Stranger than Fiction (Parts Three and Four)

This is a continuation from the previous blog entry about a week I couldn't have made up if I'd tried. It will make more sense if you read that one first.


Part Three: Situation Comedy

After Tuesday's crisis, you would think I'd had enough drama for a good long while. Apparently, there is never enough drama in my life.

This storyline actually started at the very beginning of the week, when we turned our 2 1/2 year-old Little Monkey's doorknob around to lock from the outside. This was a last resort effort to help him learn to get to sleep on his own, without .5 mg of melatonin every night and a parental song-and-dance that ranges in length from 30 minutes to 2 1/2 hours.

He used to be a great sleeper until we transitioned him to a big-boy bed, about a month before Fozzie was born. Once he learned he could get out of bed and stake a claim on some of that attention his little brother was getting, we were done for. Nearly seven months later, we have become desperate enough to reclaim our evening peace that we have begun locking him in the room (after books and kisses and water and goodnight) and letting him work it out by himself. It actually did seem to help after a first night of chaos and destruction.

Monkey's doorknob is very old, one of many we've been meaning to replace upstairs. It's the kind that locks inside and has a key lock on the outside, for which we have never had the key. We put gobs of masking tape on the lock as a temporary solution the first day we moved in, planning to replace the doorknob ASAP. And here we are over a year later... Of course when we turned the knob around we removed the masking tape so we could lock it from the outside.

We were planning to meet some friends at the park Wednesday morning. I had just put Fozzie in his crib, and Monkey and I were discussing our differing opinions about whether I would be allowed to change his diaper and get him dressed before heading off to the shower myself. As a show of personal power, he attempted to lock me in his room, but I caught the door before it closed (whew!), unlocked it (I thought) and closed it behind us so our diaper-clothes battle wouldn't wake Fozzie up in the next room. When he was dressed and ready, I headed out of the room to get a quick shower.

I headed out of the room. Out of the -- oh, no. Are you kidding me?

It was nine o'clock in the morning. Hubs had gone to work for the day and was not expecting to hear from us until at least noon for lunch, and probably wouldn't get worried until one or later since he knew we were going to the park. Fozzie would be asleep in his crib in the next room for an hour and a half, tops. My phone was downstairs, along with anything else remotely useful. We'd done a great job childproofing the room - no tools, keys, wire hangers, or blunt objects in sight. Hell, I wasn't even wearing a bra.

Locked in a second-story bedroom with nothing but an energetic toddler and a few toys and books. Ho-ly crap.

It was easier not to freak out since the previous day's adventures had really put things in perspective, and I told myself that even in the worst case we'd all be hungry and miserable but safe. (Deep down, though, I didn't know how long I could listen to Fozzie cry when he woke up without tearing through the wall to get to him).

Monkey was calm and brave through the whole thing. He stood on his bed next to me and we shouted out the window, hoping to attract the attention of neighbors, walkers and/or passing cars. Every time a car would pass, we'd call out fruitlessly for help, and then he'd look at me and say, "Oh, well!"  Can you tell we've been practicing handling disappointment?

We were lucky that it was cool outside and not raining, or we might seriously have been stuck there until Hubs came home after work. But a passing jogger - our Good Samaritan - heard us and came up the driveway to help. He didn't have a cell phone, but he was very nice and tried to break into our house. No luck. He went across the street to my neighbor who works from home, but she was understandably hesitant to open the door to a strange man in jogging clothes. So, he took off jogging back to his house a few neighborhoods away and promised to return with a phone as soon as he could.

For the next little while, Monkey and I played with his trains and waited. After a little bit had passed, the slight possibility occurred to me that maybe this guy would get home, realize he was late for work or something, and think I'm sure they've already flagged down someone else by now. So I went back to the window, just in time to see another neighbor pull up in their driveway caddy-cornered to ours.

We don't know these neighbors well at all, but we did attempt to introduce ourselves when we first moved into the neighborhood and were greeted somewhat brusquely. Still, in an emergency they'd respond, right? We shouted to them for help and, when they turned in our direction, I tried to yell out the explanation of what we needed. They turned and headed toward the door. "No! Wait!" I yelled, "I need to borrow a phone - we're trapped in my child's bedroom!" They looked at me for another long minute, went inside and closed the door.

