I am feeling frustrated by some things. A few minutes ago, I thought, "I should write a manifesto!" Maybe it would have made me feel better. Maybe it would have helped someone else. The reality is, though, we have to LIVE the manifesto. Writing it, reading it, thinking about it aren't enough.
What has me upset? How difficult it seems to be for many human beings to just do the right thing, focus on the work, be kind, act from love. I believe in those things, rather fiercely in fact. I still have trouble not getting caught up in the politics of things, the cycle of negative thinking that is so easy to fall into. Who is right? Who is wrong?
I have trouble with forgiving myself for the times I haven't done the right thing. That is, no doubt, the reason I sometimes have trouble forgiving others whom I perceive haven't done the right thing. I know, however, that how we define the right thing is dependent on a lot of factors. Some would say that I'm espousing situational ethics; I'm not. I simply know that I cannot see or know what's happening in situations where I am not fully immersed but am watching from the edges.
Be kind. Act from love. Do the right thing. Simple words. Simple actions. Simply what I will focus on as I choose how I want to be in the world. I hope some people will join me.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Re-learning lessons
I have to sigh and report that I was locked out of my office tonight, me on the outside, and my purse, glasses and home keys on the inside. If you'll note, my last two posts related to being locked out. Do you sense a theme? ;-)
I did not have a "second story man" to assist me, but to make a long story short, I did figure out a "secret" entrance that allowed me to bypass the locked door for which I don't have a key (only after being told the campus police could not let me in because even they don't have a key, but they'd be glad to call my boss and ask her to come to campus to let me in....uh.....no thanks!) Luckily if I hadn't realized there was a sneaky way to get in, my loyal friend/colleague stood by, ready to take me home, just in case, and I guess had my landlords not been home, I could have asked the neighbor to break into my house again. We just chatted about that at the grocery store this weekend, and he repeated that he had a good time doing that.
I started a new job on January 3rd. I have been fascinated by the disorientation and general discombobulation I've experienced in moving from one area to another on my campus. Last time I was locked out, I put it down to a new door and being overly stressed by the job I had then.
This time? I could claim discombobulation, a "senior" moment, momentary amnesia or interference by aliens...but of course the real issue is mindfulness and the lack thereof. If I remember to do it, I'm going to meditate on mindfulness before I sleep and again tomorrow when I awaken.
Do me a favor? If you're a betting person, just send me the cash. :-)
Saturday, December 3, 2011
One more lesson....
And lesson number five, after I learn not to go out of the door without the keys in hand? Don't ever leave that window open again when I'm not home!
Gratitude for a Second-Story Man
Please tell me we have all done this: turned the lock on a door and then closed it...only to realize you're on the outside, the door is locked and your keys are in the inside.
This happened to me last night at about 10:30 p.m. I had gone out to put some trash in the bin, and without thinking, locked my new security screen door. Not the kind of security I had in mind, of course.
For a few minutes I stood there, shivering* in front of the door, looking at the cat, who was meowing as if to say, "you really screwed up," pondering the possibilities. I live next door to my landlords, but they're not night owls, and it was past their bed time. I really hated to wake them. I didn't have my phone, it was inside next to my keys. They live in a relatively large house and it's difficult to hear the doorbell or knocking in their bedroom, but I tried....for about five minutes.
So I stood on their porch and pondered some more, fighting rising panic at the thought of spending the night outside. I took a breath and realized that the lights and TV were on at the next door neighbors' and though I don't know them all that well, I realized I needed to ask for help. So I knocked on the door, borrowed their phone and tried calling my landlords to see if that would wake them. Nothing doing. Finally I sighed and told the husband, "If you have a phone book, may I borrow it? I'll call a locksmith." I was actually feeling a little proud of myself in the midst of abject embarrassment. I was problem solving!
He looked at me and said, "Oh you don't want to do that. Are there any open windows or any other access beside the front door?" I told him I thought I'd left one bedroom window open, on the side of the house where the window is on the second floor and there's no structure next to or below it, which always made me think it was safe to leave that window open.
He laughed and said, "I'll get in your window and open the door." My intrepid neighbor got shoes, gloves and a flashlight, put on a cap*, and we went to his backyard to get a ladder. He put the ladder over the back fence, trying to avoid ruining my landlady's roses, and then climbed over the fence himself, noting that it was harder to climb over than the last time he'd scaled a fence and maybe he should work on his flexibility.
