My sweet roommate and I live on the third (and highest) floor of our apartment building. That means we have a loft, which is my bedroom. It is wonderful up here, as I sit and type this. It makes our smallish apartment seem much more spacious, because we have very high ceilings and the loft. On our third floor, at one end of our hall are the stairs, which I almost always take, mostly because I like to get extra exercise. I am one of those people who park at the perimeter in shopping centers, and I don't look for the closest parking space to the entrance. Any extra steps gives me some extra exercise, and time outdoors. Is this too much information for you?
When I take the magnificent Australian Shepherd Farm Boy out, we always take the elevator, because he doesn't do stairs. I was reading something about one of my favorite actors, Kevin Spacey. He has a foundation which gives grants and scholarships for those interested in the performing arts; for those coming up behind him. He said in an interview that he does this because he was mentored by Jack Lemmon. "Jack had a philosophy, if you have done well, then you're obligated to send the elevator back down for others," Spacey said.
I like the idea of sending the elevator back down; don't you?
Susan
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Tribute
"Don't dismiss the synchronicity of what is happening right now finding its way into your life at just this moment. There are no coincidences in the universe, only convergences of will, intent and experience." Neale Donald Walsch
I love my coffee, first thing in the morning. Lisa Brennan Jobs wrote something beautiful about coffee here. Not long ago I posted a poem called "Wonderful." Perhaps you saw it. In it, I say I want Tribute coffee every day. Tribute is a special Starbucks coffee, seriously delicious, and it's more expensive than I can afford on a regular basis. I usually buy Starbucks coffee at the supermarket or discount store when it's on special, and make it at home. I rarely ever buy a coffee out anywhere. (Is this too much information for you?)
Friday I "just happened" into the Starbucks nearest my work, something I don't normally do, and saw a big pile of Tribute coffee with a sign that told me I could buy one and get one free. Doing the quick math in my head, I realized that I could have Tribute for less than what I usually spend for the regular Starbucks varieties when I am getting a "deal." Do you have any idea how excited this made me?
I said I wanted Tribute every day, and now I can have it. I'm happy that it makes me happy, but I think I need to stop being surprised when these sorts of things happen. It's just another beautiful example in my life about the power of intention.
Susan
I love my coffee, first thing in the morning. Lisa Brennan Jobs wrote something beautiful about coffee here. Not long ago I posted a poem called "Wonderful." Perhaps you saw it. In it, I say I want Tribute coffee every day. Tribute is a special Starbucks coffee, seriously delicious, and it's more expensive than I can afford on a regular basis. I usually buy Starbucks coffee at the supermarket or discount store when it's on special, and make it at home. I rarely ever buy a coffee out anywhere. (Is this too much information for you?)
Friday I "just happened" into the Starbucks nearest my work, something I don't normally do, and saw a big pile of Tribute coffee with a sign that told me I could buy one and get one free. Doing the quick math in my head, I realized that I could have Tribute for less than what I usually spend for the regular Starbucks varieties when I am getting a "deal." Do you have any idea how excited this made me?
I said I wanted Tribute every day, and now I can have it. I'm happy that it makes me happy, but I think I need to stop being surprised when these sorts of things happen. It's just another beautiful example in my life about the power of intention.
Susan
Collaborating
He was only 17 when he and 20-year-old Elton John began collaborating. He is the words to John's music. Bernie Taupin is his name. Elton John is the only artist who had a song in Billboard's Top Ten every consecutive year from 1970 to 1999. Correction. John and Taupin have had a song every year during that time. I have been listening to John's music, and Taupin's words, since I was just a little girl and heard "Your Song" on the radio. I remember a slumber party when a friend who played the piano played "Crocodile Rock," a song I have always loved in no small part because it has my name, Susie, in it. We all sang along, "Wa, wa, wa, wa, wa, wa..." and giggled, because giggling is a lot of what goes on when 12-year-old girls get together. That is a super fun song.
Taupin and John collaborate without even being in the same room. It goes like this. Taupin writes the words first, then gives them to John and he sets them to music. No back and forth. In an interview, John said it often takes just 20 minutes or so for him to take those words and put music to them, and there you have it.
One of my favorite Taupin-John songs is "Take Me to the Pilot." When interviewed about it, Taupin said he had no idea what the words meant. He wrote them and just thought, "Wow! That sounds really great." At a concert, John told the audience he also had no idea what the song meant. "You're on your own there."
We as humans are creators, whether we think of ourselves as that or not. We can create by ourselves, of course. Taupin is a poet. All lyricists are. John is a musician. John has written some songs, so he knows how to write lyrics. Taupin has written songs for other musicians. But their greatest works have been their collaborations, because obviously, something great happens between these two men.
Then they share it with us, and we become collaborators with them. Not just an audience. We take it and create something for ourselves out of it.
Susan
"Take Me to the Pilot" written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin
Taupin and John collaborate without even being in the same room. It goes like this. Taupin writes the words first, then gives them to John and he sets them to music. No back and forth. In an interview, John said it often takes just 20 minutes or so for him to take those words and put music to them, and there you have it.
One of my favorite Taupin-John songs is "Take Me to the Pilot." When interviewed about it, Taupin said he had no idea what the words meant. He wrote them and just thought, "Wow! That sounds really great." At a concert, John told the audience he also had no idea what the song meant. "You're on your own there."
We as humans are creators, whether we think of ourselves as that or not. We can create by ourselves, of course. Taupin is a poet. All lyricists are. John is a musician. John has written some songs, so he knows how to write lyrics. Taupin has written songs for other musicians. But their greatest works have been their collaborations, because obviously, something great happens between these two men.
Then they share it with us, and we become collaborators with them. Not just an audience. We take it and create something for ourselves out of it.
Susan
"Take Me to the Pilot" written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Hiding
"Careful of those who admire you deeply, think you're brilliant, but resent your light." Warsan Shire
Not safe, not safe at all
In that thing called love just on the edge of hate
It could turn on a dime with no warning
Too many dimes strewn on the floor
Too many times it had turned me all around
And upside down
Not safe, not safe at all
"Hide it under a bushel? No!"
The children joyfully shout
As they sing of their little light, innocence
Tells me to let it shine, let it shine
But it used to just turn on a dime
And I was the one who got burned
Not safe, not safe at all
Susan
"This Little Light of Mine" written by Harry Dixon Loes
Not safe, not safe at all
In that thing called love just on the edge of hate
It could turn on a dime with no warning
Too many dimes strewn on the floor
Too many times it had turned me all around
And upside down
Not safe, not safe at all
"Hide it under a bushel? No!"
The children joyfully shout
As they sing of their little light, innocence
Tells me to let it shine, let it shine
But it used to just turn on a dime
And I was the one who got burned
Not safe, not safe at all
Susan
"This Little Light of Mine" written by Harry Dixon Loes
Still Standing
The old-time country music, what was called "Country Western," reminds me of my father. I can remember the hardware store where he worked, how it smelled and that music playing on the radio. Those songs are stories of people doin' other people wrong all the time.
Yesterday country legend George Jones died. He was for a time married to Tammy Wynette, and their personal life together and their lives with their other spouses is just a country song, with all kinda people doin' each other wrong.
The children of celebrities have an interesting and often difficult journey. Georgette Jones has the distinction of being the only person born to a couple, both of whom are in the Hall of Fame. She steered clear of music for a while, because those are some big shoes to fill, with not just one, but both, of her parents being such huge stars. Folks can't help but make the comparisons.
It is an odd feeling to have both parents gone. I had one friend in her 50's ask wryly if that made her an orphan, because that's how it made her feel. They never really are gone, these people who gave us life, whose DNA we carry around. And while some human relationships can sometimes be very difficult, and some days life seems to resemble a very bad country song, those of us still here always have another chance to make it better, to do it right.
Georgette Jones is quite a beautiful singer, in her own right.
"Stand By Your Man" written by Billy Sherrill and Tammy Wynette
Yesterday country legend George Jones died. He was for a time married to Tammy Wynette, and their personal life together and their lives with their other spouses is just a country song, with all kinda people doin' each other wrong.
The children of celebrities have an interesting and often difficult journey. Georgette Jones has the distinction of being the only person born to a couple, both of whom are in the Hall of Fame. She steered clear of music for a while, because those are some big shoes to fill, with not just one, but both, of her parents being such huge stars. Folks can't help but make the comparisons.
It is an odd feeling to have both parents gone. I had one friend in her 50's ask wryly if that made her an orphan, because that's how it made her feel. They never really are gone, these people who gave us life, whose DNA we carry around. And while some human relationships can sometimes be very difficult, and some days life seems to resemble a very bad country song, those of us still here always have another chance to make it better, to do it right.
Georgette Jones is quite a beautiful singer, in her own right.
"Stand By Your Man" written by Billy Sherrill and Tammy Wynette
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Ironing
Because they are not used very often, I had to pull a few things out of the hall closet to get the clothes iron and ironing board. I couldn't even remember the last time I ironed, but I had just found this beautiful sleeveless cotton dress. It is yellow with red flowers embroidered on it. When the weather is hot this summer, it will be the coolest thing to wear. It is 100 percent cotton, and one of the few things I have that needs to be ironed.
It was still a little damp from drying on the veranda, and still a little damp is the best time to iron. I used to iron his dress shirts. Not because he couldn't, or wouldn't. Not because it was my role in life, my destiny as a woman. I loved to do it. There was a time when we sent them to the cleaners to be done, a time when we were doing well financially and could afford to pay someone else to do it. He said it was something I didn't need to be doing, for after all, I had a lot to do each day. I think my wanting to please him and wanting to serve him made him uncomfortable, because he didn't understand what it did for me. So to please him, his shirts went to the cleaners. I would rather have continued to wash them and iron them, but I did as he asked. It was another way I could please him, or so I hoped.
Sunday afternoon, I stood in our apartment and ironed my dress as the sun came in. It is an especially beautiful dress, a very retro look from the 1960's. The girl in the thrift store said that the designers are now doing a lot of dresses from the 60's. It's so old, it's new again. I remember ladies wearing dresses like that when I was a little girl, when I stood in awe of their fashion and their hair and their makeup, and the way they smelled from their perfume. It's a trapeze dress; that's the technical name for it, but Little Susie thought of it as a triangle dress, because from a point at the neck, it flows down to the knees, going out.
I thought back to the times when I did his shirts. The way they smelled of him when they came out of the hamper. How I would bury my face in them before putting them in the washer. The way I pulled them out of the dryer while still a little damp, and ironed them. No starch, for he didn't like starch. It pleased me to please him, so no starch meant no starch. I am very good at ironing. I can take a dress shirt and make it crisp with no starch at all. I would do the collar and the wrists and the sleeves, and sometimes think wistfully how great cuff links would look. But he didn't like cuff links, so that was okay. I would hang the shirt on the hanger. Don't tell anyone, but if I was alone, sometimes I would put it on, it being big on me, and I would think of being enveloped in his love, nice and big.
He would thank me, for he was very good at showing appreciation for what I did. It was an act of service that I loved to perform, and I think as the months and years went on after we were married and it seemed that so little I did pleased him or made him happy, those little gestures became even more significant for me. I liked looking at him, all put together in his dress shirt and tie and slacks and shiny shoes, and knowing I had helped with that.
