Me, Myself & I

Throughout our lives, we wear a lot of different hats. We’re all defined by our roles, our jobs, and our relationships. We are perceived differently by the various people in our lives, based on the specific dynamics of our interaction with them. I am a wife, mother, grandmother, counselor, friend, sister, cousin, minister, business owner, co-worker, supervisor, employee . . . Well, you get the picture.

In truth, we are, all of us, multi-faceted gems. And the whole is more than just the sum of the parts! But, how many people ever know us truly, in our totality? How many of us even know our own complete, true selves?

[I once met a woman who introduced herself as, “I’m so-and-so’s wife.” No name, just her role. I asked what I should call her, and she seemed confused by the question.]

We evolve and grow, using our roles as the medium by which we come to see ourselves wholly. The difficulty is that, with each role, there come expectations – standards and rules by which we are judged. Am I a “good” wife? A “good” friend? We measure ourselves, our performance, our success, against these external yardsticks. How many of us get stuck in the predefined social persona associated with a single role? When we do, we lose sight of our personal values, our whole selves, our true purpose.

Or we feel conflicted because we don’t “measure up.” Little wonder that we occasionally feel “burnt-out,” “frustrated,” “abandoned,” “desperate.” We sense that “something’s missing.” We become depressed, dissatisfied, disillusioned. These feelings, or lack thereof, are symptomatic of the compartmentalization of our lives, and the isolation and separation of our “physical” from our “spiritual” selves. We lose sight of our whole self.

With joy and thanksgiving I say: I may be different things to different people, but I am constantly my SELF. And I am a work in progress.

To be nobody-but-yourself – in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else – means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting.

e.e. cummings

The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.

Joseph Campbell

Facing the Inevitable

Last week, I was on the Loyola University campus and was amazed at how young the students are. Goodness sakes, I'm old enough to be their grandmother. Was it really THAT long ago that I walked the quad?

The thing is that even though I am comfortable telling people my age, I guess sometimes I forget - or my inner self goes into denial. The number just doesn't mean anything. I don't feel so very different than I did 30 or 40 years ago. . .

I don’t remember getting old. It must have happened quite suddenly - overnight, while I slept, I suspect. I never saw it coming, and my best friends never told me. I wonder if my parents and grandparents had the same difficulty reconciling themselves with passing time.

I recall my father telling me once of seeing a young man jogging down the street, and thinking to himself that it looked to be quite an enjoyable exercise. So, he tried it, but found he had forgotten how to run. Papa was 86 years old.

It's okay - I know I’m old; I've been receiving offers from AARP for years now. And, I must be old because my girls are over 30 themselves - though I remember them still as I tied their hair with ribbons, and we shopped for Easter dresses. Somehow, I think, that my memories - always fresh, always evoking the feelings of one bygone moment or another - are responsible for my confused state.

Sensory memories, like acid flashbacks, are vivid and emotionally charged. Transporting me through time and space, rekindling life’s sparks. . . Like the smell of raspberries - sun ripened, just picked - and I am suddenly the carefree four year old, with stained fingers, on my Grandfather's midwestern farm.

Or, something in the stillness of a summer’s morning - that hints of the day it will be, but isn’t yet - and my father tells a younger me that there’s still time for one more set of tennis.

A melody or song recalls a dance, though my partner’s gone. The words and rhythms, nonetheless, conjure spirits of lost young loves.

The sweet dampness of mossy loam - as a nascent woman-child, I bring blankets and books, and lie face down in dappled shade, studying life and lifeforms under familiar boughs.

Or, I could be the co-ed I just passed when I hear the patter of rain on the roof. But I’m cutting class, sitting instead with a friend in his flat, drinking wine, talking of life, and love, and sophomoric philosophy.

Precious moments preserved in delicious, sensuous vignettes. And, I have 40 more years to look forward to. . .

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Albert Camus

Other Voices . . .