Then he stood below my second floor window and sized up the situation. He called out to me, "Hey there's already a ladder here!" and before I could respond to say that it was an antique ladder and probably not sturdy enough, he'd climbed to the top and said, "This is feasible, not easy, but feasible!". A few minutes later the screen was off the window, he'd pulled up the blinds and climbed in. My hero! I went around and met him at the front the door, told him he could have whatever he wanted (well, within the boundaries of his wife's agreement!), and thanked him effusively. He was pretty nonchalant, as though this is the kind of thing he does on a regular basis (think of a cowboy saying, "tweren't nothin, ma'am." and shuffling).
Then he said, "Hey I should put your screen back on!" And he did, back onto that shaky ladder one more time, finishing the job.
I learned four important things:
1) Don't be afraid to ask for help.
2) The kindness some people show is simply amazing.
3) This guy's wife is really lucky!
4) I need to tie my keys and phone around my neck the minute I walk in the door to avoid ever locking myself out again.
Ah the joys of the post-menopausal memory fog.
*For those of you not in Southern California, may I please explain that to us, 50 degrees is cold! I could see my breath as I spoke (well whimpered with shame, actually). I did not have a coat on. Yes, I know this is not equivalent to you walking twelve miles to school in the snow, barefoot, uphill both ways. I know, Southern Californian's are wimps.
This happened to me last night at about 10:30 p.m. I had gone out to put some trash in the bin, and without thinking, locked my new security screen door. Not the kind of security I had in mind, of course.
For a few minutes I stood there, shivering* in front of the door, looking at the cat, who was meowing as if to say, "you really screwed up," pondering the possibilities. I live next door to my landlords, but they're not night owls, and it was past their bed time. I really hated to wake them. I didn't have my phone, it was inside next to my keys. They live in a relatively large house and it's difficult to hear the doorbell or knocking in their bedroom, but I tried....for about five minutes.
So I stood on their porch and pondered some more, fighting rising panic at the thought of spending the night outside. I took a breath and realized that the lights and TV were on at the next door neighbors' and though I don't know them all that well, I realized I needed to ask for help. So I knocked on the door, borrowed their phone and tried calling my landlords to see if that would wake them. Nothing doing. Finally I sighed and told the husband, "If you have a phone book, may I borrow it? I'll call a locksmith." I was actually feeling a little proud of myself in the midst of abject embarrassment. I was problem solving!
He looked at me and said, "Oh you don't want to do that. Are there any open windows or any other access beside the front door?" I told him I thought I'd left one bedroom window open, on the side of the house where the window is on the second floor and there's no structure next to or below it, which always made me think it was safe to leave that window open.
He laughed and said, "I'll get in your window and open the door." My intrepid neighbor got shoes, gloves and a flashlight, put on a cap*, and we went to his backyard to get a ladder. He put the ladder over the back fence, trying to avoid ruining my landlady's roses, and then climbed over the fence himself, noting that it was harder to climb over than the last time he'd scaled a fence and maybe he should work on his flexibility.
Then he stood below my second floor window and sized up the situation. He called out to me, "Hey there's already a ladder here!" and before I could respond to say that it was an antique ladder and probably not sturdy enough, he'd climbed to the top and said, "This is feasible, not easy, but feasible!". A few minutes later the screen was off the window, he'd pulled up the blinds and climbed in. My hero! I went around and met him at the front the door, told him he could have whatever he wanted (well, within the boundaries of his wife's agreement!), and thanked him effusively. He was pretty nonchalant, as though this is the kind of thing he does on a regular basis (think of a cowboy saying, "tweren't nothin, ma'am." and shuffling).
Then he said, "Hey I should put your screen back on!" And he did, back onto that shaky ladder one more time, finishing the job.
I learned four important things:
1) Don't be afraid to ask for help.
2) The kindness some people show is simply amazing.
3) This guy's wife is really lucky!
4) I need to tie my keys and phone around my neck the minute I walk in the door to avoid ever locking myself out again.
Ah the joys of the post-menopausal memory fog.
*For those of you not in Southern California, may I please explain that to us, 50 degrees is cold! I could see my breath as I spoke (well whimpered with shame, actually). I did not have a coat on. Yes, I know this is not equivalent to you walking twelve miles to school in the snow, barefoot, uphill both ways. I know, Southern Californian's are wimps.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Rituals, Love, Acceptance and Rejection
My mama and I have a weekly ritual. I drive 50 miles to her house every Saturday morning. We nearly always have the same thing for lunch, and our conversations often revolve around the same topics. Sometimes I could swear we have the same conversation verbatim -- I have a sense of deja vu often.