As we conversed less, as I felt less comfortable baring my soul to him, as he became less interested in having my body bared to him, it was something I could do to please and to serve, and it pleased me. Washing and ironing his shirts. Sitting on the floor, doing my amateur reflexology on his feet. Like the lunches I would make him. Not just a sandwich, chips and an apple, but homemade soups and salads and the decaffeinated iced tea he loved and things like that which made the other guys at work envious. I know he appreciated it, for he was very good at showing appreciation for what I did for him.
So as I ironed on Sunday, I was ironing this time for me. It is my dress. I made it look very pretty, and it's hanging in the closet waiting for the first warm day I am not at work to wear it. (We can't wear sleeveless things to work.) I thought with a smile that those things I used to do for him, really they were for me. I got more out of ironing the shirts and making the lunches and rubbing his feet than he did out of enjoying it all. Of that I am certain.
So now I am one of the grown-up ladies who wear the beautiful dresses that Little Susie used to look at in wonderment. So now I am figuring out who I am, who I have always been, and how that all looks and feels to me.
You might say that a dress is just a dress, but this dress is more than that. It's so old, it's new again. Just like me.
Susan
It was still a little damp from drying on the veranda, and still a little damp is the best time to iron. I used to iron his dress shirts. Not because he couldn't, or wouldn't. Not because it was my role in life, my destiny as a woman. I loved to do it. There was a time when we sent them to the cleaners to be done, a time when we were doing well financially and could afford to pay someone else to do it. He said it was something I didn't need to be doing, for after all, I had a lot to do each day. I think my wanting to please him and wanting to serve him made him uncomfortable, because he didn't understand what it did for me. So to please him, his shirts went to the cleaners. I would rather have continued to wash them and iron them, but I did as he asked. It was another way I could please him, or so I hoped.
Sunday afternoon, I stood in our apartment and ironed my dress as the sun came in. It is an especially beautiful dress, a very retro look from the 1960's. The girl in the thrift store said that the designers are now doing a lot of dresses from the 60's. It's so old, it's new again. I remember ladies wearing dresses like that when I was a little girl, when I stood in awe of their fashion and their hair and their makeup, and the way they smelled from their perfume. It's a trapeze dress; that's the technical name for it, but Little Susie thought of it as a triangle dress, because from a point at the neck, it flows down to the knees, going out.
I thought back to the times when I did his shirts. The way they smelled of him when they came out of the hamper. How I would bury my face in them before putting them in the washer. The way I pulled them out of the dryer while still a little damp, and ironed them. No starch, for he didn't like starch. It pleased me to please him, so no starch meant no starch. I am very good at ironing. I can take a dress shirt and make it crisp with no starch at all. I would do the collar and the wrists and the sleeves, and sometimes think wistfully how great cuff links would look. But he didn't like cuff links, so that was okay. I would hang the shirt on the hanger. Don't tell anyone, but if I was alone, sometimes I would put it on, it being big on me, and I would think of being enveloped in his love, nice and big.
He would thank me, for he was very good at showing appreciation for what I did. It was an act of service that I loved to perform, and I think as the months and years went on after we were married and it seemed that so little I did pleased him or made him happy, those little gestures became even more significant for me. I liked looking at him, all put together in his dress shirt and tie and slacks and shiny shoes, and knowing I had helped with that.
As we conversed less, as I felt less comfortable baring my soul to him, as he became less interested in having my body bared to him, it was something I could do to please and to serve, and it pleased me. Washing and ironing his shirts. Sitting on the floor, doing my amateur reflexology on his feet. Like the lunches I would make him. Not just a sandwich, chips and an apple, but homemade soups and salads and the decaffeinated iced tea he loved and things like that which made the other guys at work envious. I know he appreciated it, for he was very good at showing appreciation for what I did for him.
So as I ironed on Sunday, I was ironing this time for me. It is my dress. I made it look very pretty, and it's hanging in the closet waiting for the first warm day I am not at work to wear it. (We can't wear sleeveless things to work.) I thought with a smile that those things I used to do for him, really they were for me. I got more out of ironing the shirts and making the lunches and rubbing his feet than he did out of enjoying it all. Of that I am certain.
So now I am one of the grown-up ladies who wear the beautiful dresses that Little Susie used to look at in wonderment. So now I am figuring out who I am, who I have always been, and how that all looks and feels to me.
You might say that a dress is just a dress, but this dress is more than that. It's so old, it's new again. Just like me.
Susan
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Happy Hour
It has been very refreshing to have this weekend off. I was feeling very fatigued, the routine of work and school and work and school, et cetera, et cetera. Right now I am feeling rested and ready to go at it again tomorrow. Last week, it occurred to me that it had been a year since I had a vacation. Last April my younger son and I went on holiday to Nantucket Island together. A year is a long time for me to go without a holiday, although I know many people who rarely take a vacation.
I used to be a travel agent, and it gave me some wonderful opportunities to travel at reduced prices. I've been inside the Sydney Opera House, slept in an overwater bungalow on Bora Bora and cruised the Caribbean. There are many places I have not been and still many other places I want to see.
At home I am not much of a drinker, but I do enjoy a cocktail while on vacation. The swim-up bar is always fun, or a drink while sitting at the beach. I always feel like a very sophisticated, grown-up lady sitting in the hotel bar, having a cocktail before dinner. I have found that one of the ingredients of a perfect holiday is to make friends the very first day with the hotel bartender. Converse with him as if he is another human being, such as yourself, and not some invisible person behind the counter simply there to serve you. Call him by name, and let him know your first name. When he asks what you'll have, ask him the Susan question. "What's the best tequila (rum, vodka, whatever) drink you make?" Specify the kind of liquor, because just asking him what his best drink is doesn't give him enough information about you. He will like that, and you will get something really delicious, and not just the drinks on the menu. Tip him very, very generously. As time goes on, he will have all sorts of special drinks for you. He will anticipate what you might like, and will be looking for you.
You don't need to be loud about it, but it will get noticed, and the other people at the bar will say, "I'll have what she's having." Pretty soon, every hour will be happy hour. Your drink will be the exact strength you like. Before you know it, your margarita will have fresh squeezed juice in it, instead of that yucky sugary mix, and the best tequila, instead of Jose C., and perhaps even a Grand Marnier float. On the last day of vacation, go see him and let him know you are going home. Thank him for all the great drinks. And don't forget to tell the suits what a great job he did. This always has worked for me. And it's not because of the tips either. It's not about money, although obviously this is his job and he needs to earn a living wage. It's about recognition; recognizing him. And it's about giving him an opportunity to take pride in his job, to show off a bit and have it appreciated.
Even though I'm not in the travel business anymore, I am still a firm believer that everyone needs a break from the routine. Everyone needs to get away and see some place new. And everyone needs an hour, maybe two or three even, that's happy.
Susan
I used to be a travel agent, and it gave me some wonderful opportunities to travel at reduced prices. I've been inside the Sydney Opera House, slept in an overwater bungalow on Bora Bora and cruised the Caribbean. There are many places I have not been and still many other places I want to see.
At home I am not much of a drinker, but I do enjoy a cocktail while on vacation. The swim-up bar is always fun, or a drink while sitting at the beach. I always feel like a very sophisticated, grown-up lady sitting in the hotel bar, having a cocktail before dinner. I have found that one of the ingredients of a perfect holiday is to make friends the very first day with the hotel bartender. Converse with him as if he is another human being, such as yourself, and not some invisible person behind the counter simply there to serve you. Call him by name, and let him know your first name. When he asks what you'll have, ask him the Susan question. "What's the best tequila (rum, vodka, whatever) drink you make?" Specify the kind of liquor, because just asking him what his best drink is doesn't give him enough information about you. He will like that, and you will get something really delicious, and not just the drinks on the menu. Tip him very, very generously. As time goes on, he will have all sorts of special drinks for you. He will anticipate what you might like, and will be looking for you.
You don't need to be loud about it, but it will get noticed, and the other people at the bar will say, "I'll have what she's having." Pretty soon, every hour will be happy hour. Your drink will be the exact strength you like. Before you know it, your margarita will have fresh squeezed juice in it, instead of that yucky sugary mix, and the best tequila, instead of Jose C., and perhaps even a Grand Marnier float. On the last day of vacation, go see him and let him know you are going home. Thank him for all the great drinks. And don't forget to tell the suits what a great job he did. This always has worked for me. And it's not because of the tips either. It's not about money, although obviously this is his job and he needs to earn a living wage. It's about recognition; recognizing him. And it's about giving him an opportunity to take pride in his job, to show off a bit and have it appreciated.
Even though I'm not in the travel business anymore, I am still a firm believer that everyone needs a break from the routine. Everyone needs to get away and see some place new. And everyone needs an hour, maybe two or three even, that's happy.
Susan
Bright Light
I found the most amazing skirt! I won't bore you with the details of what a great deal it was. (Okay. It was $11.60.) I knew it was magical, but couldn't quite put my finger on it. I knew it was practical because it has flowers on it in yellow, orange, pink, purple, green and blue. So I can wear this awesome skirt with a variety of tops that are already in my closet.
.JPG)
This afternoon, as I was bringing it in from the veranda where it had been drying, it occurred to me that this skirt is just like a Lite-Brite work of art! Black background with all these wonderful bright colors. It's my Lite-Brite skirt, and I plan to wear it to work tomorrow. It should be a magical day, right? How can tomorrow not be all happy and shiny like a bright light when I wear a skirt that's like a Lite-Brite?
Susan
The Boss
I have a weekend. Yes! I do! It is a rare occurrence to have two days off in a row, and it's even rarer to have a weekend day off. But Saturday and Sunday both? Wowzers! It is the perfect storm of wonderfulness. Friday I was all, "Tee Gee Eye Eff!" Yesterday in the late afternoon, my sweet roommate/friend and I took her Australian Shepherd to the dog beach. It was a glorious day. We met a lot of great dogs. A chocolate Lab who reminded me of my sweet Molly. Another red merle Aussie just like Farm Boy, except he is way more handsome. (Just between you and me.)
"Boss" was a baby English Bulldog, three months old. It was cute, because the dad and the mom and both kids were saying, "C'mon, Boss" over and over and Boss was not obeying them at all. Well. Of course not. Because he's the boss. I found it very ironic that they expected him to do what they said, but he was aptly named because for a lot of us our animals sort of run the show anyway. If you have ever walked behind a dog with a bag and scooped the poop, or cleaned out a litter box, or...okay, I won't continue on with the illustrations because I'm sure you know what I mean...you know that they really are the bosses.
So there we were, sitting on the sand, and Boss said hello to our Aussie and to my friend, but out of the three of us I was definitely his favorite. Anyone could see that. His whole family was calling him, then they stood around watching him come up and say hello to me. I pet him, and then I just had to do it. I kissed his little wrinkly face. I am not the kind of girl to just randomly kiss dogs at dog beach, just so you know. But there he was, and there I was, we were nose to nose, and he was just so kissable, so I did it. Then one of his humans, a sweet little girl, scooped him up and carried him as the family walked toward the water. Smart girl, to know that the only way she was going to get Boss to go with them was to just pick him up and carry him. Or maybe Boss was the smart one, because everyone else had to walk and he was being lovingly toted toward the ocean.
It was a nice afternoon. The salty air. The sound of the waves. The warm sand under my toes. And an unexpected meeting with the Boss.
