure. She stood tall, holding her mother’s jade-infused eyes with hers, brown, and snapping, until a slumping of her mother’s shoulders, or a look of proud dismissal, gave her permission to move into the next room, where, at last, she exhaled.

The vision comes again, and, this time, she sees her own childish face; open, innocent, and needy. Questions fly around, inside her head, as she gazes down upon her own countenance.

“Why couldn’t she love me?”

“What could I have done?”

She feels the pain she felt then. She recognizes it. She honors it. She validates it.

It’s not that she hadn’t realized that she’d never had a mother.

But, it doesn’t help to be reminded.

She wonders if the scars will ever heal, as an image of her own daughter flashes across her mind.

And, she smiles through tears that never fall, secure in the knowledge that the cycle ended, with her.

Child to Child

I saw him.

I saw your child.

Bullies on your playground backed you into a corner, and he came out.

Your eyes blazed.

Your voice changed.

Confidence and bravado were exchanged for whining demands accompanied by the impotent stomping of rubber-soled feet.

A plush pout replaced your sardonic grin while red-rimmed eyes held years of unshed tears at bay.

And arms that should have held you crossed, instead, across my chest.

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.

Are You Still Fat?

“You won’t believe what she asked me!” The wind competed with her words as she drove, forcing me to push the cellphone closer to my ear.

I turned and walked in the other direction, in case the bad connection was on my end.

“What did she ask you, honey?” Thankful she couldn’t see the smile my words broke through, her obvious indignation conjured an image of my friend; short, and fiery, the hair she had worked so hard to contain that morning would, by now, have escaped its rubber restraints, so that it danced around and into her snapping, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are you still fat? That’s what she asked me! Are you still fat? Why does she do this to me, honey?”

“I…”, was as much as I was allowed.

“She’s so sweet! Why does she see me this way? Who would do that? I mean, you see someone you haven’t seen in a really long time, and do you say “Hi, how’re doing? Is your wife still fat?” Of course, you wouldn’t honey. You wouldn’t say that.” The wind continued to whip around her words, but her volume made it less of an issue.

“Well, I’m not sure…”, I started, again.

“I know, I know, she doesn’t mean it.” She anticipated my response, before pausing for a breath.

Sitting forward in the porch chair I had sunk into, I opened my mouth to continue, a moment too late.

“But she’s always done this, honey. You know she has! Remember the trip we took? The way she was always so solicitous of me?”

I rested against the cushions again, and, looking down, realized I still wore my running shoes. I did leg lifts, as I listened.

“This defines me, honey! Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she know my entire life has been defined by my weight?”

I did two more lifts before hearing her silence.

“Please don’t tell me that.” My voice was soft, but forceful, as I brought both feet to the ground, and stood.

“What honey?” Tired by her diatribe, her voice had quieted, too.

“Please don’t tell me that at your age you are still defined by your body type. I have to believe that at some point we just don’t care anymore, you know? And I count of you to be my barometer. What are you, thirteen years older than me?”

She left the question unanswered.

“I watch you, you know? I learn what to expect, from you.” I kicked a stray piece of mulch back into the flower bed as I walked.

“I’ve always believed that at some point we just don’t care anymore, that other things become more important, like what books we have read, or whether or not the garden is putting out, things like that. I need you to tell me that.”

Her silence continued for a moment before she asked softly, “What am I going to do, honey?”

“Did you ever think about talking to her?” Reaching the gate at the end of the walkway, I turned.

“I can’t do that. She has no idea she’s doing it. She’s so sweet.”

Her voice bore no sign of the horror she had described earlier, and as she spoke children’s voices drifted in and around her words.

“Well, I’m here, and no one seems to notice this thing sticking out of my ear.” I smiled along with her at the memory of every other time she had said those words.

“Hey! I posted to my blog! I mean I got to thinking about what you said…” Knowing her grandchildren would soon take her attention, my words came out in a rush.

“Good! ‘Cause if you left that last one in front, no one would ever come back! I gotta go, honey!”

And, this is what we do.

