Just The Tip Of The Iceberg...

I talk about my family often, so if you know me, you know that I hold my grandmother on a platform as an example of the woman I strive to be.  She was loving and nurturing, but she was strong.  She raised smart, kind, strong children who became smart, kind, strong parents of smart, kind, strong children. There was nothing that she couldn’t do if she wanted to and she did a lot.  She worked hard.  She was inventive and creative and could always find a way to accomplish whatever needed to be done.  But for all of the things I could say about Josephine,.  I never would have said that she was playful.

That is, until I saw some newly discovered photos of the young girl who had not yet become a wife, a mother, a grandmother.  She was eating watermelon, making faces, and clearly horsing around with her brothers.  In hindsight, I realize I saw that in her.  She had a sly sense of humor, but was very quick and quiet about showing it.  She, well into her late 80s, could still play pool (one handed!) like the shark she learned to be at her brothers’ sides.  And, now that I think about it, the way she helped her grandchildren learn Readin’ Ritin’ and ‘Rithmetic was done through games, rhymes, and songs.  She DID have a playful silly side!

Still, I never would have said that she was sentimental.  In my family, I think I carry the sappy torch of schmaltzy remember-whens that make everyone else roll their eyes.  I never would have guessed that my grandmother had that in her.  The other day, however, my mother and I were talking about fabric and quilts, which reminded her of the time my grandmother made a wedding ring pattern quilt for her youngest child – my aunt Ruth – with fabric from Ruth’s dresses and clothing over the years.  You could have knocked me over with a feather with that revelation.  My stoic, practical grandmother had an emotional connection with fabric scraps!?!

Now, she’d been quilting all of my life.  Every family baby was welcomed with a quilt made by her hands.  Of course, I knew those quilts were made with love and devotion.  They were all received with love and a bit of reverence for the heart and hands that made them.  I just never realized that those sentimental feelings were a two way street. 

This new insight to a woman I thought I understood just made me think of the old iceberg adage.  We’ve all heard the expression “just the tip of the iceberg”.  It’s generally intended to say that there is so much more to a situation than one can easily see.  Sometimes, that can mean things that seem simple are actually very complex.  Sometimes, it’s used as a warning that the worst of a situation is yet to come.  Sometimes, however, it’s delivered as advice to persist because beyond the good that you can see, there is only more bounty to come.

The Josephine that I knew was just a tiny portion of who she really was.  And I think, if we’re being honest with ourselves, that rings true for all of us.  No matter how much we say we’re open and present our whole selves, there’s no real way to display all of the ingredients that make us who we are.

My kids used to love those little scratch art sheets that, at first glance, are a sheet of one matte solid (usually dark) color.  Using the tip of a little plastic pencil, they’d scratch away the solid and reveal the bright rainbow of color that lay beneath.  Life’s kind of like that:  scratch away the darkness to reveal the beautiful picture.  The catch is, if you scratch it all away, you’re left with nothing but a meaningless blob of color.  It's the dark veneer that holds the shape.

Likewise, it’s the deep-set foundation that gives the iceberg strength.  We see what’s visible.  If we get closer and stick around a bit, it becomes clear that there’s more below the surface than we first saw.  I once saw a quote (sorry, don’t recall who said it):  “Personality is the tip of the iceberg someone shows you.  Character is their true foundation.”

With this in mind, I will continue to be surprised by the base at the iceberg of every person I meet and I hope we all experience more awe and beauty and less “Titanic”.. 

 

Bob Ross Is My Spirit Animal...

When I was younger, I never would have claimed to be an optimist, but I guess that’s always been the case.  Looking back, I always had a soft spot for the outcast, the sad sack, and the underdog.

I’m sure that’s just hard wired into my DNA.  My grandparents never walked away from an opportunity to help.  My mother took in every stray animal – be it cat, dog, or teenage boy – that crossed her path.  My father, broken as he may have been, was a torch bearer for causes that mattered to him and was quick to take action when the alarm bells rang.  So, I guess that’s just who I am.  I’m happy to even have a glass, so when something’s in it, it must be half full.

My friends often joke that I’m “The Diplomat” because, when there’s tension, I’m pretty adept at pointing out the positive spin.  If the silver lining isn’t obvious, I try to direct the eye to the other places it can be.  That’s not such a bad trait.  I’ll take it.  I’m like the Bob Ross of real life scenarios! 