Susan
"Boss" was a baby English Bulldog, three months old. It was cute, because the dad and the mom and both kids were saying, "C'mon, Boss" over and over and Boss was not obeying them at all. Well. Of course not. Because he's the boss. I found it very ironic that they expected him to do what they said, but he was aptly named because for a lot of us our animals sort of run the show anyway. If you have ever walked behind a dog with a bag and scooped the poop, or cleaned out a litter box, or...okay, I won't continue on with the illustrations because I'm sure you know what I mean...you know that they really are the bosses.
So there we were, sitting on the sand, and Boss said hello to our Aussie and to my friend, but out of the three of us I was definitely his favorite. Anyone could see that. His whole family was calling him, then they stood around watching him come up and say hello to me. I pet him, and then I just had to do it. I kissed his little wrinkly face. I am not the kind of girl to just randomly kiss dogs at dog beach, just so you know. But there he was, and there I was, we were nose to nose, and he was just so kissable, so I did it. Then one of his humans, a sweet little girl, scooped him up and carried him as the family walked toward the water. Smart girl, to know that the only way she was going to get Boss to go with them was to just pick him up and carry him. Or maybe Boss was the smart one, because everyone else had to walk and he was being lovingly toted toward the ocean.
It was a nice afternoon. The salty air. The sound of the waves. The warm sand under my toes. And an unexpected meeting with the Boss.
Susan
Friday, April 19, 2013
Almost Gone
It was perfect; the perfect place for what I was planning to do. It was a very rural area in the already quite rural area in which I lived. A path down from the main road, going down and circling around to a secluded area with trees. No one would find me there; not for a long time. I carefully checked it out on a sunny day, but I thought rain would be perfect. Rain would make it even better, because people in southern California hate to go out in the rain and will avoid doing so at all costs. No one would see me, and by the time I was found, it would all be over.
This was no plea for attention. I would do it right. I would not be one of those hysterical women you see in the melodramas, their wrists bandaged, their faces all red and swollen from crying. I shopped for straight razor blades, sharp ones that would the job quickly. For years I had used toothache gel on my eyebrows when I plucked them, so I packed some of that to numb the skin before I cut, just in case the pain freaked me out and I couldn't go through with it. I had some liquor, too; I don't remember what it was, but something I could drink straight and quickly to give myself courage.
Some say that suicides are cowards. Having almost been one, I would completely disagree. No one knew the kind of pain I was in, and it is a testament to how far my then-husband and I had drifted apart, that months later when he screamed at me, "How do you live with yourself?" I told him how I almost didn't live at all. He was shocked. He had no idea. I knew the people who loved me would be sad for a while, but really everyone would be better off without me.
I fantasized about fading to black. Cool, dark oblivion; the kind that never presented itself in my sleep. It would be good to have it over. I truly felt hopeless, that the circumstances in my life were so dire and I saw no way out. But I don't think that alone would have made me so carefully plan my own death.
What really cinched the deal for me was that I felt worthless, as if I didn't even deserve to live. My mother had been dead for years, but I could still hear her voice. You were a mistake. I wish you were never born. You are stupid. You are ugly. You have ruined my life. I fought against that for years, then there I was in my early 40's with my life in shambles, and I started to think. Maybe she was right. Yeah. She probably was.
The rain I had hoped for started that morning; lots and lots of rain that we don't normally get here. I had everything I needed in my purse, and spent the morning working at the small business we owned. I was by myself, and while I usually never left, occasionally I did go out from 12-1 to run errands during the lunch hour. None of my customers would find it odd to see a sign on the door indicating that I was out to lunch till 1.
The note I left on my desk for my husband was short and terse and said where the car was parked and where I could be found. By the time I would be missed, by the time there would be any concern that I wasn't answering my cell, I would be gone. Long gone. And that would be good. Very good.
I locked up at 12:00 and drove to the place I had planned and carefully parked the car. My things in my purse, I put the hood up on my raincoat and got out. I looked around, and there was no one around. No one at all. Perfect.
I was all alone. Then when I was about halfway down the path, I heard a woman's voice calling out. She was hunched over, with a heavy jacket on and an umbrella in her hand, up on the main road, but moving fast toward me. I wanted to ignore her, but sensed she would not just let me go. "Hello?" she yelled, and I turned to watch her walk quickly down the path toward me. "Are you lost?" she asked, and as she got closer, she said, "Are you okay?" I said nothing. We just stood there looking at each other, and then she gestured with her hand, the one that was not holding the umbrella. She pointed toward where I had been walking, and said, "You know; that doesn't go anywhere."
I turned reluctantly and began walking back to my car. I don't remember if she said anything else. I don't recall if I said anything to her. She followed me back up and watched me drive away, standing there watching my tail lights disappear. I went back to the office. It wasn't even 1:00 yet. I dried off with some paper towels and put on the heat and listened to the voice mail and went about my work day.
That was eleven years ago, and I'm still here. I would love to tell you that my life got so much better. But it didn't. The dire circumstances that had crushed me to the point where I was almost gone did not improve. In fact, they got a lot worse and it would be a couple of years before I saw any improvement at all, and several years before I was truly happy again.
I have no idea who the woman with the umbrella was. I never saw her before and never saw her since. Of course, what she said to me had two meanings and you probably already caught that. Not only did the path I was walking on not go anywhere, but killing myself was not a solution.
And as bad as things got after that, I knew in a matter-of-fact and logical kind of way that killing myself was not the answer to anything. That nothing in my life, no matter how miserable it made me, was worth dying over. Even as I write this, I find myself very dispassionately telling you this story as if we are talking about another woman, some other Susan.
That's how it feels. Was I ever that unhappy? Did I ever feel that hopeless and worthless? I know I did, but it seems like some other lifetime, so long, long ago.
Those who believe in angels would say that woman with the umbrella that day was surely mine. Whoever she is, I will forever be grateful for the way in which she pointed out to me the obvious, in a way that would reach me. Had she not appeared on that path that day, I am absolutely certain I would have killed myself.
Sometimes life is just awful; unbearable. It felt that way to me, but let me tell you how delighted, absolutely delighted, I am to be here. It was a near-death experience. One of my own making; that's for sure, but it changed me. I was almost gone. And I came back.
Not everyone is as lucky as I am, and I know that. There are those who have lifelong struggles with depression, a very real and true disease. They can't just pull themselves up by their bootstraps and be happy. Mine was situational depression, and the only mental condition I have been diagnosed with is a very mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder that likely began when I was a child and was triggered by my marriage. Please don't misunderstand me; I am not saying that it can be for others the way it was for me. But it changed the way I view life, something I wrote about in Focus.
People love me, and those who dislike me usually do so because of jealousy. Are you laughing? I know it sounds ridiculously arrogant, but I have light and love and laughter and I share it as fully as I am capable of doing at this point in my life. How far I had strayed from who I am at my core, when I chose to think that this world would be better off without me.
I had been thinking about writing this for a long time. There is shame involved in sharing this story, that only a few people in my real life even know about. I didn't want to write about it, yet I knew I should. How can I tell you the story of me and not tell you how I was almost gone? Then a friend shared the story of an acquaintance who had taken his life, and I knew I had no choice but to tell you my story.
Suicides are sometimes judged harshly, and their loved ones carry a lot of guilt and heavy burdens. I would say to those who want to judge, who want to call them cowards, or selfish, or those religions who say they are damned, wait before you judge. Maybe you don't understand. Maybe you can't understand, unless you have walked down that path that doesn't go anywhere.
Susan
This was no plea for attention. I would do it right. I would not be one of those hysterical women you see in the melodramas, their wrists bandaged, their faces all red and swollen from crying. I shopped for straight razor blades, sharp ones that would the job quickly. For years I had used toothache gel on my eyebrows when I plucked them, so I packed some of that to numb the skin before I cut, just in case the pain freaked me out and I couldn't go through with it. I had some liquor, too; I don't remember what it was, but something I could drink straight and quickly to give myself courage.
Some say that suicides are cowards. Having almost been one, I would completely disagree. No one knew the kind of pain I was in, and it is a testament to how far my then-husband and I had drifted apart, that months later when he screamed at me, "How do you live with yourself?" I told him how I almost didn't live at all. He was shocked. He had no idea. I knew the people who loved me would be sad for a while, but really everyone would be better off without me.
I fantasized about fading to black. Cool, dark oblivion; the kind that never presented itself in my sleep. It would be good to have it over. I truly felt hopeless, that the circumstances in my life were so dire and I saw no way out. But I don't think that alone would have made me so carefully plan my own death.
What really cinched the deal for me was that I felt worthless, as if I didn't even deserve to live. My mother had been dead for years, but I could still hear her voice. You were a mistake. I wish you were never born. You are stupid. You are ugly. You have ruined my life. I fought against that for years, then there I was in my early 40's with my life in shambles, and I started to think. Maybe she was right. Yeah. She probably was.
The rain I had hoped for started that morning; lots and lots of rain that we don't normally get here. I had everything I needed in my purse, and spent the morning working at the small business we owned. I was by myself, and while I usually never left, occasionally I did go out from 12-1 to run errands during the lunch hour. None of my customers would find it odd to see a sign on the door indicating that I was out to lunch till 1.
The note I left on my desk for my husband was short and terse and said where the car was parked and where I could be found. By the time I would be missed, by the time there would be any concern that I wasn't answering my cell, I would be gone. Long gone. And that would be good. Very good.
I locked up at 12:00 and drove to the place I had planned and carefully parked the car. My things in my purse, I put the hood up on my raincoat and got out. I looked around, and there was no one around. No one at all. Perfect.
I was all alone. Then when I was about halfway down the path, I heard a woman's voice calling out. She was hunched over, with a heavy jacket on and an umbrella in her hand, up on the main road, but moving fast toward me. I wanted to ignore her, but sensed she would not just let me go. "Hello?" she yelled, and I turned to watch her walk quickly down the path toward me. "Are you lost?" she asked, and as she got closer, she said, "Are you okay?" I said nothing. We just stood there looking at each other, and then she gestured with her hand, the one that was not holding the umbrella. She pointed toward where I had been walking, and said, "You know; that doesn't go anywhere."
I turned reluctantly and began walking back to my car. I don't remember if she said anything else. I don't recall if I said anything to her. She followed me back up and watched me drive away, standing there watching my tail lights disappear. I went back to the office. It wasn't even 1:00 yet. I dried off with some paper towels and put on the heat and listened to the voice mail and went about my work day.
That was eleven years ago, and I'm still here. I would love to tell you that my life got so much better. But it didn't. The dire circumstances that had crushed me to the point where I was almost gone did not improve. In fact, they got a lot worse and it would be a couple of years before I saw any improvement at all, and several years before I was truly happy again.
I have no idea who the woman with the umbrella was. I never saw her before and never saw her since. Of course, what she said to me had two meanings and you probably already caught that. Not only did the path I was walking on not go anywhere, but killing myself was not a solution.
And as bad as things got after that, I knew in a matter-of-fact and logical kind of way that killing myself was not the answer to anything. That nothing in my life, no matter how miserable it made me, was worth dying over. Even as I write this, I find myself very dispassionately telling you this story as if we are talking about another woman, some other Susan.
That's how it feels. Was I ever that unhappy? Did I ever feel that hopeless and worthless? I know I did, but it seems like some other lifetime, so long, long ago.
Those who believe in angels would say that woman with the umbrella that day was surely mine. Whoever she is, I will forever be grateful for the way in which she pointed out to me the obvious, in a way that would reach me. Had she not appeared on that path that day, I am absolutely certain I would have killed myself.
