tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46958393284320756792024-02-20T12:03:21.354-05:00A Little Bit of WonderLittle Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-11954207488236400372011-05-15T21:40:00.005-04:002011-05-15T21:49:33.399-04:00Mario Vargas Llosa vs. Zac EfronAlthough I’m already feeling very loaded down and a little overwhelmed, trying to adjust to the schedule of my (fairly) new full-time job, I’ve done something that is perhaps a bit foolish for someone who wants to have some free time: I’ve taken on a second job.<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">It’s only for eight weeks, though, and how could I resist when my former thesis adviser and friend asked me to help him teach a class about one of my favorite Latin American authors?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I know that this probably doesn’t sound like an irresistible offer to many of you, but I love to teach, I love Mario Vargas Llosa, and I love my thesis adviser… so despite my instinct to duck and cover, then run from any added responsibility, I HAD to take the opportunity to teach Mario Vargas Llosa with Jeff.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s an online course, so while Jeff and most of the students are signing on each week from the D.C. area, it’s not a problem that I’m signing on from New York, and I’m not the only one geographically displaced from the rest of the class – one girl is signing on all the way from Rome!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You’ve got to love how technology is making it easier for me to accept extra responsibilities that will contribute to the high blood pressure problem that I developed during graduate school.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And things keep on piling up.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Deadlines to meet at work, things to re-read to keep up with the students, assignments to grade, and a couple of papers that I am supposed to edit for publication, plus my blogs – which obviously aren’t work, but are important to me anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Most of these things are trappings of my “former” life as a professor – papers that I had submitted for publication when I was trying to build my resume as an academic extraordinaire, a part-time teaching position that lets me play with the students again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once I’ve accepted these responsibilities, I shouldn’t complain – I’ve brought it all upon myself.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But then, in the midst of all this work and weekend visitors as well, I get sick. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My throat is sore, my head is fuzzy and I can’t breathe through my nose.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can’t focus on the reading I need to do, and I can’t get the grading system to let me log in and write up evaluations on the students’ assignments.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It feels a lot like a landslide, with everyone coming down on me at once.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So what do I do?</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">In my misery, I succumbed to a strange whim – I watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">High School Musical</i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZWEpAJBegy1bn6C-7GjHmhuTvrCYriuBROedRFdJwlARoevzjMpOTmpkozCWcX10GggZfezqJATE73bkdPCVJ_1CzB50AtaIhY-C3l2fFbBvAHfzeJK6wOnAZ2uQsWOHHt5N9w_zg-s/s1600/HighSchoolMusical.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZWEpAJBegy1bn6C-7GjHmhuTvrCYriuBROedRFdJwlARoevzjMpOTmpkozCWcX10GggZfezqJATE73bkdPCVJ_1CzB50AtaIhY-C3l2fFbBvAHfzeJK6wOnAZ2uQsWOHHt5N9w_zg-s/s320/HighSchoolMusical.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607123625288721602" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And not just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">High School Musical</i>, but also <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">High School Musical 2</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">High School Musical 3: Senior Year</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I laid in bed all day long watching Zac Efron, Vanessa Hughes and that horrible screechy Ashley Tisdale.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had never been one to succumb to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">High School Musical</i> fad – I’ve never seen any of it before, even though I was an elementary school teacher when all of the movies came out and my students would skip around the playground performing entire routines and scenes from the movies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> Despite some curiosity, </span>I had managed to avoid the feel-good teenage musical sensation of the early twenty-first century up until now, and I’m not exactly sure what has happened to my good judgment today that made me devote the entire afternoon to the movies – I think the fever has started to affect my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I guess I figured that if I was going to procrastinate, I should really go all out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But once I began watching the first one, it seemed as though I might as well seal the deal and go for all three.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">So while I should have been reading a very serious novel about military cadets in Lima, Peru, I was lying listlessly on the bed, watching a bunch of tweens bop all over their too-large, too-bright, too-clean high school wearing too-large, too-bright smiles.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And what do I have to say for myself?</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">That Zac Efron is kinda cute.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGnMF0vq5uYg020Ep68rWubaoAIw6zyklFb-bvZzDOwuWCDkdPfMEoNc-9BHI5T7-3WHG4l8Phb-YyAok1m3aGbbLIxNU5amtJ8tNbv8fB8LdUXXCQB6NldwGP82yfOAd3ByUFDU1PLs/s1600/Zac+Efron.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjGnMF0vq5uYg020Ep68rWubaoAIw6zyklFb-bvZzDOwuWCDkdPfMEoNc-9BHI5T7-3WHG4l8Phb-YyAok1m3aGbbLIxNU5amtJ8tNbv8fB8LdUXXCQB6NldwGP82yfOAd3ByUFDU1PLs/s320/Zac+Efron.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607123816297681874" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Or is that the fever talking?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t think I’ll be able to tell until I get a good night’s rest.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, maybe the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">High School Musical</i> “any dream is possible” attitude and the “you don’t have to choose between your dreams, you can have it all” message of the movies will help me believe in my ability to juggle everything on my to-do list for the coming week, which includes not only all my reading, grading, editing, and grant writing, but also includes picking my mother up from the airport and teaching her how to use the subway system in New York City. According to <span style="font-style: italic;">High School Musical</span>, of course I can handle it all, if I just work hard enough and keep reaching for my dreams...<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Honestly, though, I think I’m going to have to make some choices about what to prioritize and what to leave by the wayside.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m sure that I’ll probably have to make a lot of choices and sacrifices over the coming weeks to make sure that I get the work done for my two jobs and unfortunately, this blog is going to be the first to suffer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Troy Bolton (Zac Efron) may be able to win a basketball championship and star in the “spring musicale” at the same time, but I just don’t have the kind of juice that it takes to be playing more than one or two roles at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve picked up the teacher hat again while still trying to be a non-profit superwoman, and so I’m going to have to temporarily hang up the blogger hat.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Never fear, though.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have far too much to say to be gone for very long.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Keep checking back with the blog, read my <a href="http://wonderlauren-reads.blogspot.com/2011/05/reading-focus-on-mario-vargas-llosa.html">Reading Recommendations Posts on Mario Vargas Llosa</a>, or follow me on Twitter (@SLaurenAlise) – I tweet the URL whenever I post on either one of my blogs.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Alright.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m going to bed and dealing with the military cadets on my lunch break tomorrow… during which I’ll probably be humming “We’re All in This Together” – God help me.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-46713178831213498482011-05-09T23:06:00.008-04:002011-05-09T23:17:53.196-04:00Milestones<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApF6ZOk95iltqyvKs5pU2ngjuwrM33lyh9IV4oOmmi7cxz2kAy8mzTG2FsEtIvZ3qnvzKj4nGlokBGzuN_TmQt8vDOHmMFhfshMusTmWViBwhOhV6YIdQ2v8kJyQT90Bw_QVQLYFCIoY/s1600/Mothers+Day+Flowers.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApF6ZOk95iltqyvKs5pU2ngjuwrM33lyh9IV4oOmmi7cxz2kAy8mzTG2FsEtIvZ3qnvzKj4nGlokBGzuN_TmQt8vDOHmMFhfshMusTmWViBwhOhV6YIdQ2v8kJyQT90Bw_QVQLYFCIoY/s320/Mothers+Day+Flowers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604920842040943330" border="0" /></a>Yesterday was Mother’s Day – the first Mother’s Day since my grandma passed away, the first Mother’s Day that my own mom had to celebrate without <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">her</i> mother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The first year that we didn’t need to buy a card for grandma, or make an extra phone call.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The first year that my mom and I put up memorial photographs as our profile pictures.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(Yes, my mom is Facebook-saavy.) </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And another grieving milestone: Wednesday will mark the one-year anniversary of my grandfather’s death.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It will have been a year since I sat in (old) apartment in Maryland, numbly staring at the clock on the living room wall and waiting for a phone call from my mother to confirm that my grandpa had actually passed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A year since my husband told my mom to whisper into my grandpa’s ear that he had gotten a job in New York; that my grandpa could rest easy, knowing that Jeremy would always take care of his silly, precious granddaughter (me).