Anyone over twenty who’s ever spent any time watching public television is surely familiar with the man with the soothing voice and big, fluffy afro who just wanted to share his Joy of Painting with anyone who’d watch.  He was a master with his brushes and oils and could whip out a beautiful landscape in the half hour that he had to share with us.  More than that, he was a master with his words of encouragement and his uncanny ability to turn any misstep into an intentional part of the story he was painting.  As he said in nearly every episode, “We don’t make mistakes.  Just happy little accidents.”

I’m no artist.  The only painting I do is on the walls of my house.  But Bob’s approach to painting has been an excellent guide for my own approach to life.  He voiced one of my deepest held beliefs – one presented to me all my life by my mother and grandmother – in such a way that it really registered with my adult self: “The secret to doing anything is believing that you can do it. Anything that you believe you can do strong enough, you can do. Anything. As long as you believe.”

When I catch myself doing things that maybe cause others to give me the side-eye, I’m reminded of Bob saying  “People look at me like I'm a little strange, when I go around talking to squirrels and rabbits and stuff. That's ok. Thaaaat's just ok.”  Once again, no one has ever accused me of being appropriate.  I will continue to talk to strangers, to squirrels, and I will continue to look beyond the dark and the thunderstorms for the rainbow that I believe will be there on the other side.  I think Bob Ross is my Spirit Animal.

Now, maybe more than ever, there are unintended splotches on the canvas.  I’m going to morph them into happy little clouds or strong green trees.  Every day, we have the opportunity to shake our brushes clean, let in some light, and get to painting! As the man said “We're gonna make some big decisions in our little world.”

Thanks, Bob.  For the art, of course, but mostly for the inspiration.

Temporary Posses...

Last month, I was the lucky recipient of a jury summons.  That’s the price of one of our freedoms in this country, so I never mind it in theory.  Reality, however, brings a host of reasons why I’d rather be anyplace else. 

For starters, I live in a county that spreads across a large portion of metro Atlanta, which means a commute from the northern suburbs to downtown, at a time when roughly a bajillion other people (give or take) are on the highway, headed in the same direction.  Then, given the large population of my county, there are countless cases on the docket on any given day, so selection is a long process.  Still, civic duty prevails, so I filled my coffee cup, loaded my bag with granola bars and reading material, and headed downtown.

Because of the sheer number of prospective jurors required, the courts have a system to handle the influx.  Rather than expecting everyone to rely on chance to find parking or a reliable train schedule, buses are used to shuttle us from a big stadium parking lot to the courthouse.  Easy enough.  Traffic was on my side, I found a nice shady parking spot, the sun was shining.  What more could I ask for?

As I was walking toward the bus area, a couple of people asked me if they were in the right place for jury duty.  I assured them they were and pointed them in the right direction.  Then, I heard someone calling “Ma’am?” from her car.  Since I didn’t see any other Ma’ams around, I deduced that she was talking to me, so I turned to her.  She, like the others, inquired as to whether she was in the right place.  I told her she was and offered to wait and walk with her.  Together, we made our way to the group of people waiting just as the bus pulled up.

When we boarded, there was only one available seat, so I offered it to her (as she was my senior) and I stood nearby.  When we arrived at the courthouse, she was ahead of me exiting the bus so I was a little surprised to see her waiting for me on the curb.  She said “We made it this far, I figured we should stick together.”  So we did.  We stayed together through the metal detector scans, the check in process, and found our way to the already very full waiting area where my new partner scouted the room and found us two seats together.

When I sat down, she quoted one of my favorite proverbs: “If you want to go fast, go alone.  If you want to go far, go together.”  I laughed.  Told her that was one of my favorites, and put my book back into my bag because I was pretty clear I wouldn’t need it to occupy my time.

