Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Godsmack

When I was young, my mother deposited my sisters and me on the sidewalk in front of the Methodist Church every Sunday morning. It only made sense to go inside. Especially in winter, since Sunday was the one day a week we were forced to wear dresses. Vicious winter winds whipped the hems of our skirts, pushing us towards the double doors leading to the sanctuary.

Before long, it became achingly apparent that those double doors actually led to a sort of sanctified catwalk and, as soon as the Richway opened on the opposite corner, my entry into the sanctuary was little more than a detour.

As a teenager, summer Sundays found me in a tiny, white, clapboard church, chiefly populated by elderly Baptists. Attendance was requisite to spending the weekend at Mrs. Wise’s magical, heart-of-pine farmhouse. I liken the experience to being a visitor in a strange country. Few of their traditions were familiar to me. But, we were allowed to wear pants, and the friendly parishioners seemed uninterested in where you had bought them or how much they cost. Everyone appeared truly happy to be there, and even happier to see a new, young face.

I toyed with the idea of converting, until I learned that Southern Baptists disallow a plethora of enjoyable activities; among them, dancing. I am not a frequent dancer, and when I do dance, I don’t do it particularly well. But, I value the freedom to do so when the spirit moves me…

As a mother, I returned to the Methodist church. And, not just to make a deposit. I actually attended along with my children. By this time, a few avant-garde women were wearing pants, but I stuck to my skirts. As a stay-at-home Mom, I embraced any opportunity to wear make-up and pantyhose.

We attended for several years. My children joined youth groups and were baptized on video. Several years ago, while cleaning the attic, I found the VHS tape in a box filled with books. I gave it to my daughter who watches it with her brothers, on occasion. It reminds them of a pleasant time.

While my children were being sprinkled, however, florid men in Sunday suits were arguing the benefit/cost ratio of a lottery in Georgia. The argument spilled over into the church. Political fire-storm soon superseded religious education, and it became apparent that, while this congregation didn’t stand in judgment of one’s fashion sense, it made no bones about dictating a political stance.

I didn’t attend church in search of a political science lesson. I attended church in search of religious education, for me and for my children. As the level of negativity within the congregation grew, I once again beat a retreat, with one yearly exception.

Every Christmas Eve, we happily interrupted the preparations and festivities for an opportunity to touch God. Inside the sanctuary, the lighting was ambient, the music inspired, and the presence of God more tangible than at any other time in my experience. I always left the church better than when I went in, grateful for the peace and hope He had placed within my heart.

Of course, I see God everyday. What more perfect evidence is there of God’s presence than a bird? These marvelous creatures, who carry everything necessary for life in a tiny feathered bundle that defies gravity, effortlessly. What better proof could there be of the Divine?

And I feel Him working in my life, especially when I have dropped the ball. He usually lets me have my head long enough to realize I’ve lost sight of the finish line, before pulling back on the reins hard enough to unseat me. And, often, it’s not until I’ve regained my composure enough to brush myself off that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a Holy Smack-Down. This realization usually prompts the first smile I’ve allowed myself for days.

You have to smile. It’s just like being a kid; a kid who does something she knows she shouldn’t. And Dad comes in with that look on his face that tells you he knows. He knows and he isn’t happy about it. The only relief for the anxiety inspired by that face is retribution. And, you secretly smile. After Dad leaves the room, you smile. And, for a while you behave, content in the knowledge that when you don’t, when humanity rears its ugly head again, He’ll be there to jerk the reins.