Sometimes life is just awful; unbearable. It felt that way to me, but let me tell you how delighted, absolutely delighted, I am to be here. It was a near-death experience. One of my own making; that's for sure, but it changed me. I was almost gone. And I came back.
Not everyone is as lucky as I am, and I know that. There are those who have lifelong struggles with depression, a very real and true disease. They can't just pull themselves up by their bootstraps and be happy. Mine was situational depression, and the only mental condition I have been diagnosed with is a very mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder that likely began when I was a child and was triggered by my marriage. Please don't misunderstand me; I am not saying that it can be for others the way it was for me. But it changed the way I view life, something I wrote about in Focus.
People love me, and those who dislike me usually do so because of jealousy. Are you laughing? I know it sounds ridiculously arrogant, but I have light and love and laughter and I share it as fully as I am capable of doing at this point in my life. How far I had strayed from who I am at my core, when I chose to think that this world would be better off without me.
I had been thinking about writing this for a long time. There is shame involved in sharing this story, that only a few people in my real life even know about. I didn't want to write about it, yet I knew I should. How can I tell you the story of me and not tell you how I was almost gone? Then a friend shared the story of an acquaintance who had taken his life, and I knew I had no choice but to tell you my story.
Suicides are sometimes judged harshly, and their loved ones carry a lot of guilt and heavy burdens. I would say to those who want to judge, who want to call them cowards, or selfish, or those religions who say they are damned, wait before you judge. Maybe you don't understand. Maybe you can't understand, unless you have walked down that path that doesn't go anywhere.
Susan
Monday, April 15, 2013
Boston
"The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand. The angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone." George Eliot
Oklahoma City. Waco. Columbine. Virginia Tech. The Boston Marathon. All of these tragedies took place the same week in April. I feel guilty tonight, because I do so little to make this world a better place. I feel guilty tonight, because there are so many people who live with the threat of violence every day, and I do so little to help.
A dear friend's brother who lives in the Boston area was a spectator today at the Marathon, and he had his two little girls with him. They left before the violence started, so they are safe. I am happy for my friend.
But isn't my life more than this? More than breathing a sigh of relief that the people I know and love are safe, when others aren't? How is that okay?
I feel guilty. I don't want to be one of those people who wring their hands and bemoan the sad state of affairs in the world. I want to be one of the ones who makes it a better place.
This is not my most articulate post ever, but it needs to be said while I am still feeling it.
Susan
Oklahoma City. Waco. Columbine. Virginia Tech. The Boston Marathon. All of these tragedies took place the same week in April. I feel guilty tonight, because I do so little to make this world a better place. I feel guilty tonight, because there are so many people who live with the threat of violence every day, and I do so little to help.
A dear friend's brother who lives in the Boston area was a spectator today at the Marathon, and he had his two little girls with him. They left before the violence started, so they are safe. I am happy for my friend.
But isn't my life more than this? More than breathing a sigh of relief that the people I know and love are safe, when others aren't? How is that okay?
I feel guilty. I don't want to be one of those people who wring their hands and bemoan the sad state of affairs in the world. I want to be one of the ones who makes it a better place.
This is not my most articulate post ever, but it needs to be said while I am still feeling it.
Susan
Young
On Facebook, a friend shared a video her older granddaughter had made for her little sister's 20th birthday. It was a montage of photographs of the two of them together from the time they were babies, and was set to Jay-Z's song "Young Forever." It was lovely, and I know how much my friend adores her two granddaughters.
She had three sons. The oldest and the youngest middle-aged men now, the oldest one being the dad of her two granddaughters. Her middle son died when he was 18. She was sitting in the living room late one night, waiting for him to come home. Her house sat at the end of a dirt road, just off the main road. She heard a crash which sounded like it came from the main highway adjacent to her road. An accident. In her heart, she knew it was him, and she was right. He had been drinking, and just a week before he would have graduated from high school, he was gone.
It was May in Pennsylvania, but I remember being so cold the morning of the funeral. So cold. I can still remember the dress I wore, and I don't know why I remember that. It was a short-sleeved navy blue dress with some sort of a white design on it. I was so cold that I put a long sleeved turtleneck under it and my warmest, heaviest winter tights. And my winter coat. I remember sitting somewhere. Was it a church? Was it outside? Was it in a mortuary? I remember looking down at my shoes. I can't recall what the music was, or what was said. Just my friend's devastated grief, and my being chilled to the bone.
I enjoyed the video, but I found the song especially ironic and poignant, for there was an uncle who died before these two girls were ever born. He died young, and it seemed an especially cruel and senseless death, and for a while, it crushed his mother.
She healed. She did all the things she needed to do to get better, and to keep her other two sons healthy. It's been more than thirty years, and today she is healthy, beautiful, happy and vibrant. You would never suspect to look at her that she is over seventy years old.
And her middle son? I suppose in all of our minds he will always be young forever.
Susan
"Young Forever" written by Shawn Carter
She had three sons. The oldest and the youngest middle-aged men now, the oldest one being the dad of her two granddaughters. Her middle son died when he was 18. She was sitting in the living room late one night, waiting for him to come home. Her house sat at the end of a dirt road, just off the main road. She heard a crash which sounded like it came from the main highway adjacent to her road. An accident. In her heart, she knew it was him, and she was right. He had been drinking, and just a week before he would have graduated from high school, he was gone.
It was May in Pennsylvania, but I remember being so cold the morning of the funeral. So cold. I can still remember the dress I wore, and I don't know why I remember that. It was a short-sleeved navy blue dress with some sort of a white design on it. I was so cold that I put a long sleeved turtleneck under it and my warmest, heaviest winter tights. And my winter coat. I remember sitting somewhere. Was it a church? Was it outside? Was it in a mortuary? I remember looking down at my shoes. I can't recall what the music was, or what was said. Just my friend's devastated grief, and my being chilled to the bone.
I enjoyed the video, but I found the song especially ironic and poignant, for there was an uncle who died before these two girls were ever born. He died young, and it seemed an especially cruel and senseless death, and for a while, it crushed his mother.
She healed. She did all the things she needed to do to get better, and to keep her other two sons healthy. It's been more than thirty years, and today she is healthy, beautiful, happy and vibrant. You would never suspect to look at her that she is over seventy years old.
And her middle son? I suppose in all of our minds he will always be young forever.
Susan
"Young Forever" written by Shawn Carter
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Drive
I can drive a stick shift
I can drive in snow
I can drive in rain when the wind starts to blow
I can drive with kids crying
And talking over each other
I can drive the car pool like any mother
I can drive when I'm scared
And now I'm not lying
I can drive down the freeway till it feels like flying
I can drive downtown
And I can read a map
You can relax or perhaps take a nap
I can parallel park
In tight, tiny spaces
Don't worry about putting me through my paces
I can drive a motorhome
Or a car that you rent
In a strange city, without even a dent
That's not the point
That I know how to arrive
But please, may I ask you?
Would you please drive?
Susan
I can drive in snow
I can drive in rain when the wind starts to blow
I can drive with kids crying
And talking over each other
I can drive the car pool like any mother
I can drive when I'm scared
And now I'm not lying
I can drive down the freeway till it feels like flying
I can drive downtown
And I can read a map
You can relax or perhaps take a nap
I can parallel park
In tight, tiny spaces
Don't worry about putting me through my paces
I can drive a motorhome
Or a car that you rent
In a strange city, without even a dent
That's not the point
That I know how to arrive
But please, may I ask you?
Would you please drive?
Susan
Friday, April 12, 2013
On the Shelf
In a recent post, "Dress," I say that Lilly Pulitzer dresses are too expensive for me. And they are, if you go by the retail price of a new one. Today I stopped by one of my favorite stores, a consignment shop, and there were two of her dresses for $20 each, right there, hanging on the rack. Pristine condition. It's likely they belonged to the same person, because they were priced the same and were the same size, and although different colors, very similar patterns. I could see where the same woman would have liked both of them.
While the dresses were too big for me and the patterns and colors weren't my style, I now have to retract what I wrote Sunday. Some Lilly Pulitzer dresses are not too expensive for me. At all. And I have a feeling there will be one, in my price range, and just my size, and exactly what I love, in the near future.
It is a small, but I think significant example, of the way I limit myself. Just because I am of modest means when it comes to money, doesn't mean I can't have wonderful things. (Remember "The Pink Sweater"?)
So in what other ways am I holding myself back? Where else am I telling myself that I can't have this, and I can't have that, and that would never happen, and that's not for me? In "Cocoon," I very brazenly said that I want it all, but maybe there is a part of me that is afraid of having it all. And if that is so, I could be quietly sabotaging my own progress, success and fulfillment.
I was reading about Trent Reznor, most famous for being the lead singer of "Nine Inch Nails." It surprised me to find that he was born and raised in a town not far from my little town in Pennsylvania. In an interview with Rolling Stone, he is quoted as saying something that perfectly expresses how I felt about that area. I wrote a little about that place in "Go West, Young Woman!"
"I don't know why I want to do these things, other than my desire to escape from Small Town, USA, to dismiss the boundaries, to explore. It isn't a bad place where I grew up, but there was nothing going on but the cornfields. My life experience came from watching movies, watching TV and reading books and looking at magazines. And when your f****** culture comes from watching TV every day, you're bombarded with images of things that seem cool, places that seem interesting, people who have jobs and careers and opportunities. None of that happened where I was. You're almost taught to realize it's not you." (Boldface is mine.)
My intention is to become aware of ways I might be limiting myself. Where I might be standing in my own way. I am happy to tell you that I was wrong about the Lilly. I stand corrected. And I really, really don't want to be stuck up on the shelf. Or hanging on the rack, as the case may be.
Susan
"Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town" written by Eddie Vedder
While the dresses were too big for me and the patterns and colors weren't my style, I now have to retract what I wrote Sunday. Some Lilly Pulitzer dresses are not too expensive for me. At all. And I have a feeling there will be one, in my price range, and just my size, and exactly what I love, in the near future.
It is a small, but I think significant example, of the way I limit myself. Just because I am of modest means when it comes to money, doesn't mean I can't have wonderful things. (Remember "The Pink Sweater"?)
So in what other ways am I holding myself back? Where else am I telling myself that I can't have this, and I can't have that, and that would never happen, and that's not for me? In "Cocoon," I very brazenly said that I want it all, but maybe there is a part of me that is afraid of having it all. And if that is so, I could be quietly sabotaging my own progress, success and fulfillment.
I was reading about Trent Reznor, most famous for being the lead singer of "Nine Inch Nails." It surprised me to find that he was born and raised in a town not far from my little town in Pennsylvania. In an interview with Rolling Stone, he is quoted as saying something that perfectly expresses how I felt about that area. I wrote a little about that place in "Go West, Young Woman!"
"I don't know why I want to do these things, other than my desire to escape from Small Town, USA, to dismiss the boundaries, to explore. It isn't a bad place where I grew up, but there was nothing going on but the cornfields. My life experience came from watching movies, watching TV and reading books and looking at magazines. And when your f****** culture comes from watching TV every day, you're bombarded with images of things that seem cool, places that seem interesting, people who have jobs and careers and opportunities. None of that happened where I was. You're almost taught to realize it's not you." (Boldface is mine.)