</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And where I am?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not at home in Michigan with my mother, trying to ease her grief and celebrate how much of a wonderful mother <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">she</i> has been – and she has been a wonderful, very giving mother – to me, my brother, and (more recently) to my husband, her son-in-law.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m not at my grandfather’s gravesite at White Chapel, leaving flowers and honoring his memory.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m not even able to go visit the WWII memorial in D.C., another fitting place for me to honor the memory of my grandfather Sargent Henry White.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_kFXDHhEL2CBPEH6U3wHqfj1v23922UPcEGWmqIUHdhmts88w1OPfhCgopUEkF4hs3mRZF9iT6QzAu4p0lgvIcMJmYv9z24mg0ENFGMAKoSn6vxJEuKS513KBUQItCDx1WUqKH6Z-o4/s1600/WWII+Memorial.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_kFXDHhEL2CBPEH6U3wHqfj1v23922UPcEGWmqIUHdhmts88w1OPfhCgopUEkF4hs3mRZF9iT6QzAu4p0lgvIcMJmYv9z24mg0ENFGMAKoSn6vxJEuKS513KBUQItCDx1WUqKH6Z-o4/s400/WWII+Memorial.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604919457289946130" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">No, I am in New York, attending seminars on financial database literacy, running to the Human Resources Offices to fill out extra I-9 forms for the Latin American Literature summer course that I am helping to teach, researching and writing up information on high school graduation and drop-out rates in the Bronx and Westchester counties.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am not with my family – I am at work in new York.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No matter how much I like my job, it’s difficult not be upset about the fact that I can’t be with my mom, who has lost both of her parents within</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> the last year, and with my brother, my dad, and my grandpa’s brother Uncle Mike, as they all grieve for the loss of people who were so wonderful, so important.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I wish I could comfort and be comforted by them.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I try to be there for my mom and my brother whenever they are upset and want to talk, especially my mom – who stayed close with her parents for her entire life and used to talk to them every day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it’s just not the same over the phone, especially on the anniversaries, the milestones.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And although I know that my family understands that I live 500 miles away and I have a full-time job – although I know that they don’t expect me to be able to come home for every holiday, anniversary, memorial – I still feel not only sad that I am not with them, but guilty.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I used to be the kind of person who would drop everything to comfort a friend in crisis or to support a family member.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While earning my Bachelor’s degree, I used to put aside my school work, disregarding a lower grade as an unimportant consequence in comparison to supporting someone who needed help in a crisis.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But then, as I was working on my Master’s degree, grades and achievement became a lot more important, and I had to start setting aside people, not papers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In undergraduate school, I used to tell people to call me whenever they needed – even if it was at 3 AM.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now I grumble when the phone rings at 10 o’clock at night.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I feel as though I’ve become a very selfish, self-involved career person.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I know it is not all selfishness – I need to keep my job, and so my hands are tied by circumstance and necessity.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I still feel guilty – in the end, the bottom line is that I am not with my family for the big moments and milestones that mark my grandparents’ passing, the loss that has forever changed the dynamic of our family.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My father and brother sent me pictures via text message of my grandpa’s recently-installed veteran’s headstone when they went to visit my grandparents’ graves last week (illustrating some of the more odd uses of technology), but obviously that isn’t the same as if I were able to lay the flowers on the headstone myself.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7BpOzSSxn344ELRopKnVbstVAa_17TIArPx3ZACGoPbOvZVjxUxWCAVLmtbcZ7GJlH65_teivTAX7SQ4UhKUCJDdhcgj0_NbQOXWxZwTAhwupcQNVqZFFeA3HpYlG0hdKSJP_QVyp9g/s1600/flowers+on+grave.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7BpOzSSxn344ELRopKnVbstVAa_17TIArPx3ZACGoPbOvZVjxUxWCAVLmtbcZ7GJlH65_teivTAX7SQ4UhKUCJDdhcgj0_NbQOXWxZwTAhwupcQNVqZFFeA3HpYlG0hdKSJP_QVyp9g/s400/flowers+on+grave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604919942893601394" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I am 500 miles away in New York, unsure of any way that I can grieve with my family or honor the memories of my grandparents.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have nowhere in particular to lay flowers or whisper a prayer into the wind – and so I write, hoping that it is enough to honor their memories by sharing my thoughts about them with other people.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My grandparents were always very supportive of my writing and were convinced that I would publish a book some day – and so perhaps my writing is the best memorial I could give them anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Somehow, though, it never feels like enough.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-89803326877253850472011-04-28T22:08:00.007-04:002011-04-28T22:50:39.103-04:00Full Speed Ahead<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> 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mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">“You’re like a steamer with excellent speed,” my husband told me the other day, “Except your steering mechanism is faulty.”</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">What</i>?”</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">“It’s hard to get you to change direction, but once you do, it’s full speed ahead,” he observed.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I thought about it for a minute, and then laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Couldn’t you have compared me to a flirty little sports car with bad steering?” I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then I considered how the crash-and-burn consequences of a car with bad steering are much quicker to descend than the slowly-painful fate of a sluggish steam ship.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Remember how long it took the Titanic to sink? Maybe I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">do</i> want to be the boat, at least as opposed to the car.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9o2KB3zkBH2JArvBaIyWgKm2oW0U3cQ7lk6rGe9JeQtd6CkydxOsR02ujWFHDu7UVZd_w5MJI3SDL7DDhvyVC7IRBWJyV4xzTLBcG-iGZGdog8HPZ_eDsvckGobro3QEyNnm0OLpIAc/s1600/titanic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9o2KB3zkBH2JArvBaIyWgKm2oW0U3cQ7lk6rGe9JeQtd6CkydxOsR02ujWFHDu7UVZd_w5MJI3SDL7DDhvyVC7IRBWJyV4xzTLBcG-iGZGdog8HPZ_eDsvckGobro3QEyNnm0OLpIAc/s320/titanic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600823172840765634" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">This strange metaphor came up in a discussion about my ability to adapt to new circumstances and how I tend to cope with change.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am extremely resistant to change – I dig in my heels, clench my fists, spit on the enemy and kick at their shins.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I may not be a particularly skilled warrior, but I am a feisty one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I had a funny realization about myself as I was talking to my husband – once I decide to make a change or that change is inevitable, I have learned to distance myself from people and even demonize the place that I am leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Otherwise, goodbyes become too painful.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Exhibit A: my attitude toward our apartment in College Park/Hyattsville.</b><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When we first got married, we lived in graduate student housing, which had the advantage of being directly across the street from the University of Maryland.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My husband could catch the bus for a ten-minute ride or easily walk to class, quickly make it on foot to gym on campus, and the grounds were monitored by on-campus security.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPavgsSHLOv6R8VPvfBDX69PovrYOE9wjVu-Vd6yEk0NgtmqySQBDKupO8R3WVfHHaXohYocKlozmK5O68dfGZmZeVq-nWRaQmAi7wiGQkfNphSgJhTK8XsjGDoRWInW-oUSgA8SkqOU/s1600/graduate+hills.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPavgsSHLOv6R8VPvfBDX69PovrYOE9wjVu-Vd6yEk0NgtmqySQBDKupO8R3WVfHHaXohYocKlozmK5O68dfGZmZeVq-nWRaQmAi7wiGQkfNphSgJhTK8XsjGDoRWInW-oUSgA8SkqOU/s400/graduate+hills.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600826067861528802" border="0" /></a> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The downside: that place was the size of a postage stamp.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We didn’t even have room to pace in the 570-foot apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The breaking point: when we discovered a full-sized garden of mold growing in first our kitchen, then in the corner of our bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This was a surprise because the apartments were updated, well-maintained and actually quite attractive – but there was some problem with the roofing that allowed water to continually drip down through the walls.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Given that I am severely allergic to mold, this explained why I had been getting sick so often while we had been living there.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">We found a new place within three days and moved a week and a half later – over Valentine’s Day weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This was also unfortunately while my husband was trying to finish up his Master’s Thesis.