Pompless Circumstance

Shane’s long-time baby-sitter, Christin, invited us to her graduation ceremony. The invitation, and the opportunity it presented, seemed timely.

Shane will start eighth grade in the fall or, as he puts it, he’ll be the “Big Dog”. So many facets of Shane’s life serve to accentuate the fact that the upcoming school year will be a period of transition, a stepping stone if you will, from one phase of life into another. As high school graduation should be the pinnacle of this next phase, attending the event seemed an opportunity to plant a seed, to secure a goal, to expose him to all the pomp and circumstance afforded scholastic achievement.

He balked only slightly when I insisted he wear dress shoes and the imagined pain of buttoning his button-down was assuaged by the mirror over my shoulder, as a slight jerk of his head almost produced the coveted swish of Justin Bieber hair.

“Hey, Mom! I look kinda good!” He’s a slightly pudgy thirteen-year-old. “Kinda” IS good.

Christin had called earlier in the day. Her words were punctuated by a distinctive “click” as she released long golden curls from the clutches of a steaming curling iron. Her usually swift cadence was enhanced by excitement as she shared ticket information and encouraged early arrival.

“You’llbesittinginbleachersIt’sgoingtobehotbutthey’resellingChick-fil-asothereisthat.”

We parked at the church next to the high school and walked a down-hill block to the stadium. Shane’s baseball coach met us as we circled the football field.

“Luke’s up there somewhere.”, he shaded his eyes against the burning twilight, searching for his son. “There!”, he pointed.

Shane asked the question with a lift of his eyebrows. I answered with a blink and a nod, and he began a clumsy ascent towards his friend

We were early. There were plenty of seats to choose from. I headed for an empty metal bench in the center, and as I climbed towards my perch, overheard someone make reference to the fifty-yard-line. It felt out of place

Easing onto a very warm aluminum bench, I was disappointed to realize that the stage had been set up facing the opposite side of the field. They were, apparently, playing to the “home” crowd. A handful of people scurried to and fro around the stage as though assigned a very important task, but no one actually seemed to do anything. A golf cart sped past the bleachers several times. The sun had dipped below the treetops, but left her heat behind.

A group of people wearing black caps and gowns approached the stage area. It took me a minute or so to realize that they were teachers and not really old looking students. Mentally, I chastised myself for the mistake. It’s not as though I’d never attended a graduation before. I’d seen those same caps and gowns at my own graduation.

Of course, my graduation took place downtown, in the air-conditioned comfort of the Municipal Auditorium. And the event was actually a culmination of events that had taken place over the preceding two weeks. Parents feted their children with parties that felt a lot like bridal showers feel today. An assortment of gifts flowed in from my parents friends, many of whom I’d never met. Most sent money, but one relative sent a boxed set of Anais-Anais perfume. I was so impressed! It seemed so…continental! I wonder if it’s still available…

Crimson colored caps and gowns were delivered to the school two weeks before graduation and taken to the music room for fittings. We stood in line with our friends, waiting our turn while sharing our enthusiasm and an occasional joke at the expense of students whose heads measured extra-large. Afterwards, a group of us went out to lunch and, later, to the mall. It didn’t matter that we would be wearing calf-length gowns. The occasion called for a new dress. And shoes, of course.

Something about the prospect of walking down an aisle prompts profuse primping. Not until I married would I again spend so much time in front of a mirror. I emerged from the bedroom I shared with my sister to find my family waiting in the den. My father wore a suit and tie, my sisters, their Easter shoes, and my mother, heels under a skirt that probably hadn’t seen the light of day more than once or twice since she’d owned it. We all piled into Mom’s Vista Cruiser station wagon and headed downtown.

The auditorium was dark except for tiny lights imbedded in the aisle seats. My family went inside while I followed a beckoning, black-shrouded teacher whose job it was to herd graduates backstage.

The noise we made as we assembled ourselves upon the risers behind the curtain seemed deafening. I was sure our parents could hear. The relative darkness only served to accentuate the heavy blanket of expectancy that fueled our collective state of giddiness. Several robed teachers stood in front of the risers alternately moving students who had yet to master the alphabet and threatening rowdy boys by addressing them as “Mister”.

And the music began…daaaa, dadada, daaaa-da, daaaa, dadada, daaaaaah. A nervous silence fell over my class. Even the rowdy boys stood a little taller.

“Excuse me…”

I woke from my reverie to the face of a young father wearing cargo shorts with a baby dangling off one arm. He looked pointedly at the bleacher beneath my feet.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” I turned towards the aisle, allowing him passage. A young African-American man climbed the steps towards me. He wore blue jeans under a t-shirt which exposed carefully cultivated biceps. Very large basketball shoes bloomed beneath his pants. Loosened laces allowed for a protruding tongue. The toddler perched in the crook of his right arm made repeated attempts to dislodge his doo rag.

Behind him, a middle-aged woman in tank top and shorts, pushed a mop of unruly blonde curls from her face as she searched for a bench long enough to contain her similarly clad contingent.

I shifted on the bench that was becoming harder and more uncomfortable by the minute to see that two rows of black robes were filing in towards the stage.

The man sitting next to me leaned in, “Why are some of the kids wearing black robes, while the others are wearing white?” I felt so vindicated…

The presence of a tiny sea-foam-suited woman waving her arms, frantically, in front of a small group of students wielding instruments was the only indication that music was playing. The air around me was filled with the cacophony of mixing voices, frequent laughter, and the occasional baby crying. Suddenly the fifty-yard-line comment seemed less inappropriate.