My intention is to become aware of ways I might be limiting myself. Where I might be standing in my own way. I am happy to tell you that I was wrong about the Lilly. I stand corrected. And I really, really don't want to be stuck up on the shelf. Or hanging on the rack, as the case may be.
Susan
"Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town" written by Eddie Vedder
Wistful
Wistful wishes scattered across the starry night
Tossed gently from my hands, just like the young girl
With one dream and the first star she saw that night
Yet my dreams are many, and the stars are countless
And if I throw my bright wishes out into the dark sky
Odds have it that I'll have some of those dreams come true
I gather my coat around me and breathe in the cool night air
And exhale slowly at the moon, shining brightly back at me
The wind is at my back, and I feel a force stronger than I
Propel me forward. Not pushing or hurrying me along
But guiding me at exactly the right pace, and I need only follow
Like a reassuring hand at the small of my back, walking with me
I could turn around and walk against the wind, but why?
Why make it a struggle, just for struggling's sake?
When the moon is full and bright, the walk seems so easy
For I walk alone, for now, but not forever
And someone whose face I have yet to see
Quietly bids me to keep on walking into the night
The stars twinkle at me, and I wonder who else
Is looking at that sky tonight?
Who else sees the moon smiling down benevolently?
Who caught my wishes as I tossed them into the air?
Whose hand rests at the small of my back
As I walk alone into the night?
Susan
Tossed gently from my hands, just like the young girl
With one dream and the first star she saw that night
Yet my dreams are many, and the stars are countless
And if I throw my bright wishes out into the dark sky
Odds have it that I'll have some of those dreams come true
I gather my coat around me and breathe in the cool night air
And exhale slowly at the moon, shining brightly back at me
The wind is at my back, and I feel a force stronger than I
Propel me forward. Not pushing or hurrying me along
But guiding me at exactly the right pace, and I need only follow
Like a reassuring hand at the small of my back, walking with me
I could turn around and walk against the wind, but why?
Why make it a struggle, just for struggling's sake?
When the moon is full and bright, the walk seems so easy
For I walk alone, for now, but not forever
And someone whose face I have yet to see
Quietly bids me to keep on walking into the night
The stars twinkle at me, and I wonder who else
Is looking at that sky tonight?
Who else sees the moon smiling down benevolently?
Who caught my wishes as I tossed them into the air?
Whose hand rests at the small of my back
As I walk alone into the night?
Susan
Falling
"Sometimes letting go is an act of far greater power than defending or hanging on." Eckhart Tolle
Letting go is a theme in my life right now. Letting go of expectations of how others should behave. Letting go of well-ingrained thought patterns and habits. Letting go of the outcome of my choices. It feels safe for me to let go, because I am in a good place in my life. I don't need to defend myself. I don't need to hang on and tough it out. And, frankly, I am tired of living that way. I have had enough. I think that sometimes I just need to get sick and tired of something before I will change it.
The other night I awoke. It was that twilight time when I'm not fully awake. I was a little cold, so I pulled up an extra blanket and put it on, and changed position to get comfortable again. I remember putting my hands under my pillow, flattening them out. I do that sometimes. When I was under a great deal of stress, I would sometimes wake and find that my hands were balled up in tight fists, and my fingers would hurt and feel stiff as I straightened them out. That hardly ever happens anymore, but I consciously flatten my hands just as a symbol to myself that I don't need to have them in fists, like a fighter, or in fists, as if I am holding tightly to something.
Before I knew it, I was dreaming of my hands being flat, and I was falling. It wasn't a scary kind of falling, although it went on and on and on. It was peaceful and almost like floating. As if falling was a good thing, and not something to fear. Perhaps I had been holding on to something, and let go. I don't know all the details, because the dream was not vivid. But I remember that it felt very, very, very good.
I don't know what that all means, but this morning on Facebook a friend had this Eckhart Tolle quote posted, and it has caused me to start thinking about the power of letting go. Sometimes we think that we must be strong and steel ourselves for life's challenges. I don't think strong is something I do; I think strong is something I am. I have nothing left to prove to myself in that department. Two of my closest friends are facing some pretty daunting challenges right now, and they aren't being strong because they need to be. They already are strong, and these incredible problems they are facing highlight the strength I have always known was there.
In books and films, we celebrate the scrappy hero, who against all odds, hangs on and fights. It makes for a great story, as we watch him rise up and conquer. No doubt in any of our lives, there will be times when it is appropriate to defend. To fight. To hang on for dear life. It takes strength to do that; yes.
But letting go? Being able to do that is a very powerful thing. Releasing my grip, my hands flattening. My body falling, falling, falling... I have never felt anything like that before. I love it. And I don't want it to be restricted to a dream. I want that. I need that.
Susan
Letting go is a theme in my life right now. Letting go of expectations of how others should behave. Letting go of well-ingrained thought patterns and habits. Letting go of the outcome of my choices. It feels safe for me to let go, because I am in a good place in my life. I don't need to defend myself. I don't need to hang on and tough it out. And, frankly, I am tired of living that way. I have had enough. I think that sometimes I just need to get sick and tired of something before I will change it.
The other night I awoke. It was that twilight time when I'm not fully awake. I was a little cold, so I pulled up an extra blanket and put it on, and changed position to get comfortable again. I remember putting my hands under my pillow, flattening them out. I do that sometimes. When I was under a great deal of stress, I would sometimes wake and find that my hands were balled up in tight fists, and my fingers would hurt and feel stiff as I straightened them out. That hardly ever happens anymore, but I consciously flatten my hands just as a symbol to myself that I don't need to have them in fists, like a fighter, or in fists, as if I am holding tightly to something.
Before I knew it, I was dreaming of my hands being flat, and I was falling. It wasn't a scary kind of falling, although it went on and on and on. It was peaceful and almost like floating. As if falling was a good thing, and not something to fear. Perhaps I had been holding on to something, and let go. I don't know all the details, because the dream was not vivid. But I remember that it felt very, very, very good.
I don't know what that all means, but this morning on Facebook a friend had this Eckhart Tolle quote posted, and it has caused me to start thinking about the power of letting go. Sometimes we think that we must be strong and steel ourselves for life's challenges. I don't think strong is something I do; I think strong is something I am. I have nothing left to prove to myself in that department. Two of my closest friends are facing some pretty daunting challenges right now, and they aren't being strong because they need to be. They already are strong, and these incredible problems they are facing highlight the strength I have always known was there.
In books and films, we celebrate the scrappy hero, who against all odds, hangs on and fights. It makes for a great story, as we watch him rise up and conquer. No doubt in any of our lives, there will be times when it is appropriate to defend. To fight. To hang on for dear life. It takes strength to do that; yes.
But letting go? Being able to do that is a very powerful thing. Releasing my grip, my hands flattening. My body falling, falling, falling... I have never felt anything like that before. I love it. And I don't want it to be restricted to a dream. I want that. I need that.
Susan
Not Okay
They used to call us secretaries. We typed fast, took dictation and knew the difference between there, their, and they're. We made coffee and kept appointments, and if the boss didn't want to see you, we were a brick wall.
I didn't report to this man, but he and I worked for the same company. I was quite young, and he was married with a picture of his wife and three kids on his desk. He smiled at me in a way I did not like at all, and one day he and I were alone in the elevator, side by side. He didn't touch me, but for some reason I sensed his hand coming near my, if you'll excuse the expression, bottom, and I turned on him with icy rage.
"Don't touch me," I said, and he recoiled in shock. "Don't even think about touching me," I added, and he began to open his mouth to say something. "Don't ever even talk to me." The elevator door opened, and I walked out in front of him.
To say he was sheepish is an understatement. He never touched me. He never talked to me. I doubt he ever even thought about it. In fact, I would say that he did everything he could to avoid me. The thought did cross my mind that he might talk to my boss and get me in trouble, for it was the 1970's and I had never heard the term "sexual harassment." I suppose he could try to get me fired, but I didn't think about it long. But I knew that it was not okay.
That is my only brush with anyone being inappropriate with me in the work place. As the years went on, I would see that women would sexually harass men, and that is not okay either. Equally not okay.
I am able to write about my job because no one I work with knows I have a blog, and I am careful not to be on Facebook with any of them. Anyone who is Facebook friends with me can read my blog.
A new employee joined our company last summer, and he ran our warehouse. I sometimes interacted with him, but not much since he and I were in opposite areas of the store. From the start, there was something about him that bothered me, but I could not put my finger on it.
One day I was in the break room when some of the women who work with him were in there, and they began to talk about some of the smutty things he said to them. That is not okay. I time traveled back to the day I stood in the elevator with that other man, and my anger ran like ice through my veins.* This man was in authority over them, and some of these women are young enough to be my daughters and like it or not, I feel protective of them. I told them it is not okay and management needs to know. They didn't want to say anything because they didn't want to get in trouble, and they didn't think management would care.
I didn't say anything else, but at my first opportunity that day I had a private word with the manager to whom I report and told him what I had heard. He asked me if I was comfortable giving him the names of the women who were talking, and I said I was not. He took it very seriously, as he should. Even if no one cares about the ethical aspects of it, the company should be very concerned from a legal liability standpoint.
A couple of months later, this man had given notice and quit. Then I was told by another woman (not one of the ones who was in the break room that day) that she had complained to our general manager about him a few months ago, the timeline being that she complained before I ever did. She was told that nothing could be done (!) unless someone else corroborated her story, so perhaps I was the one who did that without knowing that she had already complained.
Maybe he just decided to leave on his own. I don't know. I generally don't hear gossip, mostly because I choose not to be distracted by it. But I guess in time the true story will come out as to why this person no longer works at our store. I am simply glad he is no longer there to spew his vile words and pollute our workplace.
It is not okay. I know it's 2013 and I could assume that they know it's not okay, but someone needs to say it. The topic of this man came up again, yesterday in the break room, with a young woman and a young man who is quite charming and handsome. I told him it is not okay for a woman to speak to him that way; that sexual harassment goes both ways.
I said good night, and as I walked out the door, I heard my female coworker say, "Susan is so sweet." And I am. Except I don't think that guy in the elevator thought so. And that's a good thing. Because it's not okay.
Susan
* Edited: My anger ran like ice through my veins? Really? This made me laugh when I read what I had written, because ice is frozen and doesn't run. But I think it's more fun to leave it. But I still know the difference between there, their and they're. I do. Really.
I didn't report to this man, but he and I worked for the same company. I was quite young, and he was married with a picture of his wife and three kids on his desk. He smiled at me in a way I did not like at all, and one day he and I were alone in the elevator, side by side. He didn't touch me, but for some reason I sensed his hand coming near my, if you'll excuse the expression, bottom, and I turned on him with icy rage.
"Don't touch me," I said, and he recoiled in shock. "Don't even think about touching me," I added, and he began to open his mouth to say something. "Don't ever even talk to me." The elevator door opened, and I walked out in front of him.
To say he was sheepish is an understatement. He never touched me. He never talked to me. I doubt he ever even thought about it. In fact, I would say that he did everything he could to avoid me. The thought did cross my mind that he might talk to my boss and get me in trouble, for it was the 1970's and I had never heard the term "sexual harassment." I suppose he could try to get me fired, but I didn't think about it long. But I knew that it was not okay.
That is my only brush with anyone being inappropriate with me in the work place. As the years went on, I would see that women would sexually harass men, and that is not okay either. Equally not okay.
I am able to write about my job because no one I work with knows I have a blog, and I am careful not to be on Facebook with any of them. Anyone who is Facebook friends with me can read my blog.