We chatted a bit, in the way that strangers do.  Or, at least in the way that *I* do with strangers that makes my husband and kids roll their eyes at me.  My new friend – I’ll call her “A” – noted with a chuckle that nearly every person in the very full room had their heads down, faces buried in some sort of electronic device to prevent them from actually interacting with other human beings.  At some point, the woman on A’s other side, put her phone down and joined our conversation.  We’ll call her “B”.  After a bit, the woman (“C”) directly across from us put her book down and commented on something we said.  Before long, we had a nice little coffee klatch – 4 women passing the time – learning from one another, laughing, and just generally enjoying ourselves – while hundreds of people sat silently sequestered unto themselves all around us.

When it was time for our first break, we 4 women, strangers when the day started, found our way together to the break room and shared a table where we sipped coffee, nibbled on danishes, and continued to chat.  When my husband texted to see how my day was going so far, I told him I had a new posse to keep me company.  Back in the waiting area, we settled back in to wait together.

We talked about a little bit of everything.  The news, the uncomfortable chairs, previous jury experiences, our different neighborhoods, job searches, and so on.  A mentioned that her husband was at the doctor that day for a checkup for his kidney transplant 5 years prior.  So I told her about my husband and our experience.  Which led to B saying that her uncle is on the waiting list.  Then A’s name was called to go to a court room.  Soon enough, C’s name was called.  By lunch time, B and I were released at the same time so we decided to lunch together.

Out on the street, the obvious sandwich shops and fast food choices were there.  Then B stopped a busy looking man on the street and asked for a recommendation.  *Note to my kids – SHE stopped the stranger on the street, not me!*  He told us where he was going and offered to lead us there, so we followed.  There, in this tiny little place we’d never heard of, we had delicious Jamaican food that never would have happened without the guidance of a stranger.  You know, because we took a chance, trusted the guy, and went along with him.

 Back at the courthouse, with full bellies, the room was quickly emptying out.  Then B was relieved for the day while I was left in the final group for selection.  The end of my posse for the day.  So, I checked my email, pulled out my book and settled in.  After about an hour, I was finally let go – the last potential juror to be released that day...the sole survivor.  Civic duty done.

I don’t know if my Court House Posse took anything away from their time with me.  I hope so.  We talked about children and schools and everything that I suppose a group of friends would chat about over coffee.  We were different ages, different races, and of different lifestyles but, there in that room, we were all the same.  I think we all learned something during our time in those uncomfortable chairs.

Of course, I can think of a hundred things I’d rather have been doing that day, but I’m grateful for my posse.  I don’t remember their names.  But I will remember their stories and am so appreciative of the time spent with them.  Together, we were able to make a boring day more bearable.

The main lesson I got from the day is that I’m not alone in my instinct to connect with people  I’m standoffishly friendly (it is TOO a thing!) and I’m not alone in that.  And isn’t that kind of the point in life?  Connecting, sharing, learning?  Sometimes a posse is temporary.  That doesn’t make it less valuable.  Be open to the posse-bilities. (ha. see what I did there?)

 

The People Who Live In My Head: Send In The Clowns...

The People Who Live In My Head: Send In The Clowns...: You know what ticks me off? OK, I'll tell you. These terrorist clowns. Clowns are wonderful. The world needs clowns. They are ambassador...

Send In The Clowns...

You know what ticks me off? OK, I'll tell you. These terrorist clowns. Clowns are wonderful. The world needs clowns. They are ambassadors of joy and levity and fun. They are the embodiment of good.

I get that Stephen King and Hollywood (and, OK, John Wayne Gacy didn’t help) did their parts to twist the beautiful clown persona into something dark and treacherous.  But, like all bad examples, they are the exceptions to the rule. 
 
For those who are unaware of the current news trend, for the last several months, creepy clowns have been popping up in unexpected places, displaying creepy behavior, scaring the hell out of children and parents and building into a bit of hysteria with more and more “sightings”.  I use quotes there because I’m willing to bet that most of these sightings are fear-induced illusions.

So today, I got a voice mail from my kid’s middle school principal, followed by an “assuring” email from the school board, letting us know just how aware our school administrators are of this threat and they promise that our students will be protected.  Seriously!?!  Clowns.

When civilians and police are killing each other in the streets, when nations are at war and children and their families are being displaced by battles in their homeland, when bigotry and hate speech is coming from every news outlet, I’m supposed to instill distrust of CLOWNS into my happy little girls?  Nope.  Not going to do it.