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 Five-Crazy

Today was a “crazy” day; not “crazy” busy, not “crazy” good, just crazy.
Some days are like that, especially since I stopped using chemicals to block feelings. It doesn’t happen often; not nearly as often as it used to, but it does happen. It comes without warning, and without reason.
I feel it as soon as my head leaves the pillow, while remaining ensconced in a cloudy murk that makes everything just a little more difficult. Sound seems muffled, and my vision unsure, as I try to focus on too many things at once. Dressing for work becomes a chore to be completed as quickly, and with as little effort, as possible, as I shrug on the first thing I lay my hands on, and barely notice stacks of fabulous shoes on the way to my sneakers. I give a passing glance to a wall-sized mirror while brushing my teeth, and twirling my hair into a clip atop my head. The curling iron remains cold.
I trudge into the next room, content in my decision to embrace my lack of affect.
My day progresses in much the same manner as any other, with one difference, obvious only to me. On days like this, it is as though I am of two minds. There is the side of me who cares about nothing, who efforts to speak, while noticing, with some incredulity, the rhythmic, slow, even, effortless act of breathing.
The other side watches her, labeling her as “ugly” while giving her permission to remain so, for as long as necessary.
As you might expect, patience is not a virtue easily exercised on days like these. And, as so often seems to be the case when I am least capable of paying attention, challenges become more frequent.
The voices in my headset seemed more dim-witted than usual today. A snarky coworker managed to get most of one hand under my skin before I noticed, and bit back my next equally obnoxious response. As the workday ended, I found myself alone with a person whose political views could not be more different from mine; and, she was itching for a fight.

“I heard an interesting point of view the other day about Obama’s healthcare plan…”
She spoke to my sweatshirt covered back, as my face was buried, dully, in a computer monitor, giving me the opportunity to shift my features into an attentive mask before spinning, slowly, in my chair.
I listened, as in measured, saccharine tones, she shared the views of one of her favorite right-wing talking heads. My legs were crossed, as were my hands, allowing the serenity in my face to spread composure on my mind.
When it was my turn to speak, I appreciated her argument before explaining its mistaken context. My words were succinct; spoken calmly, leaving no room for further argument; and the side that watches congratulated silently.
It wasn’t until later, as I sat in shopper-enhanced traffic, that a swell of recently unused, yet remarkably familiar feelings, filled me, and with them, the realization of how, despite my inertia, I had overcome this day. Before taking the proffered chemical pathway to non-feeling, I had managed my emotions with acceptance. As is the case with most things practiced over time, the ability had been there when I most needed it, and the feeling of accomplishment brightened both sides of my fractured mind. I had gotten through what could have been a very difficult day with only a modicum of discomfort that was appeased, for the most part, by avoiding mirrors.
I rolled into the grocery store parking lot on a cloud of self-acceptance that drew a hint of a smile upon my otherwise colorless face. Gratitude had spread emotion just beneath my skin, as I would realize while standing in the self-checkout line with others whose needs were minimal.

A boy occupied the space in front of me. I studied his anxious expression as he monitored the movements of those at the check-stands in front of us. The pillows riding his flawless cheeks told me he was probably about the same age as my son. Cradled carefully in his arms were eighteen styrofoam-covered eggs and two generically-wrapped packages of chemically prepared cheese-food. Tears came to my eyes as I realized I was looking at his dinner, while my son awaited pizza delivery inside our warm, carefully decorated home. I turned away, unwilling to show him my pity.
When I turned back, the boy was moving forward, hesitantly, with one eye over his shoulder; prepared to be deemed unworthy. I shoved him forward without moving, envisioning my son’s face above those precious eggs, and when he reached the counter, I saw it; a single, small container of the very best brand of chocolate milk, and, this time, my tears came with a smile.

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…

Perspective

Latecomers jostled politely for a place against the wall, standing in a glow of anxiety, reflected by the faces in a massively expensive, glossy table around which the others sat.

The face at the head of the table was expected, and familiar in every way except his light-colored eyes. Red-rimmed, they spoke louder, and more eloquently, than his words.

A reverently expectant silence fell, broken only by an occasional throat clearing, or a shift of hips in an overused, complaining leather chair. A chorus of expelled breaths added weight to the air, while an occasional nod confirmed that his news was not news.

