#32
My dog smells like this:
Salty, warm, like untouched earth.
Soothes the stress away.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
I am
I am a creative leader who lives to share ideas and new approaches.
I'm supposed to say that to myself 100 times a day. It's the exercise this month for my leadership workshop. It's supposed to help me shift my personal paradigm.
I won't get into what exactly that all means, but what I do want to share is this powerful insight I had this morning as I was driving to work. I don't know if my 100-times-a-day saying had anything to do with its arrival, but I think having it in the mix in my head might have helped.
I was cruising along listening to that song by John Lennon's son, Julian, thinking about how much it reminded me of these three guys I went to high school with. They were music fanatics. They all played several instruments, did whatever they could to play, whenever they could, wrote their own music. These were the guys at the party who sat and played the piano and sang harmony while everyone else was playing quarters and getting smashed. They were passionate about music.
And then I thought about myself in contrast. I was in band. I played the oboe, and I liked it, but I was mediocre at best. I rarely practiced. I thought being in band was fun, but I never dedicated myself to being excellent at music.
And then here's what I thought: "But that's because my mom wanted me to play the oboe." And that's when I stopped. Holy crap.
See, for a long time, I've had this story about myself. I'm a renaissance woman. I'm good at many things. But I don't really have the passion and determination that some people do to focus and be great at one thing. It's the excuse I gave myself when I left grad school. It's the reason I give myself about why it's so hard for me to get writing done. I like too many things. I get distracted by gardening, or running.
Some of those things I am truly passionate about. But how many of those things am I doing because I feel like I should do them, rather than because I love to do them? Am I really a renaissance woman, or am I just copping out? If I go to the places where I'm naturally drawn, and give myself permission to leave those other places behind, then what can I accomplish?
Monday, January 16, 2012
100 haiku challenge, 30 and 31
I composed and recomposed this one several times in my head while I walked Bela tonight. Here are two of them.
#30
We must remember:
at the end of this tunnel,
there are daffodils.
#31
January grey.
I brighten at the thought of
daffodils waking.
#30
We must remember:
at the end of this tunnel,
there are daffodils.
#31
January grey.
I brighten at the thought of
daffodils waking.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
My most popular blog post
I was amused to see that this is my most popular blog post ever, when reviewing my site stats the other day. I suspect most people stumble upon it when they are actually looking for advice about taking multiple birth control pills at the same time.
I have to say, re-reading it, I'm rather intrigued about what happens next.
I have to say, re-reading it, I'm rather intrigued about what happens next.
100 haiku challenge, 29
I have no idea why this one showed up. But here it is.
#29
Babar goes to space.
His bed: pillows in a pool.
Still my fantasy.
#29
Babar goes to space.
His bed: pillows in a pool.
Still my fantasy.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Rearranging the furniture (part 2)
I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband. His experience growing up could not have been more different.
When his mom and dad moved into their first (and only) house, they picked out their furniture, moved it into place and there it stayed. They chose a heavy Spanish-style living room set, a low couch in olive green chenille, which faced two squat chairs upholstered in blue stripes.
The first time I visited Tony’s childhood home, I noticed they were in mint condition despite the fact they were more than 30 years old. “That’s because no one was allowed to sit on them,” he told me.
“Not even your mom and dad?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Not even when company came over?” I couldn’t believe it.
“We didn’t have company,” he said.
It wasn’t just the living room. The family room still had orange shag carpet, and you could see the deep impressions the ancient plaid sofa had left from years of pressing down the pile. Tony and his younger brother’s bedrooms were both decked in orange and brown—twin beds, a small wooden desk for doing homework, a dresser each. The only difference was that his brother had a few posters tacked to the wall. Charles Barkley. Shaquille O’Neil. “He got away with more than I did,” Tony explained.
I think it’s this difference in how we grew up—the fact that in his house, nothing ever moved, and in mine, everything was always in motion—that explains how we react to change. Tony is immediately suspicious, on alert for risk, while I am thinking of the possibilities. I am a daydreamer, ready to fantasize about a month’s vacation in Italy or Australia, and Tony rarely plans a long weekend away.
Once, I told him, “Tone, I want to quit my job and write a book!” That didn’t go over well.
I have learned that any change, even something as insignificant as rearranging the furniture (you can always put it back, after all) will take serious convincing on my part. Perhaps this is why for more than three years, my living room was configured in a such a way that it annoyed me every time I set foot in there.