“Tryin’ To Get The Feelin’, Again”

I love Christmas.
I love the music, the colors, the lights, the smells, the sparkle.
I love children at Christmas; especially young children, who still carry the magic, and spread it, through the light that shines in their eyes on Christmas morning.
I love wrapping paper. One year, when I was greener than I am now, and much poorer, I fashioned wrapping paper from brown paper grocery bags, and a couple of potatoes carved into stamps. The result, when tied with red and green dyed raffia, was rustic and charming. Now, as I rifle through shelves of shiny pre-printed rolls, I prefer a thick, shiny paper that creases easily into nice sharp edges, as it covers a box.
I love Christmas baking. I do a lot of it, not just for our family, but also to give to friends, as gifts. To insure a reasonable amount of freshness, I usually start the evening of the twenty-first. Each night until the twenty-forth I cook three or four different decadent treats; storing them in canisters with sheets of waxed paper between each layer. No one is allowed to sample the goodies until our family get-together on Christmas Eve. And, I love Christmas Eve.

When my older children were very young, they complained, loudly, about the unfairness of their father and me attending holiday parties to which children were not invited. From their perch on the babysitter’s lap, they watched longingly as we left on a wave of sparkling holiday elegance. And, next morning, they plied me with questions about what we did at the party, and what kind of food was served. The actual event could, in no way, match their vivid imaginations; and I would occasionally embellish my story, as I passed out the treats I had secreted inside a gaily colored paper napkin, the night before.
I don’t remember exactly when, but at some point, I began throwing parties on Christmas Eve for my children; not children’s parties, but parties much like the ones their father and I attended, complete with real hors d’oeuvres and pretty beverages, minus the alcohol. They ate their food from Christmas china on tables covered with seasonal linens, and the candlelight danced in accompaniment to Christmas music which filled the background, softly. Most years saw several friends in attendance, as well, and, while I still brought goodies home, my children never again complained when we went to a party.
The tradition continues today. I began baking, grateful for my daughter’s help. And, when the M&M cookies refused to flatten, leaving me with something more in keeping with an M&M biscuit, it was nice to have someone to laugh with.

Christmas, this year, was a struggle. As Thanksgiving passed, I sought out the radio station playing non-stop Christmas music, and, as I always do, saved it in my presets. In years past, I listened every day to and from work. This year, I tuned my dial to this station just twice, when my son and I were out, Christmas shopping. All the songs sounded the same. There was nothing new; nothing interesting. My commute was fueled, instead, by a favorite CD or Sirius.
Most of my shopping was done online. This is nothing new, though, my approach to it was. I didn’t so much shop, as purchase, having decided on my gifts, in a very matter-of-fact way, much earlier. This proved very efficient, but much less enjoyable. In years past, as the boxes arrived, I took much pleasure from slicing them open to view what was inside. This year, the boxes remained sealed until time came to wrap them.
The day after Thanksgiving is always set aside for Christmas decorating. This year I hung the last wreath three days later. The crèche never made it out of the box, and the garland that usually drapes the fence lay, unlit, on top of a box in my garage.

I strapped on my apron on the December twenty-second, and made all our favorites, but much less of them.
Our Christmas Eve party started, as always, as 6:00 pm. In years past, as the evening wore on, I found myself tired, and looking forward to clean-up, and bed. This year, the house was quiet by 8:00, and I ended the evening with a movie on pay-per-view.
A couple of weeks ago, as I sat alone in my office, I thought about my struggle to feel Christmas. After several minutes of soul searching, I finally decided that the culprit was my commitment to frugality, in deference to a fragile economy. My decision to reign in my expenses had taken all the fun out of the holiday. Choosing Christmas gifts had become a question of money, rather than the receiver’s delight. Holiday cooking became a chore to be completed, rather than an experiment of gastronomic pleasure. My lack of spirit was evidenced by decorations that never left their boxes.
My husband, and I, used to argue about when to take down the decorations. I felt they added sparkle to New Year’s celebrations. He subscribed to an old adage, holding that Christmas decorations, lasting until the New Year, brought bad luck. We quibbled for years, and usually got them down just before the ball began to drop.
Today is December twenty-eighth, and my house is free of Christmas debris. For whatever reason, the spirit never quite arrived, and the remnants of it were just a reminder of what never was. I am not happy in the realization that money has come to play such a large part in my enjoyment of the holiday, and hope to change that in the coming year. I’ll start by saving brown paper grocery bags…

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.