As he rendered his verdict over the sound of released tension, mental calculators clicked behind smiles of relief. Their pockets would be lighter, but they would have pockets. They had a purpose, they had a reason, they had a commute, and a job.

Several employees headed towards the break-room to return borrowed chairs.

“Hey, Gregory! Too bad! You interrupt your vacation to come in for a meeting, only to hear your pay will be cut!” The speaker laughed, sardonically.

As he turned, Gregory’s dark eyes were solemn.

“I didn’t speak in the meeting.” His voice was low; his English broken by Croatian accents. “Many wouldn’t understand me. But, believe me….this is nothing.”

“So from the beginning the fight we were winning…”

We are not, generally speaking, a family of tradition…

Quilts and afghans, created by my great-grandmother, out of a sense of need rather than an expression of creativity, draped the top of a battered box of castaways, labeled for curb-side pick up. Decades-old ceramic dinner plates, depicting a green-hued scene of men in powdered wigs and frock-coats, were discarded as soon as the cardboard box containing geometrically patterned stoneware was opened. My favorite jelly glass, the one depicting Fred Flintstone piloting his ragtop, is gone.

For years, we shared holiday dinners with a family of Chicagoan transplants, who preferred butter over margarine, and felt like pickled peaches were a viable food choice. Until, we didn’t.

Understandably, I was flummoxed, when upon herding my burgeoning family around the massive, dark-stained dining table of my youth, a request was made for a show of gratitude. One-by-one, each anticipatory diner rattled off an item for thanksgiving. A furtive glance told me I was fourth in line. My mind fractured; one side struggled with personal performance, while the other hoped my children wouldn’t embarrass me, or, worse yet, themselves. Blessedly, we all managed to extrapolate an acceptable offering, and I made a mental note to never come unprepared, again.

For several years, we took our seats and racked our brains, as steam wafted off the stuffing. Until, we didn’t.

Today, as I danced about my kitchen to a soundtrack only I could hear, I adjusted my earphones with one hand, stirred a cheese sauce with the other, and found myself wishing someone would ask the question. For once; I am prepared.

This has not been an easy year for me. In March, I lost my best friend. He had red hair, and a goofy smile, and, as far as he was concerned, the sun rose, and set, in my eyes. He died peacefully; but, he died. Hundreds of dollars spent to insure his comfort afforded me little solace as I stood over him, willing that breath not be his last.

Two of my sons lost their jobs, and their home, in one fell swoop. For a mother, it doesn’t get any harder than this. The fact that their change of fate was hastened by a cherished family member only sweetened the blow….

I began work as a hospice volunteer this year. Within two months of my first visit I had lost two patients. Death is not an easy thing to see. “Natural causes” render a person to a most unnatural state.

Personally, I continue to ride a roller coaster I seem to have ridden so long, that the foam-enhanced seats carry a permanent imprint of my ass. And still, I grab the roll bar, finger rusty metal exposed by fidgeting fingers chipping paint, roll my lips back, and meet the rushing wind, helter-skelter.

And..it’s alright….

The roller coaster is mine to ride, or not. No matter how many times I stand on queue to ride it, it always stops. Sooner, or later, it rolls to a stop, laden with fading screams; and, as I dismount, it is my decision whether or not to rejoin the queue.

After two months of ambivalent effort, I took a leave of absence from hospice work. I have only one patient of the original three, and, some days, I am sure she will outlive me. As I stop to focus on other things, I pray she will know me upon my return.

Both of my sons found new careers. One is happy, and one, his mother’s son, works hard at it, every day.

And, tomorrow, Murphy comes to live with me. He won’t be Otis. He couldn’t be. But, he might be my best friend.

Twelve years ago, I was handed a prescription for anti-depressants, which I immediately filled with all the enormity the diminutive, curly-locked doctor imported.

“Bad” days became less bad.

“Good” days, became colorless.

I’ve tried, many times, to handle life on my own terms, only to find her overbearing…until I didn’t.