I was four months pregnant when we moved in, and I can only guess that I was tired, or distracted, but I must have left the living room set up in Tony’s hands and taken a nap instead. True to his techno-geek, audiophile nature, he chose to place the stereo where any reasonable person would put the couch. Oh, he had his reasons. Acoustics, room resonance modes, blah, blah. But the result was that the couch had to be pushed to one side of the room or the other, totally off balance and not taking advantage of the fire place as the room’s focal point. You cannot, as you know, sit on the stereo and gaze at the fire.
Three years of sitting in that room wondering “Why the hell is stereo in the middle of the room?” feeling like every time we had friends over, they would sit on the couch at one end of the room, and we’d shout at them all the way from the chairs at other end.
So today, I just couldn’t stand it, and announced that we’d be moving the furniture into a configuration that works for me, either with his help and agreement, or if not—I’d just do it myself one day when he was out. And I must have had a little bit of crazy in my eyes because he didn’t even try to resist.
And now, with the couch across from the fireplace, a comfortable, yet close cluster of chairs to encourage conversation, and the stereo in a more appropriate place, I am satisfied, in fact, gleeful with the change. It is like a weight has been lifted from my soul and I wonder if this is how my mom felt after she’d reordered the living room furniture again.
Light.
Free.
Like the change had suddenly opened possibilities that had never been there before. She could see them now and she could go after her dreams, with the couch pointed in the right direction.
When his mom and dad moved into their first (and only) house, they picked out their furniture, moved it into place and there it stayed. They chose a heavy Spanish-style living room set, a low couch in olive green chenille, which faced two squat chairs upholstered in blue stripes.
The first time I visited Tony’s childhood home, I noticed they were in mint condition despite the fact they were more than 30 years old. “That’s because no one was allowed to sit on them,” he told me.
“Not even your mom and dad?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Not even when company came over?” I couldn’t believe it.
“We didn’t have company,” he said.
It wasn’t just the living room. The family room still had orange shag carpet, and you could see the deep impressions the ancient plaid sofa had left from years of pressing down the pile. Tony and his younger brother’s bedrooms were both decked in orange and brown—twin beds, a small wooden desk for doing homework, a dresser each. The only difference was that his brother had a few posters tacked to the wall. Charles Barkley. Shaquille O’Neil. “He got away with more than I did,” Tony explained.
I think it’s this difference in how we grew up—the fact that in his house, nothing ever moved, and in mine, everything was always in motion—that explains how we react to change. Tony is immediately suspicious, on alert for risk, while I am thinking of the possibilities. I am a daydreamer, ready to fantasize about a month’s vacation in Italy or Australia, and Tony rarely plans a long weekend away.
Once, I told him, “Tone, I want to quit my job and write a book!” That didn’t go over well.
I have learned that any change, even something as insignificant as rearranging the furniture (you can always put it back, after all) will take serious convincing on my part. Perhaps this is why for more than three years, my living room was configured in a such a way that it annoyed me every time I set foot in there.
I was four months pregnant when we moved in, and I can only guess that I was tired, or distracted, but I must have left the living room set up in Tony’s hands and taken a nap instead. True to his techno-geek, audiophile nature, he chose to place the stereo where any reasonable person would put the couch. Oh, he had his reasons. Acoustics, room resonance modes, blah, blah. But the result was that the couch had to be pushed to one side of the room or the other, totally off balance and not taking advantage of the fire place as the room’s focal point. You cannot, as you know, sit on the stereo and gaze at the fire.
Three years of sitting in that room wondering “Why the hell is stereo in the middle of the room?” feeling like every time we had friends over, they would sit on the couch at one end of the room, and we’d shout at them all the way from the chairs at other end.
So today, I just couldn’t stand it, and announced that we’d be moving the furniture into a configuration that works for me, either with his help and agreement, or if not—I’d just do it myself one day when he was out. And I must have had a little bit of crazy in my eyes because he didn’t even try to resist.
And now, with the couch across from the fireplace, a comfortable, yet close cluster of chairs to encourage conversation, and the stereo in a more appropriate place, I am satisfied, in fact, gleeful with the change. It is like a weight has been lifted from my soul and I wonder if this is how my mom felt after she’d reordered the living room furniture again.
Light.
Free.
Like the change had suddenly opened possibilities that had never been there before. She could see them now and she could go after her dreams, with the couch pointed in the right direction.