On Saturday nights, I take mama out to dinner. We usually have the fine company of her lovely friend Anna Jean. Week before last we were on our own, though, and we decided to go to the Norm's that recently opened near her home. For those of you not from Southern California, Norm's is an institution, a modern day diner with hints of the past. The food is plentiful, pretty tasty, and reasonably priced.
As I wheeled mama into the restaurant she was afraid we'd wait forever because it was crowded, but there are more booths than tables, and since she uses her wheelchair whenever we go out, we often move to the front of the line since we need a table.
We'd been seated about five minutes when a young family with a baby came in and were seated behind us. Mama loves babies, so I told her that a baby had come in and she couldn't see him, but I'd make sure to wheel her in the best direction to say hi to him when we left. The father, a very proud papa, overheard me, and he brought the baby to meet mama. He took the three month old baby boy out of his carrier and gently held him against my mom's chest so she could not only see the baby, but feel him and smell that sweet baby smell.
I was holding my breath, first with the awe of the kindness of the young man. I didn't think I'd said it very loud, but mama is nearly deaf, so I must have. A man at the next table over asked the proud papa if he was going to show the child to everyone in the restaurant. And, that proud papa walked that little baby to every table in our section. Smiles everywhere, the brightest of which belonged to mama.
There was another reason I was holding my breath. My mama is nearly 90, and she was born south of the Mason-Dixon line in the early 1920s. Though she's much more aware and accepting of diversity than someone of her origins might be, she still holds some unfair stereotypes. The proud papa was covered in tattoos, the sort typically associated with gangs and/or time in prison. She didn't say anything except, "thanks, your baby is adorable." I exhaled.
After dinner, I wheeled her across the parking lot to the new Super King supermarket. She said very quietly, "He didn't want those. They made him get them," referring to the tattoos. I leaned over and kissed her cheek and murmured, "probably so, Mama, probably so."
We walked into Super King, a large and brand spanking new store with many products marketed to the Latino majority in her town. Mama had just been so amazing about the proud papa with the tattoos, and she loves the Latino family who live across the street from her and keep a loving eye on her. When we were in the bread aisle, I picked up a loaf of Bimbo brand bread (Bimbo is a teddy bear and the label on the bread was in Spanish). Bless her heart, she refused to let me buy Bimbo brand bread for her. She was not interested in any bread called Bimbo, because all good feminists know that it's not good to be a bimbo. I just had to chuckle while I looked for "American" bread.
On Saturday nights, I take mama out to dinner. We usually have the fine company of her lovely friend Anna Jean. Week before last we were on our own, though, and we decided to go to the Norm's that recently opened near her home. For those of you not from Southern California, Norm's is an institution, a modern day diner with hints of the past. The food is plentiful, pretty tasty, and reasonably priced.
As I wheeled mama into the restaurant she was afraid we'd wait forever because it was crowded, but there are more booths than tables, and since she uses her wheelchair whenever we go out, we often move to the front of the line since we need a table.
We'd been seated about five minutes when a young family with a baby came in and were seated behind us. Mama loves babies, so I told her that a baby had come in and she couldn't see him, but I'd make sure to wheel her in the best direction to say hi to him when we left. The father, a very proud papa, overheard me, and he brought the baby to meet mama. He took the three month old baby boy out of his carrier and gently held him against my mom's chest so she could not only see the baby, but feel him and smell that sweet baby smell.
I was holding my breath, first with the awe of the kindness of the young man. I didn't think I'd said it very loud, but mama is nearly deaf, so I must have. A man at the next table over asked the proud papa if he was going to show the child to everyone in the restaurant. And, that proud papa walked that little baby to every table in our section. Smiles everywhere, the brightest of which belonged to mama.
There was another reason I was holding my breath. My mama is nearly 90, and she was born south of the Mason-Dixon line in the early 1920s. Though she's much more aware and accepting of diversity than someone of her origins might be, she still holds some unfair stereotypes. The proud papa was covered in tattoos, the sort typically associated with gangs and/or time in prison. She didn't say anything except, "thanks, your baby is adorable." I exhaled.