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But despite the absolute hell this put him through, Jeremy says that he has fond memories of our first apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I, on the other hand, see it as the place that made me constantly sick – and so I would give it a good raspberry every time I would drive past the apartment complex after we moved out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was convinced that our second apartment was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">so much</i> better – Even though it was in the middle of very sketchy neighborhood.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Exhibit B: my attitude toward our apartment in Greenbelt.</b><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was so glad to be out of our very own mold garden that almost anywhere would have seemed like five steps up – but we gained a lot by moving out of the graduate student housing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Our bedroom was much, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">much</i> bigger (we were able to go out and buy an exercise machine), as was our living room (we bought a bookcase that is about seven feet long) and we gained a whole extra room (“the office”), a dishwasher, and a balcony.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While it was true that the neighborhood wasn’t so great, I didn’t have to go on a walk to get some fresh air – I could just sit out on the balcony.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I started gardening in pots and was able to do a lot of reading outdoors from April to October.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMxAYw3Y_xERDS558EhVe06JzDbHjesg_zHjjShU2-9lKOIdHbyS9JjV8ZOLhV5-e1kWUhF5TcDKneyP6HTTh4QBZ3UX5j2Y8Qmt6ds_FJ28klJ2rumQnsUP2hXO_RvfRwXdDyqCQOck/s1600/Greenbelt+Emperian.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMxAYw3Y_xERDS558EhVe06JzDbHjesg_zHjjShU2-9lKOIdHbyS9JjV8ZOLhV5-e1kWUhF5TcDKneyP6HTTh4QBZ3UX5j2Y8Qmt6ds_FJ28klJ2rumQnsUP2hXO_RvfRwXdDyqCQOck/s320/Greenbelt+Emperian.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600827463032719730" border="0" /></a> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">No wonder I was willing to ignore all the warnings about living in our new apartment complex.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everyone who asked about where we had moved would give us a worried look, pointing out that there were cases of arson and other shenanigans going on around there.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But even when the cop pulled me over for a burned-out turn-signal, then refrained from giving me a ticket and instead gave me a warning that I should (as one of two white women living in the whole complex) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">move out ASAP</i>, even then I disregarded the advice to change addresses.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had decided that I liked all the extra space and there was no way we would be able to afford it anywhere else in the suburbs of Washington D.C.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And once we had made a few friends in the D.C.-area, I certainly wasn’t happy about moving to New York.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were a few conversations about Jeremy’s job options that brought me to tears and included a few over-dramatic threats that I would move back home to Michigan to live with my parents before I moved to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">another</i> new place.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Yet once we moved to Nyack, I began to think a lot about how much I had really disliked living in an unsafe neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No one ever bothered me personally, yet our car was stolen right from our own parking lot – twice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was often on edge when anyone approached me in the parking lot, and we had to call the cops on our neighbors a couple of times.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So, the apartment that I once extolled as my salvation from the mold garden became another object of my derision.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It seems I can’t just leave something behind – I apparently have to develop a deep-seated dislike for the place that I am leaving behind in order to detach.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Exhibit C: Michigan.</b><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I wouldn’t say that I’ve quite demonized Michigan, my home for the first twenty-one years of my life, to the same extent as I’ve cultivated my dislike for Hyattsville and Greenbelt.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But my husband and I consistently have conversations about how, even though we miss our families and college friends a great deal, we are so glad that we escaped the freezing weather and dying economy in our home state.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Many of our friends there are stuck with part-time, low-paying jobs and have to deal with frigid temperatures for six months out of the year.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We already knew that we hated the climate when we moved down to the D.C. area for graduate school, so in a sense, I was detaching even before we left home that first time.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And when Jeremy started talking about moving again at some point in the future, I dug in my heels.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I cried, I made threats, I turned and stared at the wall in moody silence.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m so sick of wrapping up dishes and pottery, packing boxes of clothes and books, hauling art supplies, my doll collection and jewelry-making tools, and an entire library of design magazines… I’m so sick of trying to make new friends and then leaving them again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>NO. THANK. YOU.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And yet, once I accepted that I’d rather go through all of that one more time than have my husband be miserable and horribly cranky every winter for the rest of our lives, I started fantasizing about owning a boat that we could dock in Florida or North Carolina.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A boat is a significant part of my retirement fantasy, so this is definitely a selling point for me.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguNYoXkXyMNA2bz08viVrFuTQ2AemPLd42kMhhrYyUaIN_mftCM4i-e3e5MBCIbmy35yCcDXgRHfmFeG8wv39moQIJqjMdSQkCi-w-NqE8BUwy8bnzoF0IHQIDz-H3HqFdhsLA7ha2IqU/s1600/boat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguNYoXkXyMNA2bz08viVrFuTQ2AemPLd42kMhhrYyUaIN_mftCM4i-e3e5MBCIbmy35yCcDXgRHfmFeG8wv39moQIJqjMdSQkCi-w-NqE8BUwy8bnzoF0IHQIDz-H3HqFdhsLA7ha2IqU/s320/boat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600828546674196482" border="0" /></a><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I also started planning how I would have to invest in an extremely efficient climate-control system (re: state-of-the-art air conditioning) in order to protect my several thousand books from warping in the humidity of the southern states.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I started thinking about what other belongings I might be able to donate (anything but books, obviously) in order to thin out our possessions a bit more, which would make the packing process a bit easier and moving costs a bit cheaper.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My husband may have to part with our five-hundred pound exercise machine before the next change of address.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am now, as Jeremy said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">full-speed ahead</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And we don’t even want to move any time soon.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">So I guess my steering mechanism is a bit faulty – it gets stuck sometimes, and the wheel is hard to turn.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Throw your weight against the wheel, though, and although I may groan, I’ll eventually change course.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And then look out – I’ll end up in some completely different (hopefully warm and exotic) location.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-23377521960845833982011-04-25T20:13:00.009-04:002011-04-25T20:42:12.850-04:00The Unhappy in Happily Ever 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<![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">When they tell you all the “Once upon a time” and “Happily ever after” stories, narrators traditionally describe how the hearts of the prince and princess soar just as care-freely as birds when they are united at the end of the tale.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaatXzLYyCX_GNgyUNJlZ99PKlWrlr1juiF0xueKUYLuJtM6v-6FHCA_ZBBYJmwx5wKTuW9sGGD6gONd0mGkjLFEUPeiRTJpAqbW2VCbir5h-HJkskBT6Qm6mzLyOVNS8ZRFDaA6Fym80/s1600/Princess.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaatXzLYyCX_GNgyUNJlZ99PKlWrlr1juiF0xueKUYLuJtM6v-6FHCA_ZBBYJmwx5wKTuW9sGGD6gONd0mGkjLFEUPeiRTJpAqbW2VCbir5h-HJkskBT6Qm6mzLyOVNS8ZRFDaA6Fym80/s320/Princess.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599680798008812994" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Nearer to the beginning of the story, audiences are given <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">some</i> information how the princess is miserable while the prince is dating her best friend.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Romance includes misery – check.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We got the memo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We should all be prepared for the heartache, right? But we focus on the "happily" in the ever after.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">There is an awful lot that follows the “Happily ever after,” but most of that gets left out of pretty much every fairy tale, whether it is the Brothers Grimm version or the Hollywood version.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No one really wants to read or see a movie about married people because they’re all old and boring, say The People In Charge of The Story Formula.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(This is actually one of my biggest pet peeves when it comes to novels and films.)<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">So we say “I do,” shove cake in each others’ faces, and ride off into the sunset (possibly still wiping off the cake).