I’ve talked about this before, but I love clowns.  I love what they represent and, had I known that it was an option in my younger days, you can bet I’d have chosen the Ringling Brothers Clown college after high school.  It may be my one regret in life that I didn’t know it was possible.

Clowns have been around for thousands of years.  Historically, clowns, jesters, and comic entertainers have been welcomed for their ability to deliver satire, comic relief, and stress release during serious times.  Emperors and kings enlisted them to break ice during tense periods.  As the circus culture rose, clowns were vital to the show – not only to deliver lighthearted laughs - but as a distraction between acts.  Without the clowns, people in the audience would be forced to watch the poop cleanup after the elephant parade.  Think about that for a second.  If we have ever needed clowns, now is the time.

Look – I’m not pretending that some jerk didn’t put on makeup and a clown suit and terrorize people.  Then another jerk saw that and thought it was a great idea.  So now there’s a string of copycat jerks who are seeking their own moment of spotlight by scaring people.  That’s all real enough.  But jerks have been around since WAY before clowns were born.  Terrorists have existed forever, and that won’t ever change.  Here, in this moment in time, a band of terrorist assholes have chosen clown costumes as their uniforms of choice.  That doesn’t make them clowns.  It makes them terrorist assholes in clown suits.

Meanwhile, much scarier things are happening all around us.  There are steaming piles of elephant poop that need to be cleaned up.  That family up there on the tightrope is about to fall.  There’s a hole in the tent and it’s starting to rain.  Quick!  Send in the clowns!

I trust the lions take care of the jerks looking for trouble.

Apathy Is My Super Power...

Recently, I was part of a conversation about super powers.  Not the cool, comic book kind of powers like flying or invisibility that one wouldn’t mind having.  No.  This was a discussion about our innate powers that we use as a defense mechanism in life.  We all have them.  But what is mine?  My mother and I decided that we share Apathy as our super power.

That’s not exactly right, though.  Because “Apathy” implies that I don’t care.  Of course I CARE.  I just choose not to CARRY.  Totally different.

My friends at Miriam-Webster – and Mr. Roget, too -say that apathy is the feeling of not having much emotion or interest.  It’s insensitivity, indifference, disregard, coldness, and detachment.  None of those things really describe me. 

The thing is, I don’t see the point in lugging my own baggage around.  I sure don’t need to pick up anyone else’s.  That doesn’t mean I have no empathy.  It just means that if there’s anything I can do to help a situation, I do that.  Then I keep moving.  Sometimes, it’s clear that I have nothing helpful to offer the situation, so nothing is exactly what I offer.

I’ve written before about the Grief Train but it seems to have evolved over time.  Thanks to the prevalence of social media, people have a forum to display just how much they care.  Or, more to the point, how much MORE they care than the previous person.  I see it more and more and it just makes me cringe.  If a person is truly a friend, and they are having a difficult time, my instinct is to send loving thoughts and to contact them privately if that feels right.  Uninvited public and highly visible declarations of my concern twist the focus away from the person at the center of the situation on to me.  “Look how much I care!  Look how much more I care than everyone else!”

Obviously, I don’t have it all figured out.  My way isn’t the only way.  Public forums are useful in sharing news and messages and initiating further discussion on topics that benefit from dialogue.  I’m just not likely to jump into every conversation.  Likewise, in a room full of people, I’m as likely to stand in a corner and listen as I am to participate in whatever is going on.

I have absolutely been called “aloof” by people who don’t know me.  That’s fair, I guess.  I’ve been accused of being shy, of being snobby, of being sad, of being disconnected, of being any number of things that are counter to the person expected in whichever environment I’m in.

The other day, my 11 year old daughter was called into the guidance counselor’s office because some teacher sent an email expressing concern that she wasn’t happy.  Whaaaatt!?!  Anyone who knows this kid knows how far that is from reality.  But it seems that my girl has inherited her mom’s RBF.  (That’s “Resting Bitch Face” for those who don’t know.)  So this counselor asked her questions, there were no red flags, so she pushed and pushed until my daughter grasped at straws to pull out some very minor conflict from the previous school year to give this lady to get her off her back. 

I had to sit down with my kid and explain RBF to her and try to prepare her for a lifetime of “Smile!”, “Why so sad?”, “Cheer up!” and so on.  All because she keeps a bit of a poker face while observing new situations before deciding whether or not to dive in.