A new employee joined our company last summer, and he ran our warehouse. I sometimes interacted with him, but not much since he and I were in opposite areas of the store. From the start, there was something about him that bothered me, but I could not put my finger on it.
One day I was in the break room when some of the women who work with him were in there, and they began to talk about some of the smutty things he said to them. That is not okay. I time traveled back to the day I stood in the elevator with that other man, and my anger ran like ice through my veins.* This man was in authority over them, and some of these women are young enough to be my daughters and like it or not, I feel protective of them. I told them it is not okay and management needs to know. They didn't want to say anything because they didn't want to get in trouble, and they didn't think management would care.
I didn't say anything else, but at my first opportunity that day I had a private word with the manager to whom I report and told him what I had heard. He asked me if I was comfortable giving him the names of the women who were talking, and I said I was not. He took it very seriously, as he should. Even if no one cares about the ethical aspects of it, the company should be very concerned from a legal liability standpoint.
A couple of months later, this man had given notice and quit. Then I was told by another woman (not one of the ones who was in the break room that day) that she had complained to our general manager about him a few months ago, the timeline being that she complained before I ever did. She was told that nothing could be done (!) unless someone else corroborated her story, so perhaps I was the one who did that without knowing that she had already complained.
Maybe he just decided to leave on his own. I don't know. I generally don't hear gossip, mostly because I choose not to be distracted by it. But I guess in time the true story will come out as to why this person no longer works at our store. I am simply glad he is no longer there to spew his vile words and pollute our workplace.
It is not okay. I know it's 2013 and I could assume that they know it's not okay, but someone needs to say it. The topic of this man came up again, yesterday in the break room, with a young woman and a young man who is quite charming and handsome. I told him it is not okay for a woman to speak to him that way; that sexual harassment goes both ways.
I said good night, and as I walked out the door, I heard my female coworker say, "Susan is so sweet." And I am. Except I don't think that guy in the elevator thought so. And that's a good thing. Because it's not okay.
Susan
* Edited: My anger ran like ice through my veins? Really? This made me laugh when I read what I had written, because ice is frozen and doesn't run. But I think it's more fun to leave it. But I still know the difference between there, their and they're. I do. Really.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Not Your Mother's Grandma
Being a grandma is pretty much the best thing ever. My older son married a lady who already had two little girls, so I became an instant grandma. Then my grandson was born, so I am very lucky to have three grandchildren.
A few weeks before the wedding, the girls and I were at a park near their home. Another girl came over to join in their play, and she looked at me and asked my older granddaughter, "Is that your mom?" and my granddaughter said, "No. That's my grandma." Her grandma. That was the first time anyone had ever called me that, and I was so happy I cried.
There was this one day I was looking at a rack of dresses in a department store, and they were very matronly. I thought with disdain, "Those are granny dresses." Then I remembered that I am a granny.
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in the rocking chair in our living room. My phone was on the coffee table to the right of me, and I reached over to get it and sort of went sideways. I didn't fall off, but if I would have, I would have been off my rocker. As in, "Grandma is off her rocker."
A few months ago, two women customers who looked a lot alike approached my cash register. The older one was holding a baby, and I was thinking, grandmother, daughter, baby. I smiled widely and said to the older woman, "Is this beautiful baby your grandchild?" Her face was a mixture of chagrin and shock. She replied, "This baby is my child." Wowzers.
I was privileged to introduce my grandchildren to the classic Christmas song, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" by Randy Brooks. Believe it or not, they had never heard it before. I sing the chorus in my best country twang, which is only the way to truly do that song justice. They think it is pretty funny.
Women my age can expect to live longer than grandmas of previous generations. I think we tend to take better care of ourselves, think younger and remain active longer than those grandmas did. And for me, it's kind of like I'm getting my second wind in life. It's wonderful to have these little people to share in the fun. I feel very lucky that I became a grandmother at a relatively young age, so I can enjoy them for a long, long time.
I don't ponder my mortality or my death very often, but when I think about it, I must say this. Grandma got run over by a reindeer. What a way to go.
Susan
A few weeks before the wedding, the girls and I were at a park near their home. Another girl came over to join in their play, and she looked at me and asked my older granddaughter, "Is that your mom?" and my granddaughter said, "No. That's my grandma." Her grandma. That was the first time anyone had ever called me that, and I was so happy I cried.
There was this one day I was looking at a rack of dresses in a department store, and they were very matronly. I thought with disdain, "Those are granny dresses." Then I remembered that I am a granny.
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in the rocking chair in our living room. My phone was on the coffee table to the right of me, and I reached over to get it and sort of went sideways. I didn't fall off, but if I would have, I would have been off my rocker. As in, "Grandma is off her rocker."
A few months ago, two women customers who looked a lot alike approached my cash register. The older one was holding a baby, and I was thinking, grandmother, daughter, baby. I smiled widely and said to the older woman, "Is this beautiful baby your grandchild?" Her face was a mixture of chagrin and shock. She replied, "This baby is my child." Wowzers.
I was privileged to introduce my grandchildren to the classic Christmas song, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" by Randy Brooks. Believe it or not, they had never heard it before. I sing the chorus in my best country twang, which is only the way to truly do that song justice. They think it is pretty funny.
Women my age can expect to live longer than grandmas of previous generations. I think we tend to take better care of ourselves, think younger and remain active longer than those grandmas did. And for me, it's kind of like I'm getting my second wind in life. It's wonderful to have these little people to share in the fun. I feel very lucky that I became a grandmother at a relatively young age, so I can enjoy them for a long, long time.
I don't ponder my mortality or my death very often, but when I think about it, I must say this. Grandma got run over by a reindeer. What a way to go.
Susan
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Dress
"Dress shabbily, and they remember the dress. Dress impeccably, and they remember the woman." Coco Chanel
I had been composing this post in my head, when I looked at Google News and saw that fashion designer Lilly Pulitzer died today. She was famous for her way-too-expensive-for-Susan, but very beautiful dresses in riotous colors and flowery prints. What a coincidence. Or not.
Most of my wardrobe is dresses and skirts, because I really, really love them. They express who I am. When I wear them to work, I make sure the cut of the skirt is something I can move around in easily and still have a sense of modesty. There is a lot of bending and lifting and reaching involved in what I do in my day to day. Of course, I wear slacks, too, but if I had my druthers, I druther wear something more feminine. When I first began working at my store, most of the women wore dark colored pants every day; black, gray, brown, navy blue. I would show up in my skirt with tights underneath, and this new girl would get some strange looks. One of the younger women one day wore a dress with tights, and she walked up to me beaming. She said, "I thought since you wear skirts a lot, it would be okay." It was interesting because our dress code prohibits certain types of clothing (no blue jeans and no tank tops, for example) but she had thought since no one wore skirts, perhaps we weren't allowed. As the months went on, more of my colleagues began to wear dresses and skirts occasionally as well.
In America, it seems most women wear pants a majority of the time. And that's a good thing, if it expresses who they are. Certainly pants can be a very smart look on a woman. Jeans are part of the casual uniform of lots of women, and I have two pairs of jeans myself. I don't wear dresses and skirts to be different or to stand out, but that's often the result anyway. I am good with that. Maybe there is someone out there who needs encouragement to express herself more fully with her wardrobe, and maybe she'll be like my coworker, who thought that since I did it, it would be okay. Because it is.
Susan
I had been composing this post in my head, when I looked at Google News and saw that fashion designer Lilly Pulitzer died today. She was famous for her way-too-expensive-for-Susan, but very beautiful dresses in riotous colors and flowery prints. What a coincidence. Or not.
Most of my wardrobe is dresses and skirts, because I really, really love them. They express who I am. When I wear them to work, I make sure the cut of the skirt is something I can move around in easily and still have a sense of modesty. There is a lot of bending and lifting and reaching involved in what I do in my day to day. Of course, I wear slacks, too, but if I had my druthers, I druther wear something more feminine. When I first began working at my store, most of the women wore dark colored pants every day; black, gray, brown, navy blue. I would show up in my skirt with tights underneath, and this new girl would get some strange looks. One of the younger women one day wore a dress with tights, and she walked up to me beaming. She said, "I thought since you wear skirts a lot, it would be okay." It was interesting because our dress code prohibits certain types of clothing (no blue jeans and no tank tops, for example) but she had thought since no one wore skirts, perhaps we weren't allowed. As the months went on, more of my colleagues began to wear dresses and skirts occasionally as well.
In America, it seems most women wear pants a majority of the time. And that's a good thing, if it expresses who they are. Certainly pants can be a very smart look on a woman. Jeans are part of the casual uniform of lots of women, and I have two pairs of jeans myself. I don't wear dresses and skirts to be different or to stand out, but that's often the result anyway. I am good with that. Maybe there is someone out there who needs encouragement to express herself more fully with her wardrobe, and maybe she'll be like my coworker, who thought that since I did it, it would be okay. Because it is.
Susan
Of Children and Geniuses and Madmen
"A child has no trouble believing the unbelievable, nor does the genius or the madman. It's only you and I, with our big brains and our tiny hearts, who doubt and overthink and hesitate." Steven Pressfield
It was my lunch break and I was out running errands. As I walked across the parking lot, I heard someone call out to me, and it was a friend I had not seen for a while. She was sitting in her car, and I walked over to say hello. We were all cheery, hi, how are you, and so on, but I was really anxious to see if her daughter was in her car seat in the back seat. She was, and I looked in, kind of reserved and respectful, not sure if she would remember me. I don't like to be that person who invades the space of babies and small children. I didn't want to scare her or upset her. She saw me and her serious face burst into the biggest smile ever, then as I talked to her, her little legs and arms started to wiggle with joy.
Of course, it was wonderful to see her mother, and we talked about how it had been too long since we had gotten together. How maybe on one of my days off soon, we should go to the beach. But it really delighted me to see her toddler, and I think it's partly because she was so excited to see me. She certainly remembered me.
To be greeted that way is just amazing. It's the way my grandchildren scream, "Grandma Susie!" and the expressions on their faces. It's the way dogs greet me, all excited and happy and full of joy. Maybe that is why I love dogs so much, because they think I am a really big deal. I need that. I am not ashamed to admit that. I need to be greeted with enthusiasm and smiles and maybe some hugs and kisses, and yes. Even some licks on my face from time to time.
We learn as we grow older to become more reserved, to hold back. We shake hands with certain people. We hug others. We learn about boundaries and personal space and what might be sexual harassment, and I think that is all a good thing. I would not want to change that which keeps us safe and shows respect.
There is a thrift shop I sometimes visit which benefits disabled adults. Often there is a woman in the store, the daughter of one of the employees, who hugs all the customers as they enter the store. She has Down syndrome. She is not "normal," as we define it. Perhaps when she was born, folks clucked their tongues and shook their heads, that she would not be like other children. As if she was less than perfect. She hugs everyone, whether they want to be hugged or not. There is no escaping her. I will admit the first time I went in there, I was a little uncomfortable with it, but I willed myself to hug her back and show some warmth to her. I did not want to be the stiff person who rejects the hug, and then tries to skitter away. She was really happy to see me. Genuinely exuberant that I had stopped by that day. She hugged me really hard and for a really long time.
We admonish our children to grow up. We tell our dogs to get down. We pity those who don't fit our definition of normal. It's sad, because they could teach us a lot if we would let them.