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But because everything we know in life, we learn from Hollywood (right?), then there are a whole bunch of potentially dramatic emotional upheavals for which we’re completely unprepared.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It wasn’t on the screen, so we lack a script to guide us, and we wonder, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">what do we do now?</i></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Obviously I’m exaggerating a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">bit</i>.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But sometimes things still catch me by surprise, like the way that my emotions are so entangled with my husband’s emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I should expect this, though, because despite Hollywood’s general tendency to be silent on the subject of certain types of emotional drama, Joss Whedon has always been straight with me on the subject of pain in relationships:</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ZTGxmkmSq0EsSG3pzX3WsrBIb6V_O1GDuDBzQnfl1AkJHitbMfUz6njd-I0HbnUaNbDva9FyLfXnB9W8ULur-FJJM5UAWQk1LlLQSmaugp7pE3dgQLEQF_ARheMdum7Ac5h5i578Ujw/s1600/Buffy+Riley.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 346px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ZTGxmkmSq0EsSG3pzX3WsrBIb6V_O1GDuDBzQnfl1AkJHitbMfUz6njd-I0HbnUaNbDva9FyLfXnB9W8ULur-FJJM5UAWQk1LlLQSmaugp7pE3dgQLEQF_ARheMdum7Ac5h5i578Ujw/s320/Buffy+Riley.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599683684574738786" border="0" /></a> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Buffy: “It’s too late.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m already at the ‘I hurt when he hurts, I smile when he smiles’ stage.”<br />Anya: “I hate that part.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(“Goodbye Iowa,” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Buffy the Vampire Slayer</i> 04.14)<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But even when you know that your mood is susceptible to his mood and vice-versa, you don’t think about it too much until one day, his frustration or grief swings around and full-on punches you in the gut.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Your own mood plummets and you might not even be able to figure out why.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At the sight of bare tree branches outside of the window, you suddenly feel like crying (or is that just me?).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you’re lucky, you realize: this is the ‘I hurt when he hurts’ stage.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">It turns out that even when you’re still happily in love, you can be unhappy – even when you’re not fighting with your partner.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But isn’t that a bit annoying?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s like your own emotions have been hijacked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You were perfectly fine (or at least managing alright) before he started talking about his own unhappiness.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And then all the sudden, you’re dissatisfied and grumpy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Perhaps even unable to look at the world in the same way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">This is what happened to me when we went to Washington D.C. for a visit over the long Easter weekend.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Everyone wants to know how you are doing and what you are up to, of course: “I haven’t seen you in months!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What’s new with you?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Usually this is an invitation for me to begin a twenty minute soliloquy, since I’m typically the talkative one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But because my husband has been so stir-crazy this winter, this time he took center stage whenever this question was raised.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And what followed was not only excessive praise of the warm weather and blooming trees in D.C., but a corresponding rant about the cold and lack of sunlight in New York during December, January, February and March.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">After a while, I guess it just wore me down.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">It’s not that I don’t agree – I hate the cold, too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I think I’ve even come to terms with the idea that we will end up moving again eventually, in order to settle and retire in a warmer climate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A small part of me has even begun fantasizing about owning a cottage or a Spanish-style condo and boat.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But the larger part of me was still ready to enjoy spring and summer in New York – until I listened to my husband reiterate over and over again that the winter weather had depressed him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Never mind that he kept repeating, “For eight months of the year, we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">love</i> it in Nyack.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>All I heard after a while was, “Dark.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Cold.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Dark.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Still no green on the trees.”<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">And oh, what a contrast it was in D.C., with the sunlight beaming down and a hint of humidity already hanging in the air.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0WXUcyAD9W3yG53lsPvmgl7q_RdcXvheuicG155yjYLWJF2SKzirD20gpLlCP8qF8cwqGv-s8sOPAzGq-AJImJOoXNvXgTlsGKi4qBqc01_7jhWWK5ac6gqrQm-TXEW6nNqP5ei0nRA/s1600/WashingtonDC.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0WXUcyAD9W3yG53lsPvmgl7q_RdcXvheuicG155yjYLWJF2SKzirD20gpLlCP8qF8cwqGv-s8sOPAzGq-AJImJOoXNvXgTlsGKi4qBqc01_7jhWWK5ac6gqrQm-TXEW6nNqP5ei0nRA/s400/WashingtonDC.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599684724255056594" border="0" /></a> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Everything was green, and we even worked up a bit of a sweat when we went on a walk by the Potomac River on Saturday afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I know it sounds strange,” said my husband.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But it feels good to be sweaty.”</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">So by the time we drove back up I-95 and through the smoggy pit that is industrialized New Jersey, watching the clouds roll in overhead and cover the warm sunshine, I was feeling more and more down.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was hoping that once we got through Jersey, New York would seem more welcoming – but all I could see through the pouring rain was the bare tree branches, and my heart ached a little bit, missing all the green leaves that were already so abundant and shady in D.C.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">What’s wrong with me?</i> I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">It was just a few weeks ago that I was fighting with Jeremy to stay here in New York for the rest of our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now I feel almost as dissatisfied as he does, knowing that he’s unhappy.</i><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">It’s the ‘I hurt when he hurts’ thing.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">And when I realized what was going on, I was annoyed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So then I was depressed AND grumpy, snippy with my husband and trying to figure out how I was going to muster the excitement to go in and tackle my to-do list at work the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I felt as though his dissatisfaction had robbed me of the ability to enjoy the coming summer months in New York, even though <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">he’s </i>actually looking forward quite a bit to exploring the state parks and NYC this summer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I may have been in a worse mood than he was at the prospect of returning to New York after our weekend in D.C.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ironic, right?<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">He and I talked about my grumpy mood, discussing how your emotions can be so inter-connected with those of your best friend, and after that I felt a bit better.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it still somewhat amazes me – how in this situation, my emotions seem to have been hijacked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“And they lived happily ever after, sharing everything they had – even their unhappiness…”</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-16782030932078399022011-04-21T18:27:00.009-04:002011-04-21T18:43:54.300-04:00A Little Motor City Exhilaration<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlQyr-o0_XzKYSHLOCdVTMnzBauyjjIl8TQzF1Ld7g42XnGsQL1-EKTTraGjbEkW-3cMfQCv7hrDB9IQNWmmsQdgFGeCFp82Yhg4LLE7vYA03k42c-O-reuSSXDLYfd_kA-CiYdH4x00/s1600/MotorCity+Logo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlQyr-o0_XzKYSHLOCdVTMnzBauyjjIl8TQzF1Ld7g42XnGsQL1-EKTTraGjbEkW-3cMfQCv7hrDB9IQNWmmsQdgFGeCFp82Yhg4LLE7vYA03k42c-O-reuSSXDLYfd_kA-CiYdH4x00/s400/MotorCity+Logo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598170728369093938" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I am originally from Detroit – <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">the Motor City</b>. </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Technically, I was raised in the sprawling middle-class suburbs of Detroit, so I can hardly claim to be from the ghetto.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(I leave that kind of poser behavior to Eminem, who is also from a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">suburb</i> of the city.)<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Most of the time, I don’t try to claim Detroit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s not that I’m ashamed of the city, but rather that I’m as middle class and white as they come, and it really doesn’t give an accurate picture of my upbringing if I say that I’m from the neighborhoods downtown.