Sometimes Life has a way of interrupting. Just stops you in your tracks. You're going along - quite nicely, thank you - with a vision of where you're heading. and out of the blue . . . SMACK!

In absence of any thoughts or words of my own . . .

Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.

Winnie the Pooh

Time flies when you're having fun. I just realized it's been 30 years since my life-changing decision to move to New Orleans. I thought it was just a temporary thing - going to UNO for a degree in Urban Studies. I thought I'd be able to keep one foot on the platform, while the other foot was on the train. But, no. It turned out to be a difficult, painful move as I left my boyfriend, other friends, my job and my dog.

Nevertheless, I was smitten by the city that has stolen so many hearts. I waxed romantic in August 1979 with this -

New Home New Orleans

Sunset in neon
chased by a
full fluorescent moon
-summer night in the City.

A cricket-chorus hums
through power lines,
pierced by the siren’s
nightingale song
-life lines in the City.

The City sighs
moist breath
against my skin.
Night’s darkness
encircles my eyes
-night owl in the City.

Oil colors on black velvet
fade to daylight grey
‘til One Shell Square
burns off the morning haze
-life times in the City.

For all that has been, thanks. For all that will be, yes.
Dag Hammarskjold

"Glowing Rouge"

Time was that only “famous” people had biographies or autobiographies written. Today I sometimes think that too many people are writing autobiographies, tell-all stories, exposés . . . celebs, politicos, generals, mistresses, ex-wives. But, maybe, it’s not that there are too many stories, but that there aren’t enough!!!

The thing is – these self-proclaimed persons of interest have ghost writers, publishers, and publicists; we don’t. But, we common folk now have the internet and the ability to self-publish. Granted, we probably won’t see the financial returns that the aforementioned will reap – but we do have a platform.

My great grandfather kept a journal, making entries every day for decades until, on the day of his death, my grandmother made the final entry. Journals and diaries have been vital sources of historical and genealogical information. I believe in journaling. And, for my grandson’s generation and beyond – the blogs and profiles and self-published documents in this electronic library will compete with, though not replace, the vital records of generations before.

So, if I were to write my autobiography, what would I say? Who would be listed in the “credits”? What thread ties the episodes together? What’s the story – the hook? Why and how does my life matter to anyone else? Although these are questions that, obviously, must be answered, these are the daunting issues that hold us back from recording our lives, our introspections.

If I were to write my story, what would define my life?

• I’d have to start with my parents – although my family was slightly dysfunctional, my parents loved me unconditionally.
• I recall a half-dozen teachers through my formative years (kindergarten through high school) who made their mark – they were all devoted to their profession and their students, motivating and facilitating learning through their own love/appreciation of learning.
• My friends and loves – noteworthy by their quality, certainly not quantity. I was never in the “in” crowd. That probably made our friendships that much dearer.
• The Christian (interfaith) community that grounded me in the 60’s and led me on a spiritual journey, a quest for understanding and awareness that is still a guiding force.
• My detractors, though I don’t perceive many, the few had significant impact.
• A few shining moments, accomplishments, milestones - and set-backs.
• The thread that ties my myriad ventures, adventures, and misadventures is found in the interpersonal relationships. Ultimately, it is also about doing what my parents asked of me – that I do my best.

We all have a story (or several stories) – are you recording yours? We owe it to ourselves, our children and the generations-to-follow to record them somehow. Without OUR stories, history will be defined by the former Governor of Alaska, the former Ms. California, and media jocks from the fringes. . .

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Nelson Mandela, Inaugural Speech 1994

It's Sunday and another drop-dead beautiful day. The Saints managed to hold on and win against the St. Louis Rams. Other than that, it's been a quiet, at-home day - time to reflect on things (other than my pet peeves).

It's also the first weekend for awhile that I haven't had my grandson to play with . What a bundle! He's seven and a half months old and rules the world. He is, of course, the best baby ever born!! And, he is the inspiration for today's blog.