Susan
It was my lunch break and I was out running errands. As I walked across the parking lot, I heard someone call out to me, and it was a friend I had not seen for a while. She was sitting in her car, and I walked over to say hello. We were all cheery, hi, how are you, and so on, but I was really anxious to see if her daughter was in her car seat in the back seat. She was, and I looked in, kind of reserved and respectful, not sure if she would remember me. I don't like to be that person who invades the space of babies and small children. I didn't want to scare her or upset her. She saw me and her serious face burst into the biggest smile ever, then as I talked to her, her little legs and arms started to wiggle with joy.
Of course, it was wonderful to see her mother, and we talked about how it had been too long since we had gotten together. How maybe on one of my days off soon, we should go to the beach. But it really delighted me to see her toddler, and I think it's partly because she was so excited to see me. She certainly remembered me.
To be greeted that way is just amazing. It's the way my grandchildren scream, "Grandma Susie!" and the expressions on their faces. It's the way dogs greet me, all excited and happy and full of joy. Maybe that is why I love dogs so much, because they think I am a really big deal. I need that. I am not ashamed to admit that. I need to be greeted with enthusiasm and smiles and maybe some hugs and kisses, and yes. Even some licks on my face from time to time.
We learn as we grow older to become more reserved, to hold back. We shake hands with certain people. We hug others. We learn about boundaries and personal space and what might be sexual harassment, and I think that is all a good thing. I would not want to change that which keeps us safe and shows respect.
There is a thrift shop I sometimes visit which benefits disabled adults. Often there is a woman in the store, the daughter of one of the employees, who hugs all the customers as they enter the store. She has Down syndrome. She is not "normal," as we define it. Perhaps when she was born, folks clucked their tongues and shook their heads, that she would not be like other children. As if she was less than perfect. She hugs everyone, whether they want to be hugged or not. There is no escaping her. I will admit the first time I went in there, I was a little uncomfortable with it, but I willed myself to hug her back and show some warmth to her. I did not want to be the stiff person who rejects the hug, and then tries to skitter away. She was really happy to see me. Genuinely exuberant that I had stopped by that day. She hugged me really hard and for a really long time.
We admonish our children to grow up. We tell our dogs to get down. We pity those who don't fit our definition of normal. It's sad, because they could teach us a lot if we would let them.
Susan
Friday, April 5, 2013
Ouch
"Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions will never lie to you." Roger Ebert
I think everyone should be in therapy at some point in life. I don't mean that sarcastically. Life can be very challenging. My therapist is a wonderful woman who has helped me immensely. I know, like in any profession, not every therapist is competent, but I think it's worth it to find one who is, and to continue to search until we do. I was fortunate to find a great one on my first attempt.
During the last year of my marriage, I went to see her for the first time. I had done some research and thought she might help us. He refused to go, but snarkily suggested that I go, since I was the one with the problem. I was good with that. I have no problem being the identified patient.
I had never suggested counseling before that, because I didn't want to hear what a counselor might say. And I certainly wasn't ready to act on it. Finally, I was. You see, I had been telling myself that I was confused. That our relationship was very complicated. That sort of stuff.
There in her office, in the space of 50 minutes, it all became very simple. She didn't say a lot. I did most of the talking, and she asked some questions. She allowed me to draw my own conclusions. That is very smart, because there is no real change until we want it. And while it would be months before I left, it started the process that I had needed.
One of the most helpful things she did was validate the emotions I had been feeling all along. I am a smart girl. I had been told that since as long as I could remember. I took an IQ test in high school with a result of 131. All my life, I had trusted my intellect. But my emotions? I didn't like to put much stock in them. I didn't trust them. All of that started to change, I think, back at that first visit with my therapist.
She did warn me not to do anything that might provoke my husband, and I took that advice. But she said that with other people, if they say something hurtful, why not respond with a simple, "Ouch." Don't you just love it?
Now with the benefit of years, I can look back and see that while it certainly seemed confusing, my emotions never lied. I am still a smart girl. That is never going to change. But I will not allow myself to have my intellect be my excuse anymore. I am learning to trust my emotions, as I grow. At times it feels a bit scary and swirly, because going with how I feel is outside my comfort zone.
So since my emotions will never lie to me, I think I need to trust them. And that is just smart.
Susan
Film critic and Pulitzer Prize winner Roger Ebert died yesterday at the age of 70.
I think everyone should be in therapy at some point in life. I don't mean that sarcastically. Life can be very challenging. My therapist is a wonderful woman who has helped me immensely. I know, like in any profession, not every therapist is competent, but I think it's worth it to find one who is, and to continue to search until we do. I was fortunate to find a great one on my first attempt.
During the last year of my marriage, I went to see her for the first time. I had done some research and thought she might help us. He refused to go, but snarkily suggested that I go, since I was the one with the problem. I was good with that. I have no problem being the identified patient.
I had never suggested counseling before that, because I didn't want to hear what a counselor might say. And I certainly wasn't ready to act on it. Finally, I was. You see, I had been telling myself that I was confused. That our relationship was very complicated. That sort of stuff.
There in her office, in the space of 50 minutes, it all became very simple. She didn't say a lot. I did most of the talking, and she asked some questions. She allowed me to draw my own conclusions. That is very smart, because there is no real change until we want it. And while it would be months before I left, it started the process that I had needed.
One of the most helpful things she did was validate the emotions I had been feeling all along. I am a smart girl. I had been told that since as long as I could remember. I took an IQ test in high school with a result of 131. All my life, I had trusted my intellect. But my emotions? I didn't like to put much stock in them. I didn't trust them. All of that started to change, I think, back at that first visit with my therapist.
She did warn me not to do anything that might provoke my husband, and I took that advice. But she said that with other people, if they say something hurtful, why not respond with a simple, "Ouch." Don't you just love it?
Now with the benefit of years, I can look back and see that while it certainly seemed confusing, my emotions never lied. I am still a smart girl. That is never going to change. But I will not allow myself to have my intellect be my excuse anymore. I am learning to trust my emotions, as I grow. At times it feels a bit scary and swirly, because going with how I feel is outside my comfort zone.
So since my emotions will never lie to me, I think I need to trust them. And that is just smart.
Susan
Film critic and Pulitzer Prize winner Roger Ebert died yesterday at the age of 70.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Time and Tide
I woke up super early this morning, 4ish, all excited about my vacation! Squeeee! I love, love, love going on trips. I will be staying with my beautiful niece and her wonderful family, seeing other people I love, and attending a wedding. So that is really something to be excited about! Right? Except that it's six months away.
But it's never too early to get excited about something fun. Right? One of the things I need to be happy is something to look forward to. I love spontaneous, spur of the moment things, too. But anticipation is a wonderful thing. I look forward a lot. Even when I reflect on the past, it is with the idea of learning from it for the future.
Time is a funny thing. Our perception of it. How it drags when we are bored and unhappy. How it seems to fly right by when we are having a good time. When I was a child, adults would say how fast time goes by. I didn't get it. That is because I had only been on this planet a short time. For example, the six months until my holiday will go by quite quickly because six months to the 54-year-old me is quite a smaller fraction of the time I've been alive than it was when I was a child.
One of the things I am learning to do is to be present in the moment. A few years ago when my older son got married, I had the fun of helping him and his wife-to-be plan their wedding and honeymoon. His dad and I were blessed to have the money to pay for it, and it was our pleasure to do so. We set it all up so that everything would be taken care of on the day of the wedding, so I would have nothing to do but be there. We had a professional photographer, and disposable cameras sitting on the tables at the reception, and many guests used the cameras in their phones. I didn't take any pictures at all. Taking pictures distracts me and detracts from my enjoyment of what is going on. A friend who is a talented photographer (good enough to be a professional) says taking pictures actually heightens her appreciation of what is going on. It doesn't work that way for me. I enjoyed the day, and I was completely "there." There was no past, no future; just that day.
It started me on my journey of learning to enjoy and savor the present. It is an ongoing process; something that I get better at as I practice it. And while a child getting married is a huge moment, not one that happens often, each and every day is important. Right? The knowledge that time does indeed go by quickly causes me to want to enjoy today. This moment. Now. It's something I will never get back, and to tell you the truth, there are times in my life I feel like I wasted.
A few weeks ago, I drove some friends to the train station in our town. I wasn't going to be their driver, then all of a sudden I was. It wasn't planned, but I was around and happy to do it for them. It just so happened that I dropped them off right before sunset, and the train station is very close to the beach, so I buzzed over and said hello to the Pacific Ocean. I stood with others, silently, and watched the sun go down. A beautiful sight, and one that I don't see as often as I could.
I smelled the salty air and watched the water ebb and flow, as I said good night to the sun. Another day. One I will never get back, but that day was one well spent, if for no other reason than the fact that I watched the sun set.
Sometimes life is so simple. Right? Or maybe all the time it's simple, and I just don't see it.
Susan
"Time and Tide" written by Barbara Trzetrzelewska and Danny White
But it's never too early to get excited about something fun. Right? One of the things I need to be happy is something to look forward to. I love spontaneous, spur of the moment things, too. But anticipation is a wonderful thing. I look forward a lot. Even when I reflect on the past, it is with the idea of learning from it for the future.
Time is a funny thing. Our perception of it. How it drags when we are bored and unhappy. How it seems to fly right by when we are having a good time. When I was a child, adults would say how fast time goes by. I didn't get it. That is because I had only been on this planet a short time. For example, the six months until my holiday will go by quite quickly because six months to the 54-year-old me is quite a smaller fraction of the time I've been alive than it was when I was a child.
One of the things I am learning to do is to be present in the moment. A few years ago when my older son got married, I had the fun of helping him and his wife-to-be plan their wedding and honeymoon. His dad and I were blessed to have the money to pay for it, and it was our pleasure to do so. We set it all up so that everything would be taken care of on the day of the wedding, so I would have nothing to do but be there. We had a professional photographer, and disposable cameras sitting on the tables at the reception, and many guests used the cameras in their phones. I didn't take any pictures at all. Taking pictures distracts me and detracts from my enjoyment of what is going on. A friend who is a talented photographer (good enough to be a professional) says taking pictures actually heightens her appreciation of what is going on. It doesn't work that way for me. I enjoyed the day, and I was completely "there." There was no past, no future; just that day.
It started me on my journey of learning to enjoy and savor the present. It is an ongoing process; something that I get better at as I practice it. And while a child getting married is a huge moment, not one that happens often, each and every day is important. Right? The knowledge that time does indeed go by quickly causes me to want to enjoy today. This moment. Now. It's something I will never get back, and to tell you the truth, there are times in my life I feel like I wasted.
A few weeks ago, I drove some friends to the train station in our town. I wasn't going to be their driver, then all of a sudden I was. It wasn't planned, but I was around and happy to do it for them. It just so happened that I dropped them off right before sunset, and the train station is very close to the beach, so I buzzed over and said hello to the Pacific Ocean. I stood with others, silently, and watched the sun go down. A beautiful sight, and one that I don't see as often as I could.
I smelled the salty air and watched the water ebb and flow, as I said good night to the sun. Another day. One I will never get back, but that day was one well spent, if for no other reason than the fact that I watched the sun set.
Sometimes life is so simple. Right? Or maybe all the time it's simple, and I just don't see it.
Susan
"Time and Tide" written by Barbara Trzetrzelewska and Danny White
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Go West, Young Woman!