Monday, January 02, 2012
Rearranging the furniture
Growing, up, my mother rearranged the furniture at least every six months.
Not every room. The kitchen, for example, was too small for anything but a small table pushed against the one wall without a counter. Or the dining room with windows on two sides and doors on the others meant the glossy, Ethan Allen table must sit in the center of the room.
But the living room provided my mother with a seemingly endless set of combinations. Sometimes, she pushed the couch against the west wall, sometimes the south, or sometimes she pulled it out to the middle of the room to face the two wing-back chairs, forming a seating area that floated away from the walls.
Her bedroom too. She'd push her bed flush against the wall one month, only to pull it out at an angle from the corner the next.
I hated it. Not that she moved the furniture, but that she often enlisted me. "Just help me swing the couch around," she'd say. Which meant then repositioning the coffee table and end tables, which meant clearing them of lamps and knick-knacks first, then giving them a good polish with some Endust and a rag before putting it all back together. But if I didn't help her, my mom--all five-foot four of her--would just end up pushing things around herself and throwing out her back.
Clearly, rearranging the furniture was something that energized her. She'd stand back to examine the space like a painter inspecting her canvas, then move in with quick, decisive steps. My mom was a master at spatial relationships. She could eyeball any nook, no problem, as tell you if that desk would fit.
For my mom, a single mother of two, who was going to school full time, working a part time job and keeping a house running--I think rearranging the furniture was her version of a vacation. She couldn't afford a week in Hilton Head, but she could change the scenery just by changing the position of the couch. I suppose it was when she was feeling most low--her most lonely, unhappy moments--that was when she got the urge to rearrange.
When I moved out on my own, I carried my mother's restlessness with me. I moved into an old farmhouse that had been converted into apartments. I had one half of the first floor, three rooms all in a row, shotgun-style, from the front to the back of the house. The kitchen was at the rear. I not only moved the furniture around several times during the two years I lived there, but switched my bedroom and living room between the middle and front rooms and back again at least once or twice. No matter how I arranged things, the setup just didn't feel right! It made sense to have the living room in the middle. That way if I had guests they didn't have to tromp through my bedroom to get to the bathroom or kitchen. But having my bedroom in the front was unsettling, since I was sleeping next to the front door.
I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband.
(To be continued...)
Not every room. The kitchen, for example, was too small for anything but a small table pushed against the one wall without a counter. Or the dining room with windows on two sides and doors on the others meant the glossy, Ethan Allen table must sit in the center of the room.
But the living room provided my mother with a seemingly endless set of combinations. Sometimes, she pushed the couch against the west wall, sometimes the south, or sometimes she pulled it out to the middle of the room to face the two wing-back chairs, forming a seating area that floated away from the walls.
Her bedroom too. She'd push her bed flush against the wall one month, only to pull it out at an angle from the corner the next.
I hated it. Not that she moved the furniture, but that she often enlisted me. "Just help me swing the couch around," she'd say. Which meant then repositioning the coffee table and end tables, which meant clearing them of lamps and knick-knacks first, then giving them a good polish with some Endust and a rag before putting it all back together. But if I didn't help her, my mom--all five-foot four of her--would just end up pushing things around herself and throwing out her back.
Clearly, rearranging the furniture was something that energized her. She'd stand back to examine the space like a painter inspecting her canvas, then move in with quick, decisive steps. My mom was a master at spatial relationships. She could eyeball any nook, no problem, as tell you if that desk would fit.
For my mom, a single mother of two, who was going to school full time, working a part time job and keeping a house running--I think rearranging the furniture was her version of a vacation. She couldn't afford a week in Hilton Head, but she could change the scenery just by changing the position of the couch. I suppose it was when she was feeling most low--her most lonely, unhappy moments--that was when she got the urge to rearrange.
When I moved out on my own, I carried my mother's restlessness with me. I moved into an old farmhouse that had been converted into apartments. I had one half of the first floor, three rooms all in a row, shotgun-style, from the front to the back of the house. The kitchen was at the rear. I not only moved the furniture around several times during the two years I lived there, but switched my bedroom and living room between the middle and front rooms and back again at least once or twice. No matter how I arranged things, the setup just didn't feel right! It made sense to have the living room in the middle. That way if I had guests they didn't have to tromp through my bedroom to get to the bathroom or kitchen. But having my bedroom in the front was unsettling, since I was sleeping next to the front door.
I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband.
(To be continued...)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)