Acorns Beget Oak Trees

So, now scientists can clone - replicate a living creature from cells, DNA, extracted from the host. Scientists delve beyond tissue and cells to examine molecules within the cell. Perhaps this is a step towards understanding the mysteries of life and certainly it will have significant ramifications in the medical and biophysical fields. But, it doesn’t compare with CREATION!

Two cells meet, by happenstance, no formal introductions . . . but before you know it, there’s a zygote!! And, everything it needs to know, it has from conception! As it grows exponentially, species, gender, flesh, limbs, organs, eyelashes . . . all the appropriate parts emerge. And, more, its potential and all the dynamics of maturation are imbued. Although, over millennia, life forms evolve; on any given day, mammals do not give birth to fish or fowl. Acorns do not beget pine trees. And most of the time, it comes out right - maybe even perfect!

Look up from the microscope and try to calculate how many times, in how many ways, with how many life forms, this occurs daily . . . has occurred . . . will occur. If your mind isn’t boggled, there’s something wrong. If you don’t feel a certain measure of wonder and awe, in the truest most literal sense of the words, your life is devoid of meaning and disconnected from the Spirit that created and sustains us.

With every breath, there is an opportunity to experience, and acknowledge, a miracle.

The most beautiful and profound emotion we can experience is the sensation of the mystical. It is the sower of all true science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms – this knowledge, this feeling, is the center of true religion.

Albert Einstein

Don’t Get Me Started

Today was a beautiful day, and I was able to enjoy it despite a slight hangover….

But, as I was walking home from the grocery store, I was assaulted. Well, my senses and sensitivity were assaulted - by a gentleman doing yard work, of all things. He was putting the final touches on his craftsmanship: blowing leaves into the street, the storm drains and the neighboring yard.

And, so it started. By the time I reached my front door, the list of pet peeves had grown exponentially.

We’re often asked what we like most – you know, as a networking ice-breaker or as an introduction to self-study. But, rarely are we asked about what we dislike. Without any urging, my brain had constructed the following list.

Yeah, I hate leaf blowers! There is a special place in the hereafter for the person who invented them, thinking it was a great idea (I have to concede it was apparently a profitable idea). Why not a leaf vacuum? Then, you could bag up those leaves and compost them instead of clogging the storm drains or moving them across the property line so they become someone else’s problem.

I strongly dislike the words “empower” and “empowerment.” They are overused and imply that one person holds all the power, but is willing to mete out a bit of it to chosen minions; and so, with a wave of the scepter, you are EMPOWERED - granted powers that were heretofore beyond your mortal dreams. No one has the power to empower me; I have to do it myself.

I really dislike cobblestone pavers (like the ones at the Piazza d’Italia in New Orleans). The architect who thinks that these quaint reminiscences of antiquity should be installed in a pedestrian way, anywhere, in this century, should have to walk in high heels over those same cobblestones for the rest of his life (I purposefully use the masculine form of the pronoun, because no woman would put these ankle-breakers on the ground).

I resent the corporate decisions that discontinue products I’ve used for years. They never ask ME how I feel about it. They never reassure me that their new product is “all that and more.” Sometimes, they don’t even introduce a new product; they just stop selling the one I’ve been buying. So, I have to start all over, alone in the grocery or drugstore aisle – reading labels, guessing what’s really inside the packaging, hoping . . .

I hate elected officials who think it’s their job to micromanage MY life. It seems to me they’ve got a big enough job to do – one that I don’t envy – without dictating how I should proceed, as long as I don’t endanger innocent bystanders! I don’t believe we can legislate morality. I don’t believe it is government’s role to be MY personal risk manager. Sure, public safety and public health are within their purview – so let them fix the bridges and set standards for construction; let them treat the water and waste . . . but, I’ve got issues with the presumption that I can’t decide whether to wear a seat belt or a helmet, whether or not to eat raw oysters, or what medical procedures I might choose.

Okay – enough! Like I said – don’t get me started!