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But when the subject turns to cars and driving, I feel like I can own Motor City, at least a little bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Especially after having lived in Washington D.C., where you don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">drive</i> so much as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">park</i> on the Beltway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After a while of living amidst the terrible urban congestion in D.C., I almost forgot that those of us from Motor City <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">like </i>to drive – because when you live in Michigan, driving means your car is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">moving</i>.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">My first car was a ’92 Saturn SL1 that my brother and I inherited from our grandparents. Her name was Ella, and I loved the feeling of flying down the highway in that tiny little vehicle.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbWv0Xnu9Tkvb-AeknTZiusqZHuwpwZN572vhDVNq2UWJMCy86heaczjY19F-QkcYTbDO26uO0MJoryRXARMASTKSIi0mNf4K_tkk3yx_MN3cF-GRkiZ54gkKEANwHkIjMS6nsk2zp4M/s1600/Saturn-92SL1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbWv0Xnu9Tkvb-AeknTZiusqZHuwpwZN572vhDVNq2UWJMCy86heaczjY19F-QkcYTbDO26uO0MJoryRXARMASTKSIi0mNf4K_tkk3yx_MN3cF-GRkiZ54gkKEANwHkIjMS6nsk2zp4M/s400/Saturn-92SL1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598168915719602802" border="0" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">You could feel every jolt and bump, every gentle tug on the wheel – at eighty miles an hour, it felt a lot like a roller coaster ride.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(Eighty miles an hour feels a lot different in a compact car than it does in a sedan or a Cadillac.)<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now I drive a newer Saturn, a 2001 LS1 model that has a slightly bigger body, but it still gives me a few kicks when we hit eighty on the open road.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlFXpylYISAuDPQgfmLPzPdd52_CiE6p3trx_BL4vtDZKeWMsX5A6C3rHWnAZrLroGLv3-8eRub10Lb_XFSdw6FXeEko9VsjA6mfsRSrkHeLlTLDKjMTbmDdR7MzNN1HoZJ46vBC-5Gc/s1600/Saturn-01LS1.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlFXpylYISAuDPQgfmLPzPdd52_CiE6p3trx_BL4vtDZKeWMsX5A6C3rHWnAZrLroGLv3-8eRub10Lb_XFSdw6FXeEko9VsjA6mfsRSrkHeLlTLDKjMTbmDdR7MzNN1HoZJ46vBC-5Gc/s320/Saturn-01LS1.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598169578037178578" border="0" /></a> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">I’m not a thrill-seeker by any means – I avoid <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">actual</i> roller coasters with all the fervent motivation of any self-respecting gutless wuss – and so trundling down the highway in my little Saturn is about as exciting as I get.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I love the feeling of driving along a curvy road or freeway ramp at fifty miles an hour, the gentle pull of the G-force tilting my body.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You can see the curve of the road just ahead of you and anticipate the way that the next turn will lean your body to the left or to the right.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But you can’t always see beyond that curve to predict the direction in which the ribbon of the road might curl next.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">In amongst the hills of the Motor City suburbs and the Michigan country-side, its particularly beautiful and peaceful as you roll up and down, under the low-hanging trees and past the taller pines.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the fall, a drive will yield a thousand surprises – shades of orange and red that stand out starkly against bright blue patches of sky and unexpected lakes that seem to spring up everywhere in certain suburbs and in the outlying areas of the state.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQZAMUHEqUo_qwm_C8NcteaiLgojWHNMkW9_vLGUOZjOPgskNfsjmK6J5TOJwvWmWl_7OiyxUzRX3y0qAj17D07QoXEbwi0Jh08mfBsHLM2MnqjzlctMFjEFYPQefSA5eQ3wLJ6n3M78/s1600/Michigan+Road.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQZAMUHEqUo_qwm_C8NcteaiLgojWHNMkW9_vLGUOZjOPgskNfsjmK6J5TOJwvWmWl_7OiyxUzRX3y0qAj17D07QoXEbwi0Jh08mfBsHLM2MnqjzlctMFjEFYPQefSA5eQ3wLJ6n3M78/s400/Michigan+Road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598170118422885698" border="0" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">I was thinking about all of this as I drove to work today, wondering why I don’t more enjoy the way that my life seems to curl like those Michigan roads, around through the hills, under the trees and past unexpected vistas.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I think I remember a time when I was excited about all the possibilities that were open to me if I moved from one thing to the next, knowing that one decision might open up a number of unanticipated opportunities.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I think the uncertainty of life was once something that I loved, not dreaded.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But as my husband and I have fought about – then more calmly discussed – the possibility of eventually settling down somewhere other than New York, I have pushed pushed pushed against him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After moving twice, I’ve lost my (already stunted, wussy) sense of adventure somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maybe I even left it as far back as Michigan.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But I’ve decided that I want my sense of adventure back, however stunted it may be.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">When I was a teenager, I dreamed of living in Boston, in New York City, in London and Paris.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I thought maybe I would try them all.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t understand then how hard it would be to leave all my friends and family – I only had my eye on what I would experience and gain, not what I would loose.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">The unanticipated severity of my loss stripped me down, made me want to curl up inside of myself and hibernate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve gotten really good at hibernating.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">But now I want to wake up and stretch – make the most of my years in New York, and yet also be excited about the possibility of retirement in North Carolina, Georgia or Florida.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t want to be so fearful of change, especially since its not something that you can really avoid, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At one time, I think I understood that you can’t hold on to things too tightly – but after months wading through my grief and loss, I’ve been grasping too hard (clenching, really) onto the idea of permanence.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">It’s futile, really; I’ve known for a long time that the best I can try to do is capture the memories of precious people and moments.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That’s why I write – diaries, date books, blogs, hopefully a memoir.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But in order for my writing to be worthwhile, I need to be recording something active, not passive.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I need to be moving forward, experiencing the joy and exhilaration as I curve and curl with the road.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I may only be trundling along in a little compact car, but don’t knock the elation that you can feel while riding in a little Saturn.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There are still plenty of hills, plenty of unexpected and breath-taking vistas to experience along the way, even if you are only going at it with four horses.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-52282041152259932982011-04-16T00:28:00.006-04:002011-04-16T00:37:00.173-04:00To Sixty-Five Years (Or More)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:relyonvml/> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> 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signs up for pre-marital counseling, the priest or minister covers a wide range of topics, including emotional compatibility, life goals and strategies for fair fighting.<span style=""> Some pastors even get overly involved in the relationship of their clients:</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ao8vutHQkxKeli6O0Tzzz_xfILiYHXSDYHlLluPry4GqAV5gY6WhK-G0fg0Jc_tLhN2s53EkVzpHg37yVuPzQXeEe6qxKJ7ykjkxh1Wx07aTKrMkeUso1foZ5ltfxzEknHrGCGmhrOs/s1600/License+To+Wed.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 366px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ao8vutHQkxKeli6O0Tzzz_xfILiYHXSDYHlLluPry4GqAV5gY6WhK-G0fg0Jc_tLhN2s53EkVzpHg37yVuPzQXeEe6qxKJ7ykjkxh1Wx07aTKrMkeUso1foZ5ltfxzEknHrGCGmhrOs/s400/License+To+Wed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596034098941767154" border="0" /></a></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">My husband and I got a semi-deluxe version, which thankfully did not involve being spied upon by Robin Williams. It did, however, include advice regarding financial planning and decisions, as well as a warning that which way to mount the roll of toilet paper in the toilet paper dispenser could become a serious issue if not definitely determined at the onset of our marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were a few things, though, that we didn’t discuss with our pastor – including how to make enormous life decisions regarding career changes and long-distance moving.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Since these are the things that have been serious issues for my husband and myself over the past year and a half, I’ve been feeling more than a little bit lost.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s incredibly difficult to balance your own emotional needs with that of another person’s so completely, especially when the two of you may have very different needs that are at odds with each other to a significant degree.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For example: my husband ultimately needs to settle down in a warm place where the days have more than eight hours of daylight all throughout the calendar year.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He gets unbelievably stir-crazy if it’s cold and dark by the time he gets out of work, and here in the Hudson Valley, it gets dark around 4:30 in the afternoon during the winter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Because of his extreme aversion to winter, my husband feels that it is necessary to choose a warmer locale where we will retire eventually – whereas I desperately want to stop moving around so much.