Next week will mark thirty years ago that I packed up my belongings in a red 1976 Mazda 626 (great car) and drove across the country (alone) to a place I had never seen before (Reno, Nevada.) I had friends to stay with, but no job. I had enough money for about six weeks, maybe eight weeks if I stretched it. A couple years later, I moved to California and I've been here ever since.
To say I was naive is putting it mildly. I was born and raised in a small town in western Pennsylvania, and had been to Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky. Maybe a couple other states in that part of the country. I'm not sure. On the surface, I was following God's Will For My Life, as I saw it at the time.
Under the surface, I had been discontented for a long time. Knowing that there was more out there for me, wanting to find it, wanting to see it, wanting to do it. I felt at times like I was going to suffocate in that little town, although it is quite common that people who are born there, live there for their entire lives and die there, quite happily knowing that they are home. Even deeper under the surface was the as-yet-unrealized need I had to put miles between my mother and me so I could heal. It was my opportunity, and I seized it.
I was twenty-four years old. It's kind of crazy, a girl that young all by herself, driving west. But it was crazy in an exciting kind of way. I took Interstate 80 the whole way, stopping each night well before it got dark. It took me five days. I was careful to have my car serviced before I left, and I drove safely and took care of myself. But as I think about it now, there were no cell phones, no way to get help, long stretches of highway with pretty much nothing. I guess a lot of bad stuff could have happened, but it didn't. An April blizzard in Nebraska with a tractor-trailer jackknifed on the highway meant that I stopped for the night in Omaha instead of Lincoln as planned.
Whenever I get scared of new things, of stepping outside my comfort zone, I think of the 24-year-old me. Driving along I-80, in a little red car with white seats, singing at the top of her lungs. Knowing that there wasn't anything particularly bad about where she was, but being sure there was something better out there.
She gives me courage, that young woman who was afraid, but didn't let fear stop her. She's still inside me. And you know what? Sometimes being afraid isn't bad at all. Sometimes it's exciting.
Susan
With apologies to John B. L. Soule.
To say I was naive is putting it mildly. I was born and raised in a small town in western Pennsylvania, and had been to Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, Kentucky. Maybe a couple other states in that part of the country. I'm not sure. On the surface, I was following God's Will For My Life, as I saw it at the time.
Under the surface, I had been discontented for a long time. Knowing that there was more out there for me, wanting to find it, wanting to see it, wanting to do it. I felt at times like I was going to suffocate in that little town, although it is quite common that people who are born there, live there for their entire lives and die there, quite happily knowing that they are home. Even deeper under the surface was the as-yet-unrealized need I had to put miles between my mother and me so I could heal. It was my opportunity, and I seized it.
I was twenty-four years old. It's kind of crazy, a girl that young all by herself, driving west. But it was crazy in an exciting kind of way. I took Interstate 80 the whole way, stopping each night well before it got dark. It took me five days. I was careful to have my car serviced before I left, and I drove safely and took care of myself. But as I think about it now, there were no cell phones, no way to get help, long stretches of highway with pretty much nothing. I guess a lot of bad stuff could have happened, but it didn't. An April blizzard in Nebraska with a tractor-trailer jackknifed on the highway meant that I stopped for the night in Omaha instead of Lincoln as planned.
Whenever I get scared of new things, of stepping outside my comfort zone, I think of the 24-year-old me. Driving along I-80, in a little red car with white seats, singing at the top of her lungs. Knowing that there wasn't anything particularly bad about where she was, but being sure there was something better out there.
She gives me courage, that young woman who was afraid, but didn't let fear stop her. She's still inside me. And you know what? Sometimes being afraid isn't bad at all. Sometimes it's exciting.
Susan
With apologies to John B. L. Soule.
Front Row Seat
I wrapped myself around him, around his life. It is my nature. For a while I thought that was our problem; that I was too submissive. As if being submissive was something I did, instead of someone I am. As if I could change, or turn it off, and ever have any semblance of happiness. I didn't understand who I was at the time, and he probably did not either. I think he did not know what to do with it, or with me.
He loved Sade, and while she would not have been my kind of music, she became that because she was his. Her music became the sound track of our courting. The first time we made love, she was singing in the background from a cassette player. Shortly before we married, we went to see her in concert. We had our tickets; paper tickets since this was before cell phones and personal computers and seat maps online. We were surprised and delighted to find that we had front row seats.
I am over him. I have been for years. I don't love him romantically anymore, although I will be honest and say I think I will always love him as another human being, as someone with whom I shared a life. He was the first person with whom I had sex, and he remains the only person.We sit together now at holidays and the grandchildren's birthday parties, and we chat. We hug hello and goodbye, and the hug is not just for show. I don't desire him anymore, although he has always been and still is a stunningly handsome man. What I see now is what I didn't see then, that we really never really had a chance.
Shockingly mismatched in so many ways, so bereft from the start of mutual trust and respect, it is actually quite amazing that we made it for seventeen years. Our being together was not a mistake, and although I failed at being the wife he needed me to be, I don't regret even our worst day together. We were drawn together in a way I can't even begin to understand, nor do I need to understand it all.
He never did turn me into a Sade fan, but he did give me a song that still resonates. I remember how I felt when I watched her from that front row seat, and heard her sing this. I heard this song the other day as I was doing that radio channel surfing I am so fond of. It reminded me of him, for he once was the king of my heart. But more than that, it reminds me of me and who I am. Of what I finally accept what I imagine I intuitively always knew.
My heart presently has no king. It needs one. I feel very vulnerable and just a touch scared as I write these words, but it is the truth. I am the kind of woman whose heart needs a ruler.
Susan
"Your Love is King" written by Sade Adu and Stuart Matthewman
He loved Sade, and while she would not have been my kind of music, she became that because she was his. Her music became the sound track of our courting. The first time we made love, she was singing in the background from a cassette player. Shortly before we married, we went to see her in concert. We had our tickets; paper tickets since this was before cell phones and personal computers and seat maps online. We were surprised and delighted to find that we had front row seats.
I am over him. I have been for years. I don't love him romantically anymore, although I will be honest and say I think I will always love him as another human being, as someone with whom I shared a life. He was the first person with whom I had sex, and he remains the only person.We sit together now at holidays and the grandchildren's birthday parties, and we chat. We hug hello and goodbye, and the hug is not just for show. I don't desire him anymore, although he has always been and still is a stunningly handsome man. What I see now is what I didn't see then, that we really never really had a chance.
Shockingly mismatched in so many ways, so bereft from the start of mutual trust and respect, it is actually quite amazing that we made it for seventeen years. Our being together was not a mistake, and although I failed at being the wife he needed me to be, I don't regret even our worst day together. We were drawn together in a way I can't even begin to understand, nor do I need to understand it all.
He never did turn me into a Sade fan, but he did give me a song that still resonates. I remember how I felt when I watched her from that front row seat, and heard her sing this. I heard this song the other day as I was doing that radio channel surfing I am so fond of. It reminded me of him, for he once was the king of my heart. But more than that, it reminds me of me and who I am. Of what I finally accept what I imagine I intuitively always knew.
My heart presently has no king. It needs one. I feel very vulnerable and just a touch scared as I write these words, but it is the truth. I am the kind of woman whose heart needs a ruler.
Susan
"Your Love is King" written by Sade Adu and Stuart Matthewman
Cocoon
Three years ago I started Hero In Your Soul. During that time, I have averaged a post every couple of days. I didn't set out to start a blog for the sake of having a blog, and I certainly didn't think of myself as a writer. A couple of friends had an idea for a non-profit, and they said they wanted to include me. Another friend suggested we have a blog to promote it, and since I felt like I was "pretty good" at writing, I said I would start the blog. They never did get their idea off the ground, but the blog over time has taken on a life of its own.
I can't even imagine my life without Hero In Your Soul. It is a part of who I am, as I am a part of it. At first, I would think of things I could write about and then write. Then I began to just write, without any ideas at all, and in the process of writing just words and phrases and such, a post would come together. At first, I was very careful about what I wrote, but as time goes on I have loosened up some. It reflects my own journey, the blog mirroring my real life and my real life mirroring the blog.
One of the best things about it is this; I have seen things come out of me in the process of writing that I didn't even know were there. When I started the blog, I was in a cocoon of sorts. I lived a very contained life, having left my marriage and my home ten months earlier. I was living in a house where I rented a room. I had a new job, and was taking one night class at college, my first college class ever. The financial part of my divorce proceedings had been resolved, and I exhaled knowing that I would have a small cushion of money.
The ten months prior to Hero In Your Soul were spent doing lots and lots of journaling, my first foray into any kind of writing after many years. I would sit on my bed (no room for a desk) with my legs crossed, and write on sheets and sheets of notebook paper. The things I could not talk about yet made their way on to the paper.
All I wanted back then was some peace. The first night I lived in that house, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. For months I slept without dreaming, the peace and safety enveloping me like a cocoon. I still believe that one of life's greatest gifts is peace, and mine felt very hard won.
The cocoon served its purpose, and slowly I emerged. Okay now. This is the part where I tell you I am this amazingly beautiful butterfly fluttering around, but I am not going to get all poetic on you. I still feel peaceful, and I still feel safe, but of course, if you have been reading for any length of time, I want a lot more out of life.
What do I want? I want it all. Everything life has to offer, even the icky and painful stuff. And you will get to read about it, as time unfolds, because I don't plan to go away. Thank you for reading. I hope I never waste your time, because when you read you give me the only thing any of us possesses...time. I thank you for that.
What do you want? I hope you want it all, too, because otherwise, what is the point?
Susan
I can't even imagine my life without Hero In Your Soul. It is a part of who I am, as I am a part of it. At first, I would think of things I could write about and then write. Then I began to just write, without any ideas at all, and in the process of writing just words and phrases and such, a post would come together. At first, I was very careful about what I wrote, but as time goes on I have loosened up some. It reflects my own journey, the blog mirroring my real life and my real life mirroring the blog.
One of the best things about it is this; I have seen things come out of me in the process of writing that I didn't even know were there. When I started the blog, I was in a cocoon of sorts. I lived a very contained life, having left my marriage and my home ten months earlier. I was living in a house where I rented a room. I had a new job, and was taking one night class at college, my first college class ever. The financial part of my divorce proceedings had been resolved, and I exhaled knowing that I would have a small cushion of money.
The ten months prior to Hero In Your Soul were spent doing lots and lots of journaling, my first foray into any kind of writing after many years. I would sit on my bed (no room for a desk) with my legs crossed, and write on sheets and sheets of notebook paper. The things I could not talk about yet made their way on to the paper.
All I wanted back then was some peace. The first night I lived in that house, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. For months I slept without dreaming, the peace and safety enveloping me like a cocoon. I still believe that one of life's greatest gifts is peace, and mine felt very hard won.
The cocoon served its purpose, and slowly I emerged. Okay now. This is the part where I tell you I am this amazingly beautiful butterfly fluttering around, but I am not going to get all poetic on you. I still feel peaceful, and I still feel safe, but of course, if you have been reading for any length of time, I want a lot more out of life.
What do I want? I want it all. Everything life has to offer, even the icky and painful stuff. And you will get to read about it, as time unfolds, because I don't plan to go away. Thank you for reading. I hope I never waste your time, because when you read you give me the only thing any of us possesses...time. I thank you for that.
What do you want? I hope you want it all, too, because otherwise, what is the point?
Susan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)