The mind moves from the known to the known, and it cannot reach out into the unknown. You cannot think of something you do not know; it is impossible. What you think about comes out of the known, the past, whether that past be remote, or the second that has just gone by. This past is thought, shaped and conditioned by many influences, modifying itself according to circumstances and pressures, but ever remaining a process of time. . .

J. Krishnamurti, The Limits of Thought

Happily Ever After

Okay, so I grew up with Fairy Tales - Anderson’s and Grimm’s - brought to life and embellished by Disney’s animations of Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, and Cinderella. Although many of the tales had severe moral tones, and equally horrific consequences for the “bad” child, there was also hope and a fairy godmother to bring hero and heroine together in the end. And, in the 1950's, the new television media wrapped America’s middle class families in the trappings of contemporary fairy tales. In the end, they all lived “happily ever after” too.

As a child, naive and vulnerable, I built my dreams and envisioned my future in “happy ever after” frames. I suppose it provided an escape from the sometimes awkward and messy real world and gave hope for a beautiful tomorrow. I still remember singing “Someday My Prince Will Come” while I cleaned my room or swept the porch. The problem was that this framework was not a perfect road map, and it gave no instructions for how to live in that “ever after” if and when I found it.

To complicate matters further, enter the Home Economics teacher into the young adolescent’s life, trying to provide the skills and tools for becoming a good homemaker. With our aprons and wooden spoons, we fancied ourselves to be young Donna Reeds or Harriet Nelsons, if not the fairy tale princesses of yore. And, though not stated, it was implied that cooking, sewing, and cleaning were the keys that would ultimately, somehow, open the door to living happily ever after. (But, wait, wasn’t this the life that Cinderella had escaped?)

Meanwhile, the young males were not being indoctrinated with the same fairy tales or life’s little instructions. Their games and stories didn’t always have a happy ending, didn’t always include a life ever after in the company of their one true love, and didn’t necessarily require them to be charming.

It has taken a lifetime and innumerable forays into love’s sweet dominion to glean the untold story that follows the fairy tale’s “happy ever after” ending - to begin to fathom what it takes to build and maintain a lasting relationship - to live after the “happy ever. . .” Too bad the Brothers Grimm didn’t write sequels. Meanwhile, generations of Cinderellas seek to reconcile the reality of their lives with the fantasy of their convictions.

We assume we are all perfect lovers and all we need do is wait and our love will grow and blossom as readily as a flower in spring. Not so. Love doesn’t grow unless we do. It takes patience, knowledge, experience, determination, and every positive trait we possess. In addition, love is always changing and unless we stay aware and change with it, it eludes us.
Dr. Leo Buscaglia
(from an exclusive interview by Veronica M. Hay)

I'm still a work in progress . . .

I’m not the person I thought I’d grow up to be. Not a movie star, not a missionary, not a mother. My teaching career was short lived. I have twice abandoned educational goals. My home is not furnished in contemporary Scandinavian style. My social life and network are sketchy. My artistic talents - whatever they may be - have not been nurtured or refined. The world won’t remember my work. My voice is rarely heard; my opinions, rarely sought. I am not even a self-proclaimed expert in any field.

I have done things I never contemplated for myself, and am proud of my work. I married a man I wouldn’t date, and he loves me. I am a step mother and a grandmother. My home is comfortably furnished in overstuffed leather and antiques. I cook for pleasure and entertainment - indulgence; people like my food. I have breathed life into festivals and programs and lives; now they stand on their own.

My path has taken many unexpected turns. Along the way, I have stumbled, and have been diverted.. Was it lack of conviction or ambition? Or something else, as doors opened and others were barred. I like to think that, in the scheme of things, every step along the way has been necessary, even if not deliberate. I have tested the waters in many different landscapes. I have taught, have led, have created, have loved, and I have been loved.

I am not the person I thought I’d grow up to be, because - as a child - I never could have conceived this life.

Life must be understood backwards, but . . . it must be lived forward.
Soren Kierkegaard