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I need to be able to put down roots again, without the fear of being eventually uprooted – torn away from any community ties that I have established.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am hesitant to try to make friends in New York again when I think about the fact that I may have to leave them someday, just as I have had to leave behind dear friends in Michigan and in Washington D.C.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">In order to find a solution that allows us to stay happily together, we need to figure out a compromise, which we’ve been working on – a long-term plan that will meet both our needs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But we haven’t really felt as though a lot of people can give us advice on this subject because our conflict is about the possibility of another geographic transplant, which is something that has really only become a necessity for people of our generation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As careers have become more specialized and particular industries have become rooted to specific geographic locations, it has become harder and harder to build a career and earn a living unless you move for your job.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you are married, this means that you will ultimately have to prioritize either the husband or the wife’s career, and the other spouse will have to search for whatever work that he or she can find once you are settled in a particular geographic location.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Now let me be clear – our original decision to move away from Michigan wasn’t about prioritizing either of our careers over our family ties.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was about making sure that we can pay the bills, obtain health insurance to pay for my medical bills, save enough money to support a family, and then stockpile for our retirement – because by the time we’re in our sixties, social security and Medicare will practically have run out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I may like shopping and owning pretty things, so having extra income is nice, but if I could live near my friends and family, I would try my very hardest to give up my addiction to shopping at Target and on Amazon.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I would give anything to live near my college roommates, to be around as my nephew grows up; I wish I could have been in Michigan during the last few years of my grandparents’ lives.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But there just aren’t that many jobs available in Michigan.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">My husband and I have both had to make a lot of sacrifices, both in terms of leaving our families and in terms of giving up some of our career dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have both ended up with jobs that we didn’t really plan on having – I landed in the non-profit sector instead of academia, and he applied to a vague job description that turned out to be for an analyst position in the cosmetics industry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His career shift has definitely been a bigger surprise than mine; we obviously discussed change and compromise during pre-marital counseling, but neither one of us anticipated that my beer-drinking, football-loving husband would end up working for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">make-up</i> company.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It turns out that compromise and sacrifice can land you in some pretty unexpected places.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CfuoNPHIpQ8hzTj3IHkNYkpDFMq5_bUAT7n1AI_5zUGZa-B2gE1agQqtI8fmeyh_55SlZ3ti21G-BZA9D7q0K88FsSXPBka2113F6HktqHvKjhNshPu9STA0Wd-RxKqAql_iprHKiwk/s1600/Avon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 373px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CfuoNPHIpQ8hzTj3IHkNYkpDFMq5_bUAT7n1AI_5zUGZa-B2gE1agQqtI8fmeyh_55SlZ3ti21G-BZA9D7q0K88FsSXPBka2113F6HktqHvKjhNshPu9STA0Wd-RxKqAql_iprHKiwk/s400/Avon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596034395703961122" border="0" /></a> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">All these compromises and surprises have had a huge influence on my identity and concept of myself, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I can only imagine how much it may have spun my husband’s head to become an employee of a cosmetics company, since he’s such a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">boy</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now we find ourselves in New York, both with different careers and different prospects for the future than we ever imagined, and perhaps the biggest surprise of all is that my husband finds himself greatly enjoying his job.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>All these unexpected twists, however, mean that as we continue down our career paths, we’ll be traveling farther and farther away from our originally-imagined lives as university professors.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This has the potential to be a great adventure – but also to be the potential to cause conflict at every juncture and every unforeseen decision that we face as a couple.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKI2XW1_Ai8RnKb62Mm1lPliO19D6mHAsScrH-4mO1O8nga8EWyS31YSSTlybjQvje1-_b1tN9_oZ1YrkqSt3kOyC01FwUFeSJg-p2RbiR7cnZaFftLSpp5U0IhGszIeqvGZC10lj_fZc/s1600/marriage+counseling.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 343px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKI2XW1_Ai8RnKb62Mm1lPliO19D6mHAsScrH-4mO1O8nga8EWyS31YSSTlybjQvje1-_b1tN9_oZ1YrkqSt3kOyC01FwUFeSJg-p2RbiR7cnZaFftLSpp5U0IhGszIeqvGZC10lj_fZc/s400/marriage+counseling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596034757450898930" border="0" /></a> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">When my husband and I fight for prolonged periods of time, I start to panic.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">What does this mean for our marriage? How can we resolve a conflict this huge? Will we end up getting a divorce?</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I never imagined myself as someone who would even entertain the thought of divorce, but I have to admit that every once in a while over the past nine months, the possibility has crossed my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not that I think I would actually ever divorce Jeremy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I know that both of us are miserable when we’re apart for more than a day or two, so I doubt I’d have the strength to leave him, even if we had “irreconcilable differences.”</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But just the fact that divorce has crossed my mind freaks me out and makes me question who I am.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t think I was the kind of person who would ever give up on someone that I love as deeply as I love Jeremy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But sometimes it’s not simply frustration with my husband that throws me for a loop and makes me think the dirty word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">divorce </i>– it’s the question of whether or not I am betraying myself or doing something that is emotionally unhealthy for myself by putting Jeremy’s needs and desires before my own.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That’s why compromise is important – you have to be able to figure out how to keep your commitments without doing yourself any emotional harm.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">How you deal with your commitments, not just in a marriage but in all aspects of your life, is really a big part of who you are.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve thought about that fact lot in the last nine months, both because Jeremy and I have had to hash through a lot of decisions about our careers and moving across state lines, but also because my grandparents’ deaths made me realize how they were such amazing examples of commitment.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">My grandparents modeled deep love and steadfast dedication to their children, grandchildren and their community, making the major decisions look effortless – when in reality my grandparents must have struggled in their marriage just as much as Jeremy and I sometimes struggle now.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course, I heard my grandparents bicker on a pretty regular basis about things like whether or not my grandpa should use certain language (having her husband use words like “fart” in public was an embarrassment to my well-mannered grandmother, but he liked his fart jokes).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I never once heard my grandparents fight about big things, even though they must have.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">So now when I am afraid that Jeremy and I won’t be able to resolve something as big as a conflict over whether or not we should move again someday, I think of my grandparents – and how happy they were on their 65th wedding anniversary.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We gave them a fancy party and a big cake, and because they were the cutest 80-somethings on the planet, they fed each other.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was a little awkward – but all the more adorable because of the shaking hand extending the forkful of cake to the unsteady chomp.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNx6kBWLiPbx9dq1KQ5ZmY0E_TtDlmtABB8Iyq6Ufo5DEGWPnlUiqaYboKfpLckMZiKAyprBR07VWVTktOinWoPg6jZAHy8FZw2DRBX006e9Axm-MMgUn4Jb47wDPfhphsm0c6aJOG1X8/s1600/Grandparents+65Anniv.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNx6kBWLiPbx9dq1KQ5ZmY0E_TtDlmtABB8Iyq6Ufo5DEGWPnlUiqaYboKfpLckMZiKAyprBR07VWVTktOinWoPg6jZAHy8FZw2DRBX006e9Axm-MMgUn4Jb47wDPfhphsm0c6aJOG1X8/s400/Grandparents+65Anniv.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596035461400221714" border="0" /></a> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I want to be just like my grandparents – committed to my husband and my family’s happiness, through whatever unexpected conflicts and challenges may arise.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And when I think of them, I’m pretty sure that even without too much specific guidance, if I always keep their memory in my mind, I’ll end up feeding my husband cake on our 65th anniversary too.