Fortunately for us, not everyone is so jaded, and the Good Samaritan returned with his car and a phone. He called Hubs for me, explained what was going on, and chatted with us for a minute to make sure everything was okay before heading off. It turns out we have a mutual acquaintance who lives in his neighborhood, so we are going to try to track him down to thank him properly. He also reported that on his way home, he tried to flag down several people in cars to get help to us faster, but no one would stop for him.

In any case, Hubs was home in a few minutes to release us and appropriately, to laugh at me. Crisis #2 of the week brought safely to an end.

Part Four: Friends and Neighbors

When I was a little girl my mom and the other women in the neighborhood spent more time in one another's kitchens than they did in their own. We kids flowed freely back and forth between the houses and up and down the streets. We knew which neighbors would let you cut through their yards and which didn't. We knew who would buy candy bars for the school fundraiser and who wouldn't. We knew their pets' names, their kids' names, their cars. We had friends in other places, too, but that little community was the center of our world. It wasn't pleasant all the time, we had our issues, but we knew each other.

Nowadays I feel more connected to people on Facebook than I do those who live within a mile radius of my house. I can tell you what someone in another state who I haven't seen in person for more than two decades had for dinner last night, but I couldn't tell you the name of the guy who turned his back on me when I was locked upstairs. We've lived here for a year and a half, fifty yards away from his front door.

Maybe this is a function of the age of our neighborhood and the fact that it's a relatively busy residential street. But I can't help but notice that more of us are paring down our relationships to the known quantities and easy connections. The friends we know through other friends, the people we've found on pinterest. Texting, status updates, blogging (ahem). We can gather and send information and feel 'connected' without having to actually connect at all. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Luddite. I love technology and social media (insofar as I can keep up with it) and I'll continue to use it. But it seems to me that we are taking fewer and fewer social risks as a culture, choosing the perceived safety of our computer screens rather than braving the challenge of getting to know new people. We lock away 'Others' and the world outside.

I don't pretend to know all the facts of the Trayvon Martin shooting, nor do I even remotely compare my scary experience last week with the hell that his parents are going through. What I do know is that while I got relief after forty minutes, Trayvon Martin's parents have no relief or justice in sight. Their unarmed child was murdered by someone who was supposed to be the neighborhood watch captain. He was supposed to be looking out for the safety of all the children in their neighborhood, and instead he let baseless fear turn him into a perpetrator himself. I can't help but wonder how that situation might've ended differently if the 'neighborhood watch' had focused more on bringing neighbors together and less on rooting out potential villains.


This probably sounds weird, coming from someone who had a scary experience with the stranger I hired to care for my child. Part of me wants to quit my job and stay home so that I never have to trust anyone else with his safety again. But I believe we do not make ourselves safer by disconnecting from 'Others' or 'Unknowns.' Ours is a global village, and it's time we all took responsibility for getting to know our neighbors. In the flesh, warts and all.

Losing our real, live, imperfect connection with others means losing our village, along with the fundamental thing that makes us human. And that is dangerous.

The Unfinished Business of Peas and Eggplant

In the process of packing today, I pulled some things out of a junk drawer I hadn't thought about in a while: six little blue and green ceramic vegetables. Two pea pods, two string beans and two eggplants. Anyone who has been in our house knows that I often have things stashed in unexpected places, but these little forgotten pieces gave me a moment's pause in the business of filling boxes.

These little ornaments have special meaning to me because they belonged to my friend Laura, who passed away five years ago. Her boyfriend gave them to me after her memorial service, and I was really touched that he and her family thought enough of me to offer me a little memento from among her possessions. I've never really known, however, what to do with them.

The ornaments are molded into the vegetable shapes on one side and flat on the other side, presumably designed to be glued or caulked to tile or some other surface. When they came to me, Laura's boyfriend explained that he knew she had plans for them in her kitchen, but didn't know exactly what. I accepted them gratefully even though I didn't have the first clue, either.

So they've sat in the junk drawer (at least they're in the right room!), waiting patiently for me to decide how to use them. When I pulled them out tonight, I thought about how Laura and I both have had unfulfilled intentions around these little objects. It got me wondering what other plans in her life were left incomplete when she died [though I will say she lived such a full life in her short 41 years, it's hard to imagine she had a long list of regrets]. Naturally I also started thinking about all the hopes and plans I have for my own life, and what would be left unfinished if my time on earth is suddenly cut short.