After dinner, I wheeled her across the parking lot to the new Super King supermarket. She said very quietly, "He didn't want those. They made him get them," referring to the tattoos. I leaned over and kissed her cheek and murmured, "probably so, Mama, probably so."
We walked into Super King, a large and brand spanking new store with many products marketed to the Latino majority in her town. Mama had just been so amazing about the proud papa with the tattoos, and she loves the Latino family who live across the street from her and keep a loving eye on her. When we were in the bread aisle, I picked up a loaf of Bimbo brand bread (Bimbo is a teddy bear and the label on the bread was in Spanish). Bless her heart, she refused to let me buy Bimbo brand bread for her. She was not interested in any bread called Bimbo, because all good feminists know that it's not good to be a bimbo. I just had to chuckle while I looked for "American" bread.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
We come to understanding in our own time
"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of other's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."
~Steve Jobs
This past weekend I turned 54, only two years younger than Steve Jobs at his passing. His quote, widely read, makes me feel, at turns, nervous, lost, vulnerable, and hopeful.
I understand that my time is limited. According to someone's statistics I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 10,000 days left. There are no guarantees, of course, and I may have only one day left. I'm swayed by another thought of Jobs, about asking himself if he had only one day left would he still want to do what he planned to do that day. I think about that often.
Outwardly I have lived my own life, and yet I know how much I have lived a life in the shadow of other people's (mostly unmet) expectations of me. I've spent many years following my heart while ignoring my intuition. And, I don't know what I want to "become."
I wonder if that is because I am already what I am meant to be or because I'm afraid that I can't really become what I want to become. I'm not sure either of those sentences is accurate. Perhaps my understanding is just coming later than it does for many people. That one day I will understand seems to be the truth, and I have to set aside my worries, fears, self-perceived inadequacies and stop listening to the voices of others to hear my own voice. I trust that I have my own voice and my own understanding. I am content to practice patience so that I may listen to it.
~Steve Jobs
This past weekend I turned 54, only two years younger than Steve Jobs at his passing. His quote, widely read, makes me feel, at turns, nervous, lost, vulnerable, and hopeful.
I understand that my time is limited. According to someone's statistics I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 10,000 days left. There are no guarantees, of course, and I may have only one day left. I'm swayed by another thought of Jobs, about asking himself if he had only one day left would he still want to do what he planned to do that day. I think about that often.
Outwardly I have lived my own life, and yet I know how much I have lived a life in the shadow of other people's (mostly unmet) expectations of me. I've spent many years following my heart while ignoring my intuition. And, I don't know what I want to "become."
I wonder if that is because I am already what I am meant to be or because I'm afraid that I can't really become what I want to become. I'm not sure either of those sentences is accurate. Perhaps my understanding is just coming later than it does for many people. That one day I will understand seems to be the truth, and I have to set aside my worries, fears, self-perceived inadequacies and stop listening to the voices of others to hear my own voice. I trust that I have my own voice and my own understanding. I am content to practice patience so that I may listen to it.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Brave? No, cheap!
I saw my hairdresser today. I stopped dying my hair in May (meaning I stopped covering up my naturally grey hair), and had it cut very, very short. I suppose it did take some courage, but honestly, the every three week maintenance became an expense I no longer wanted. A haircut once every six weeks is much more convenient and affordable.
At the salon, a woman walked past me and said she wished she was so brave, and my hairdresser and I laughed. When I told my hairdresser that about 98 of every 100 people I see ask me why I decided to dye my hair "blonde," she said, "I wish you had blogged about this whole episode of your life." Then we debated why so many people are convinced I dyed my hair blonde, had some more laughs, and tearfully admitted we both do miss the every three weeks visits, but this is good, too.
Meanwhile, I'm seeing the whole "blonde" thing as funny, and I'm going to find out if it is true that blondes have more fun. We'll see if I blog about that...grin.
At the salon, a woman walked past me and said she wished she was so brave, and my hairdresser and I laughed. When I told my hairdresser that about 98 of every 100 people I see ask me why I decided to dye my hair "blonde," she said, "I wish you had blogged about this whole episode of your life." Then we debated why so many people are convinced I dyed my hair blonde, had some more laughs, and tearfully admitted we both do miss the every three weeks visits, but this is good, too.
Meanwhile, I'm seeing the whole "blonde" thing as funny, and I'm going to find out if it is true that blondes have more fun. We'll see if I blog about that...grin.
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