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-78375096356840361972011-04-12T20:50:00.003-04:002011-04-12T20:53:54.028-04:00Get Up and Do a Little Dance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDRDDgwKuxR3OE6dELcEkgH3a4U3eKCVPpjVUhO-KeRxPw6lEm7GdfJqDcOqrEyHLW81bW8Fe9N9H8aieWtXqK0nIVW3H57x5dnyw73nIT2EFwQKIrGd4PV_uf1qS5BoXdojQk66YlUjo/s1600/FredAstaireDance01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 320px;" 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0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">My grandfather died on May 11, 2010 – eleven months ago yesterday – surrounded by most of his immediate family.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My husband and I were not there, though, because at the time, we lived five hundred and twenty miles away in Washington D.C.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My brother tells me that after he had passed away and the minister had gone, my family was sitting quietly in the hospital room, not quite ready to leave my grandpa’s side.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Suddenly, my grandma perked her head up a bit and looked around the room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From the confines of her wheelchair, she declared, “I ought to get up right now and do a little dance.”</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Everyone looked at my grandma in shock and amazement.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She loved her husband a great deal; they had been married for over sixty-five years and had not been parted literally since World War II.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everyone expected her to be mired deep within her grief – but that came later.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">She looked at all of them and explained her statement: “Just to keep things interesting.”</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">That was my grandmother’s quirky sense of humor, though – and her desire to entertain others.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She and my grandpa shared a similar desire to make people laugh – grandma would tell stories and say unexpected things, while grandpa wore funny hats and told corny jokes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m sure that I inherited my own desire to be a storyteller and my no small ability to entertain a room full of party-goers from my grandparents, who always bantered with everyone, from waiters and waitresses to their buxom nurses and handsome young doctors.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I was crying while driving home from work yesterday, thinking of how it had been eleven months since grandpa died and even longer since I had seen him in March of 2010, when I remembered this story about my grandma.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And suddenly I knew that she and grandpa would want me to “get up and do a little dance” for them.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I just don’t really know what that means.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">do</i> know, though, that despite my grief – which sometimes makes me want to stay curled up in bed – and despite all my insecurities about my new job and my questions about the future, I sometimes get out of bed and keep going simply because I know that they would want me to live my life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The desire to make them happy is so deeply engrained within me that no matter what else I am feeling, I still want achieve certain things that would have made them proud of me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I get up and keep going, but that isn’t exactly the same as “doing a little dance.”</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">So now, I am trying to figure out exactly how to start dancing again.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-53113698794719844572011-04-09T15:36:00.016-04:002011-04-09T16:05:20.547-04:00Another Glass of Chocolate Milk<div style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:";font-size:100%;" >I can’t imagine receiving a better compliment than, “You’re so well-adjusted!”</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:";font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />That’s right up there with, “I love your new haircut!” and “You’ve lost weight, haven’t you?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I would love to hear the words, “Lauren, you’re such a stable person.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I wish I were as grounded and well-adjusted as you are!”<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 0in; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:";font-size:100%;" > </span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i><span style="mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;" >ad·just</span></i></b><i><span style="mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:11.0pt;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>verb</span></i></span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi- mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >/ə-jəst/</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >adjusted, past participle;</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:"Cambria Math","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Cambria Math"font-family:";font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >adjusted, past tense;</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:"Cambria Math","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Cambria Math"font-family:";font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >adjusting, present participle; adjusts, 3rd person singular present</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" > </span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">1. To alter or move (something) slightly in order to achieve the desired fit, appearance, or result.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Examples: He smoothed his hair and <i>adjusted</i> his tie.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The interest rate should be <i>adjusted</i> for inflation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" > </span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">2. To permit small alterations or movements so as t</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >o allow a desired fit, appearance, or result to be achieved.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Example: A riding harness that <i>adjusts</i> to the correct fit.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" > </span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >3. To adapt or become used to a new situation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Examples: She must be allowed to grieve and to <i>adjust</i> in her own way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His eyes had <i>adjusted</i> to semidarkness.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m not sure if I qualify as “well-adjusted” or not, but I feel like I’m adapting</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi- mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-size:100%;" ></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> to my new job fairly well, all things considered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And my boss seems to agree with me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style:italic">“It doesn’t seem like you’ve had too much trouble adjusting to the schedule here,” she said the other day, with a smile.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can tell that it was meant to be a compliment and that she’s pleased with me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span>She knows that I’ve had a very flexible schedule as a graduate student and a professor for the past few yea</span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-size:100%;" ></span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-size:100%;" >rs, and that coming in for a nine to five work day is a big switch.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then yesterday, she told me that it seems like I’ve hit my stride over the past couple of days.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve come up with several ideas for press releases and public relations strategies that have made her happy, so I guess she’s right – I’m getting into the groove of this job.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Please just ignore the fact that I’m sitting around in my flannel pajama</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:100%;" >s at 2 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, drinking my third glass of chocolate milk, and downloading the rather inane Nancy Drew movie that came out a couple of summers ago.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2PeYzno2j2RFmwypfrPe2Nyl4-eURRr87uZsMxogZ75Em0RWThTHmCPF48tm20WJ8WWjTCnM18TTQxNSUu_ntPE882ZDk2_HTZ07djtJ_yS-NqXREsBCfk5uYk_z-2RJPU9oo0_QT2c/s1600/chocolate-milk.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2PeYzno2j2RFmwypfrPe2Nyl4-eURRr87uZsMxogZ75Em0RWThTHmCPF48tm20WJ8WWjTCnM18TTQxNSUu_ntPE882ZDk2_HTZ07djtJ_yS-NqXREsBCfk5uYk_z-2RJPU9oo0_QT2c/s400/chocolate-milk.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593671451457851042" border="0" /></a></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-size:100%;" >I’m not in the mood to do a whole lot with myself right now – not even read.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That’s the real shocker in fact – Lauren doesn’t want to read?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My husband had to check my temperature when I told him that I wasn’t interested in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">any</i> of my new books at the moment.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But please take note of that example sentence from the definition of adjust: "she must be allowed to grieve and to adjust <i>in her own way</i>." Sometimes I adjust (and definitely grieve) by watching marathons of television procedurals, particularly <i>Law & Order</i> – which was basically how I spent most of my afternoons last November and December after my grandmother died.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:100%;" > Sometimes I decide to re-read my collection of Nancy Drew novels, and sometimes I reorganize my iTunes library while I chug chocolate milk. Very rarely do I decide that I’m going to conquer a Dostoevsky novel while I’m in the midst of serious emotional upheaval. Young adult novels and my Harry Potter DVDs are usually very comforting, as is shopping. (I’ve got a bad habit of buying useless, pretty things when I’m upset.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi- mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJ8EcomVb-BxmDScNQ3gGtnbpFCW4Btz15Jnd__skdIHYRYZE8RstEQDOy4LlI_9EMrLUGKjRsqTKn_qf0xuMEwWoWEUZQAFqN1YFReI1JxxXO6di0PsvWqEdYQfVkzRm8l63CxPvKvQ/s1600/LO-SVU.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJ8EcomVb-BxmDScNQ3gGtnbpFCW4Btz15Jnd__skdIHYRYZE8RstEQDOy4LlI_9EMrLUGKjRsqTKn_qf0xuMEwWoWEUZQAFqN1YFReI1JxxXO6di0PsvWqEdYQfVkzRm8l63CxPvKvQ/s320/LO-SVU.