It's so easy to look at the calendar and assume that tomorrow will look more or less like yesterday, and that we have as much time as we think we need to accomplish the tasks of our lives. But whether it's a plan to write a novel, make a career change, travel the world, or just take a walk with someone you love.... time is always limited. And once that time is up, it's up -- with only our legacy left behind to speak of our intentions.

That legacy is not held in the assets to be distributed; but in the hearts we touch, the lives we change, the difference in the world because we were here. I'm lucky to be surrounded by memories of some wonderful people, who have taught me to be a better person in so many ways; and that is a small part of their legacy. But it can't end with me, either; and it's up to me to transform those ideas and qualities and pass them on -- to my kids and to others with whom I come in contact. I am also charged -- as I believe we all are -- to leave the world better than I found it in some small way. 

It reminds me of this:

Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it. (The Talmud)

Our time is limited, our responsibilities are great. Am I healing the world with my life, or adding to its grief? Am I doing my part or abandoning the work? Every action taken, every moment spent, contributes to my legacy in some way - whether tiny or enormous.  It's nice to be reminded of that, even while cleaning out the junk drawer. Maybe I really should try to find a more prominent place for those ceramic veggies!

One Sorry Blog

Rosh Hashanah has passed, Yom Kippur is on its way... It's time for the Apology Blog. I just read my blog from two years ago, and I could almost cut and paste, because I'm having many of the same feelings today. And I noticed that many of the wrongs to which I referred are pretty similar today, too -- so I guess some areas of my behaviors still need improvement. ;)

Gossip is still one of my major weaknesses. I think I've made improvements since 2008, but it's still one of those wrong things to do that just feels.... so right. In part, I come about this trait honestly. To this day I remember my mother quoting someone (Dolly Parton?), saying, "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me." But it's also just because gossip is so delicious. It has lots of what those in the psychology world call "secondary reinforcers," which are side benefits that make habits hard to break.

Not only does the gossiper get to air his or her hurt/angry feelings, but most of us know that putting other people down often makes us feel a little better about ourselves (even for just a fleeting moment). Sometimes that little ego boost can be downright irresistible. And since gossip takes a minimum of two participants, it can also be a longed-for connection with other people. Who among us has not bonded with one person at the expense of someone else? It's selfish and wrong, but let's face it, it can be appealing -- especially when we're looking for common ground with a fellow purveyor of gossip. I think this is why gossip is such an easy sin to commit, and maybe why the Yom Kippur liturgy mentions it at least four times. [Insert sheepish grin here].

So, I'm sorry if I've gossiped about you (whether you knew it or not), and I'm sorry if I've enticed you into gossiping yourself by being a partner in crime.

And I'm sorry for all the times I've been late to meetings with you this year. I'm sorry for forgetting something important to you, for neglecting our relationship, and overlooking something about which you needed to talk.

I'm sorry for the times when you were talking, and instead of really listening, I was thinking about my own problems or planning what I was going to say in response.

I'm sorry I knowingly let your phone call go to voicemail because I thought I was too busy to talk, or too tired, or just caught up in my own little world. And I'm sorry for the exponentially greater number of times I missed your call because I'd turned my phone off and forgot to turn it back on or left it in another room, outside in the car, or under a pile of dirty laundry.

To the crazy lady who chewed me out at Costco a few weeks ago: I truthfully didn't intend to steal your parking place, but you're right -- I wasn't being polite and (when in doubt) I should have let you have the space. I could've apologized afterward, but your anger embarrassed me and I became defensive instead. I'm sorry.

To everyone I have hurt, intentionally or otherwise, and to everyone I have disappointed in so many ways this year, please know that my behaviors have not always been in line with my true feelings and accept my heartfelt apologies. I've said this before, but I mean it again, and I'm officially inviting anyone to whom I owe an apology or corrected behavior -- please let me know and let's talk about it.

This year, I also want to make amends to myself. To me: I'm sorry that I haven't let your dreams come to the forefront often enough. I'm sorry that I have let my worries about perfection and the expectations of others guide my actions rather than honoring you. Too often, I've given time to mindless TV, low-priority tasks and unimportant time-fillers. I've allowed my confidence to falter and measured myself against others, rather than nourishing my own dreams and giving them the time and energy they deserve. I owe you (me) more than that, and I'm sorry. I will try to make amends this year, by reminding myself more frequently and holding myself more accountable to... well, me.