This time I leaned in. “Are these people just going to talk through the entire ceremony? It’s bad enough we can’t see. We aren’t going to be able to hear either?”

My position granted me a line of sight though which I could see Shane. His eyes were focused as he sat immobile save for his thumbs, which danced rapidly over the controls of Luke’s Gameboy.

Four rows down, a slightly overweight, middle-aged man sat in a suit and tie. His hands folded and unfolded a program as he surveyed the crowd.

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…

Lessons Learned…

I never had much use for homework. Fortunately, I was able to soak up enough information in class, that my lack of ambition only tripped me up occasionally. I did have to take Algebra I twice, and Geometry was much more interesting the second time around. You will notice a pattern…

My parents never queried me on my work habits, preferring, instead, to remain oblivious as to how the grades were accomplished. All of my book reports, and class projects, were completed without their assistance, or comment. Our job, as children, was to attend school and make the grades. Theirs was to write checks and take a turn in the carpool line.

Much to my chagrin, things had changed by the time I had children.

My second child has a mild learning disability which affects reading comprehension. He is also male. This is a formula for disaster.

We were fortunate to find a tutor who was using her experience as fodder for her thesis, and thus worked gratis. Every morning, an hour before school started, our footsteps echoed against industrial tiles and concrete walls as we stumbled in. And, every evening, after the dinner dishes were done, he would pick up his flash cards as I laced up my sneakers, and we would walk. I never thought to measure the actual distance, but I know we logged many miles, walking in circles around our block, as he called out the answers while burning off his “boy” energy. As we tired, we turned, in tandem, into our drive and slumped into a wooden swing strung between two sturdy oaks. As I reclined against the arm-rest, he pumped his legs in time to his responses. This is how we made it through phonics, and the second grade.

Fast forward, over a decade. I have moved my family from a sleepy country town to a burgeoning, metropolitan suburb in hopes for the very best in opportunities, and education, for my youngest son. The curriculum is demanding, and those long, circular walks now seem like a walk in the park.

In first grade, at the age of five, he was directed to construct a musical instrument. I pored over online documents in search of the simplest example, in hopes of carrying on my parents’ tradition of limited participation. I finally settled on a percussion instrument of Native American heritage, which required hours of winding yarn around 2 sticks discarded by the towering pines in our backyard. My son wound for about 30 minutes before restlessness overcame him, and his pudgy, 5 year-old hands could do no more. The rest was up to me. The result was a haphazardly wrapped trapezoid which, when rubbed between 2 hands, made an occasional clicking sound.

Dressed in my suburban mother costume, I placed the carefully constructed, delicately woven, instrument in the bottom of a large box for safe-keeping, before sitting it in the backseat of the car. The special care we had taken with his hair, forced my son to hold his neck straight, arched, and away from the back of the seat, in hopes that it would remain in place. We were on our way to the presentation of the instruments.

Reluctantly handing him the box, we parted as he made his way, through a throng of students, to his classroom, and I turned towards the cafeteria, and the display area. As I walked among the tables, my heart skipped a beat as I realized my mistake. With one manicured hand placed over my mouth, I read the history of the mandolin before inspecting the carefully carved wood for juvenile imperfections. There were none.

At the next display, I tested the tautness of animal skins stretched across wooden tom-toms, and found no failing.

The next velvet draped table, featured eight, expensively etched, crystal glasses holding carefully measured amounts of variously colored liquid. A silver-handled, rubber mallet rested, luxuriantly, next to each one. Display boards, featuring computer generated graphics, blocked my view of the next table.

So…you wanna play hardball….

By fourth grade, I had adopted a new strategy. When the teacher assigned a report on The Revolutionary War, in which the student was to dress the part, I eagerly anticipated our role assignment. Thanks to Ebay, my son channeled Samuel Adams resplendently dressed in period costume, complete with powdered wig. As he traversed the hallways, no teacher was immune to his charm. It didn’t matter that he left out most of a paragraph of his report, as he stumbled over his presentation in true nine-year-old form. He dressed the part, and for that, he garnered a large, red, “A”.

Our next assignment was a scientific experiment involving, of all things, earthworms. Harking back to my upbringing, I sent my ten-year-old outside into the gardens with a shovel and pail. Southern drought had apparently chased the slimy creatures further underground, forcing my use of a larger shovel. We were expected to test ten. We settled for eight.

Camera at the ready, I set up shots of my son among carefully placed worms, rich, brown dirt, and apple pieces.

After all of the data was collected, my son watched as I arranged photographs amongst cleverly engineered graphics on a display board. I would settle for nothing less than another “A”!

Fast forward, again, to today. I am sitting in rush-hour traffic, which due to our herculean, hurricane-contrived gas shortage, is decidedly lighter than it was one month ago, and my cell-phone rings.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m working on mean, median, and mode. I added the numbers and divided, but what do I do with the remainder?”

Silence.

“I called this kid I know, who’s in honor’s math, and he said I should make the remainder a fraction. Is that what I do, Mom? Is that right?”

Continued silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

I can still see her face, curtained by God-given, red hair. Tall, and pale, she stood before the class and gestured her freckled arm towards the gibberish she scrawled across the chalkboard.

I probably should have paid more attention…