So, my unwillingness to attach myself to problems or situation that are not my own doesn’t mean I don’t care.  If a person is in my life – even if just for a fleeting moment – I care about their well-being.  I care about their happiness, health, comfort, and pain.  But that doesn’t mean I have to take it on myself.  First and foremost, I love.  I care.  I help when there’s something I can do.  And then I keep moving.

Does this mean my superpower is Apathy?  I don’t think so.  Maybe my real superpower is Cameo.  I can enter a scene, quietly perform my part, and exit stage left.  I think that's a pretty useful skill, too.

Analog In A Digital World...

The other day, my husband was cleaning his office and came up with a road atlas, asking if I thought we should keep it.  My heart screamed “Yes, maps are very important, keep it!” but my head said “We live in a world of GPS, wi-fi and Google Maps, we’ll never use that again.” so I had to go with the brain and let him release it to the recycle bin.  I had to walk away quickly before I changed my answer and grabbed it from his hands.  Then I retreated to my bedroom to salve my wounds with the real paper pages of a book from the library. 

I’m fighting a losing battle with the rest of the world but I’m not prepared to concede to defeat.  You see, I’m analog in a digital world.  Yes, I know that my family’s probably sick of hearing it and I realize that it’s pretty hypocritical of me to blog about this subject on electronic media, but there it is.  I recognize that there are definite perks to all this technology that surrounds me.  I appreciate many of the new-fangled abilities we have.  I just don’t want them to replace everything.

When I learned to drive, I swore I’d only ever choose a manual transmission because I felt like I was in control.  It only took a few years of Atlanta rush hour traffic to accept that maybe an automatic that allowed my clutch leg to rest wasn’t such a terrible thing.  The cell phone has proven itself to be a vital tool in daily communication and the fact that one can fit in my pocket is pretty sweet.  I absolutely appreciate my DVR’s ability to keep me caught up on favorite shows while fast-forwarding through commercials, and welcome the 4 million channels I have to choose. 

I’m not a total Luddite.  I just don’t adapt easily and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.  I like cars that use real metal keys (that could be copied at the local hardware store) to open doors and start engines.  I listen to the radio over old-fashioned FM airwaves through the ionosphere and prefer CDs with cover art to mp3 files.  I like my landline telephone and old-fashioned answering machine that allows me to screen calls. I like newspapers and magazines.  I like actual mail.

When I bought my most recent new-to-me car, I was bothered that it came with an electronic key.  Sure, the automatic door opener thing is cool, but why can’t I have a regular key?  That car is now considered old and it’s hard to find a vehicle that requires keys at all.  All one needs is the ability to push a button.  At the doctor for a checkup recently, I was handed a computer tablet for check in.  What happened to the clipboards with pens attached to strings?!?  And why, when I go to the store, are my checkout options ONE over-crowded cashier lane or a dozen “check out your damn self” stations?

I know I had plenty of lazy, time-sucking activities as a kid.  That frog wasn’t going to get across the river and the planet was not going to be saved from alien invasion if I didn’t spend hours in front of the Atari!  I get it.  Video games can be fun.  What I don’t get is my kids’ obsession with watching OTHER people play video games on YouTube.   I don’t understand Music.ly.  I don’t really get the need for Kik and I’m really bothered by how few of my 11 year old’s friends know their own phone numbers and addresses.

I’m old.  I’m square.  I know.  I accept that.  And I accept that technology isn’t going away and I understand that it’s necessary to be flexible and adapt.  My grandmother did.  My mother did – she has an iphone, for crying out loud, and can text quickly while I’m still trying to find that screen on my phone! 

I truly do appreciate the amazing minds behind all of the technological wonders we have.  I absolutely recognize that many of the people I love wouldn’t have been here without modern miracles.  I’m grateful for the ability to communicate with so many people across so many miles and, without technology, there would be no place for me to vent about it.  Ah, sweet irony!

I can, and will adapt.  As much as I have to, anyway.  Meanwhile, I mourn the atlas, embrace the books, and hope that my kids will maintain at least a little bit of interest in the way things were and the way they can still sometimes be.

I’ll do what I can.  But I think I’ll always be analog in a digital world.