I'm sure there are many more apologies to be made, to myself and to everyone else. But there's only so much one blog and one woman can do. And apologies are also about forgiveness -- forgiving those who have wronged me and forgiving myself for things I'm working on and things that are still outside my awareness. My flaws and limitations are all part of what makes me beautifully broken, a work in progress... human.

A Tough Homework Assignment

In my Advanced Counseling Theories class, our homework assignment for this week was to answer this question: "Has the movement of your life so far been consistent with your values as you understand them?"

Whew. It would be way easier to answer a question about Freud or Adler... something I could look up in a book, cite references, and move on with my merry little life. Even something mildly introspective that would ask me about my opinions or feelings, here and now, would be pretty easy to crank out in a couple of hours.

But this question is extra hard, not just because it implies that I need to be able to articulate my values in some way, but because it asks me about my behavior up to this point. The temptation, of course, is just to say "yes," and move on. Sure, I've been basically a good person (mostly) -- and I'm not lying awake at night, racked with guilt over my countless transgressions. So that must mean that my life basically aligns with some internal set of values, right?

Maybe. But maybe not. How often in my life have I stopped to ask myself whether my behavior, desires, and reactions fit in with my values? For that matter, how often have I stopped to consider what my values really are?

I think we often tend to qualify our values in terms of social norms, particularly within a certain group. We identify with our home culture or religion in an assumptive way, and probably only notice our values when they come into conflict with those around us. In fact, it's easiest to talk about values in the negative - as in, the things we don't agree with or wouldn't do.

You hear a lot of this during election season, when advocates of all positions are quick to point out the evils of the other side. We love to talk about what is wrong during election season - whether it's big corporations or big government, war or abortion, campaign procedures or the lifestyle of the candidates. But we so seldom talk about what is right. And even less often do we focus on how each of us, individually, can do right in the world.

It seems that it's much harder to talk about our values in the positive -- what we actually believe and do each day. I would say that one of my core values is loving-kindness toward others, and that sounds lovely, but how am I living that out? I'm generally nice to people, particularly those I like, and I'm lucky enough to work in a field that allows me to show kindness and compassion as a daily part of my profession. Okay, good.

But what else am I doing? Do I hold back and bite my tongue when I have a juicy piece of gossip about someone? Heck, no! Am I giving my time to help those in need as often as I could? Not so much. And I have some great rationalizations -- irresistible temptation, my crazy schedule, hectic life, my own challenges...

Of course, there's no way to live out any one value or conviction perfectly, but how do I know if I am even coming close? And if I never stop to list my values "as I understand them," how can I even check myself against it? Is it just a gut feeling? Do I assume that I am consistent with values unless that sinking feeling of conscience tells me otherwise? Or am I required to be more proactive with the way I live my life?

It seems as though my main answer to the homework question has only been more questions. Can't I just write about Freud instead???

Sacred Cows and Lemon-Lime Gatorade

"If you're going to _____, you might as well ______."

There are many ways to finish that simple verbal formula. For example, "If you're going to shoot yourself out of a cannon to impress your friends on YouTube, you might as well buy a good life insurance policy." Or, "If you're going down with the ship, you might as well keep playing the cello with your friends on the top deck."

But however it's completed, for me that sentence is the flagship phrase for efficient behavior. I remember hearing my Dad say that all the time when I was younger, especially during my teenage years. Some simple examples: "If you're going to drive all the way to the mall, you might as well stop at the grocery store on your way home." Fine. Makes sense.

"If you're going to play softball, you might as well practice daily and play it well." Absolutely. As they say, Anything worth doing....

But here's one of my favorites, and maybe where the philosophy goes from being good, common sense to a little bit intense (sorry, Pops): "If you're going to insist on occasionally drinking Gatorade instead of water, we might as well buy the enormous tin of powdered lemon-lime Gatorade from the warehouse club and make it in huge, 2-gallon batches." Ugh!

First of all, if you ever tried the powdered version of lemon-lime Gatorade in the 80's, especially after it had been clumping together in the humid pantry for a couple of months (it was an enormous tin and lasted forever), then you know just how disgusting a prospect that is. What's worse, we had to drink it every time we wanted anything other than water or milk. Can we buy a 2-liter of soda? No, we have that Gatorade at home. Double ugh!

Secondly, it turns out that I didn't want Gatorade for its own sake. I'm not sure I could've articulated this to my dad at the time, and it sounds silly now, but I wanted the Gatorade to be a little more like the other girls on my softball team. At 13 or 14, I was an odd kid already - brainy, overweight, and pale with an awkward sense of humor - and I struggled to fit in with other girls my age.

They always turned up at the games with cute little ribbons in their hair, clear tan skin, and little bottles of Gatorade that their parents had picked up for them at the convenience store on the way to the ballpark. On some level, I thought that if I could just take one tiny step to being more like those girls -- one 16 oz bottle of common ground -- they might come closer to accepting and appreciating the other things about me, too. The huge plastic cooler of homemade yellow-green stuff didn't accomplish it. Of course, as an adult I can look back and see that my attempts to fit in by buying something everyone else had were way misguided. And I've come to love both my Dad's quirky practicality and my own awkward (but hilarious!) sense of humor.

In my professional blog today, I wrote about Sacred Cows (Stealthy Sacred Ninja Cows, actually) -- those value systems that are unspoken but still held high above the others. In our house, that was a special brand of efficiency, not one that saved time (quite the opposite, actually), but one that aspired to never wasting money or effort, especially through poor planning. This is largely due to the fact that my Dad, apart from sometimes being too smart for his own good, also grew up on a working farm where money and effort had to produce efficiently in order for the family to survive.

Aside from the powdered Gatorade, this meant it sometimes took hours to leave for a day trip to the mountains, because we'd have to pack for every contingency: What if it rains? What if we get hungry? What if we have a flat tire? What if we get invited by another family to a formal event tonight, and while we're there, Martial Law is declared and we have to escape and suvive with only our wits and what is in our car already?

Okay, that last one is a slight exaggeration, but you get the idea. And as an adult, I find myself falling into those same thought patterns, as frustrated as they sometimes make me. It's completely second nature for me to attempt to plan out every contigency, to follow every possibility and guard myself against any and all negative consequences, no matter how unlikely or minor they might be.

I also find that efficiency of effort has become my personal, inherited Sacred Cow. For example, I work from home a couple of days a week, and I find that during those days it's impossible for me to leave to run a quick errand or dash out for coffee. Let's say I'm working one morning on a new chapter in my book, and I have a craving for an almond latte. There's a Starbucks less than 5 minutes from my house with a drive-thru window and a really nice staff. Easy-peasey.

But here's where I trip over my own feet. There's a voice in my head that says, "Well, if you're going to Starbucks, there are some other errands you should run while you're out - dropping off the film, picking up that book you've wanted, going to the bank...." And the voice is right, combining errands IS more efficient (especially with gas at $4 a gallon).

I'm usually still in my "semi-pajamas" (sweatshorts and dirty t-shirt), which is fine for writing at home and the Starbucks drive-thru; but it's not how I want to walk into the bank or the bookstore. Which means I need to shower. And dry my hair. And don't I have a bookstore coupon somewhere? Where did I put the film? Wasn't I thinking that I wanted a new frame, too? Since I'll be at the camera store, I should find that picture from Ireland and take it with me.... So now my 15-minute trip to get coffee has turned into a 3-hour event. And my ambitions of writing at home all day have been wiped out by a simple craving for caffeine.

In this case (and hundreds more like it), I would be much better off by resigning myself to inefficiency. Just like all forms or perfectionism, it holds me back by turning in on itself until it becomes totally overwhelming. And if it can turn a trip to the coffee shop into a whole morning affair, imagine what it can do to a bigger task - like writing a book. Sometimes I am so blown away by the enormity of doing everything efficiently that I end up spending more time planning and organizing my attack than in actually working. And when that fails, I typically cave to the pressure by procrastinating or ditching an idea entirely. Now, that's not even a little bit efficient!

Of course I know it's counterproductive. Of course I know that I simply need to learn to say: "I'm going to go to Starbucks and waste a trip out, waste $1.50 in gas. I just am." All I want is an almond latte - everything else will have to wait, despite the lure of convenience and my Sacred Cow of Efficiency.

It sounds sensible and easy, and just writing this out makes me sort of baffled that I find it so difficult to manage my time this way. But that's where my sneaky brain and all those deeply carved neural pathways come into play. Just like a Sacred Cow in a family system, my internal thought patterns are really hard to break. They've served me well in many situations and become a part of who I am, for better or worse. I continue to struggle against it, or at least try to channel it in ways that work for me rather than against me. But the truth is - for individuals and families - it's hard to teach an old Sacred Cow new tricks.