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593673169897967410" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >But sometimes, I don’t even feel like reading any more – and that’s how I can tell that I’m not as “well-adjusted” as I might appear to be. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here I am, inside on a sunny Saturday afternoon and I can’t even justify my reclusiveness with the statement that “I just feel like finishing my book.”</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >I’ve also gotten out of the habit of writing when I’m upset, at least when the emotion is the strongest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>During high school and college, I used to journal every day – there is an entire shelf of spiral-bound notebooks in my old bedroom at my parent’s house that no doubt contain the very self-absorbed heartaches of a hormonal teenager.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it was a healthy habit, I think – one that I dropped like a hot poker when we moved to Washington D.C. and I found myself not only upset, but excruciatingly alone.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I no longer enjoyed wallowing in my emotional pain, nursing the heartache as though I were watching an over-dramatic soap opera about someone else’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I wanted to forget the sharp edge of loneliness pressing relentlessly into me like a knife against my rib cage, so I stopped writing about it – I tried to stop thinking about it all together.<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >I’m not really sure what made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">this </i>week so tiring, so difficult that I feel as though I want to lay around in my pajamas and thoughtlessly guzzle chocolate milk, overlook the stacks of unread books that have been calling my name all week, ignore my blogs and even put off watching my more interesting, sophisticated Netflix DVDs in favor of youtube videos and silly tween movies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I’ll know that I’m out of the woods when I stop relying on my coping mechanisms and get back on the horse – blogging almost every day, speeding through novels on my lunch hour.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >In the meantime, I’m going to remind myself that I don’t have to be on top of my game all day, every day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am allowed to have a bad week in which I don’t get too much done, and following major life changes like the deaths of my grandparents, moving from Washington D.C. to New York, and switching careers, I’m even allowed to have a bad month or a bad six months.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sometimes it’s fine to chug chocolate milk, and most importantly – it’s okay to not be okay.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Really, then, only one question remains important at this moment – how much chocolate milk can I drink before I make myself sick? </span></p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-17771803133865500692011-04-05T20:50:00.010-04:002011-04-05T21:22:08.271-04:00Nostalgia<div style="text-align: justify;">[Note: some of this recaps my previous posts on the differences between living in Washington D.C. and in Nyack.]<br /><br />When my husband and I drove down to visit friends in Washington D.C. a couple of weekends ago, we shared an uncomfortable moment – an uncomfortable moment that has stretched into an uncomfortable situation. </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">After spending a fun evening with friends, my husband was practically glowing.<span style=""> </span>As I reported in <a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/03/no-place-like-home.html">a previous post</a>, he had a big grin on his face as he earnestly told me that coming back to D.C. felt “like coming home.”<span style=""> </span>There was an awkward pause as my enjoyment of the evening suddenly shriveled up and a hard knot formed in my stomach.<span style=""> </span>I had to swallow hard and hold my tongue – I didn’t want to ruin his joyful little moment.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Honestly, I do <i style="">not</i> want to move back to the over-crowded urban parking lot that is the Washington D.C. metro area. I cannot stress enough how much this really effects your quality of life.<span style=""> </span>Everywhere you drive, there are too many people.<span style=""> </span>It takes an hour to get to work, to a friend’s house, or to the mall – unless you live a block away from your job or just down the street from your friend.<span style=""> </span>But odds are, you don’t.<span style=""> </span>Our best friends live in Virginia, in fact, half of our Friday night was always spent sitting in traffic so that we could hang out with them.<span style=""> </span>I went to school less than 12 miles away from our apartment, but it always took me at least 50 minutes to get there… and that wasn’t even traveling on the infamous Washington D.C. Beltway.<span style=""> </span>(I’m from the Motor City, so I am a big fan of freeways – but that’s assuming that a freeway is serving its purpose of allowing you to go <i style="">faster</i> than you would go on the surface roads…)<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81M5pY3h-gW55j6RWKUQOH82YaOBlUpdXZgNcWG4xXR_xg-XwEfZskbNsDCFdOme4ba-usQ3-F1Kv7JfNV8J87fnv_rcb3PNvZq9yQkVkzJQ7WVnCOQTcKrkez7bkP2d2fSNrHxY_NQI/s1600/Beltway.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81M5pY3h-gW55j6RWKUQOH82YaOBlUpdXZgNcWG4xXR_xg-XwEfZskbNsDCFdOme4ba-usQ3-F1Kv7JfNV8J87fnv_rcb3PNvZq9yQkVkzJQ7WVnCOQTcKrkez7bkP2d2fSNrHxY_NQI/s400/Beltway.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592272474842248210" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I didn’t really realize quite how miserable I was living in D.C. until we moved to New York, at which point I regained my sense of happiness at living in the world around me.<span style=""> </span>Welcome to Nyack, Lauren: a little village on the bank of the Hudson River just thirty miles north of New York City, with access to all the amenities that you’re accustomed to but none of the over-crowding and stand-still traffic.<span style=""> </span>I can <i style="">breathe</i> again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But I’ve said all this before – this is old news.<span style=""> </span>(I try not to repeat myself, but I’m a little bit giddy and obsessed with the freedom that I’ve found living here amongst the Palisades Cliffs and by the Hudson River.)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxEdaPJd6YhSmhTcWkwoeoVnc4O6FWyG74b4UaXfkbpwllLMe71wlnqJQOI-T9D13_SUHBIiQF5DS1NzUKl2vOaHR49uvfbabJY0b7ZLMCCmjzJ0brCvF3YBSMRVP_81ztWCbbW2Db0U/s1600/PalisadesCliffs.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxEdaPJd6YhSmhTcWkwoeoVnc4O6FWyG74b4UaXfkbpwllLMe71wlnqJQOI-T9D13_SUHBIiQF5DS1NzUKl2vOaHR49uvfbabJY0b7ZLMCCmjzJ0brCvF3YBSMRVP_81ztWCbbW2Db0U/s400/PalisadesCliffs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592272668476051858" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The new development, though, is this uncomfortable gap between my perspective and my husband’s perspective, between my desires and my husband’s desires.<span style=""> </span>He’s ready to move back to D.C. in a couple of years (or somewhere even further south, for the warmer weather and longer days).<span style=""> </span>I, on the other hand, am ready to buy burial plots at the cemetery on the western hill overlooking Nyack and settle in for the long haul.<span style=""> </span>I had envisioned walking with my kids along Piermont Avenue to Memorial Park – pushing a stroller and stopping by the little stone library some afternoons.<span style=""> </span>I had pictured dropping them off at the beautiful brick high school in the foggy mornings, and watching football games and track meets on the sweeping lawn in front of the building.<span style=""> </span>I had started planning to make connections around the non-profit scene in New York City; I saw myself going to a lot of fancy parties in cocktail dresses and smiling and eating canapés, all while raising money for worthy causes.<span style=""> </span>All of these visions of my future are very much rooted in the particular town where we currently live – whereas my husband’s dreams for the future are distinctly about being elsewhere.<span style=""> </span>And I first started to realize this that evening in Washington D.C.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I went to bed that night trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.<span style=""> </span>I woke up and showered and got dressed, all the while still feeling hollow.<span style=""> </span>Despite the great time we’d had with our friends the night before, I was hoping that my husband would enjoy the rest of the weekend with family and friends, but be content with our new home in Nyack.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I was up before he was, though, because I was meeting a good friend of mine for coffee and as I drove across the Key Bridge and into Georgetown, I gazed around at the familiar roads lined with trees that were already beginning to blossom – and I felt a little flutter in my chest.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As I drove toward the familiar Starbucks on MacArther Boulevard, I couldn’t help but thinking: this is the route I drove every day with Chloe and Chloe and Mia (yes, two Chloes) in my backseat, on our way to the Smithsonian Museums.<span style=""> </span>These are the flowering trees that welcomed me every spring morning on my way to school and to work, reminding me that March and April are so much warmer and more joyful in Washington D.C. than in wintry Michigan.<span style=""> </span>These are the homes of the families whose students I used to teach, and up that hill is the school where we held summer camp.<span style=""> </span>There is the CVS in the old MacArthur theater, there is our favorite Asian restaurant, where we went for Max’s birthday and I got a flat tire, and there is Jetties, the sandwich shop with the amazing Thanksgiving turkey dinner sandwich (complete with stuffing and cranberry sauce <i style="">ON</i> the sandwich).</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMFfSJtlj8HPMSjTPUQxldmoWhj_wZNDxxgN9ZQ3FVVGhvZN91BXM-7jrvAz6vzKzGENDErlhDmP64nAh6veoJ4mjXoZj5uJLoUOewainhwQn5XoCqmLxZqTToesKNevq4QbvPqKa6-A/s1600/Jetties.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMFfSJtlj8HPMSjTPUQxldmoWhj_wZNDxxgN9ZQ3FVVGhvZN91BXM-7jrvAz6vzKzGENDErlhDmP64nAh6veoJ4mjXoZj5uJLoUOewainhwQn5XoCqmLxZqTToesKNevq4QbvPqKa6-A/s400/Jetties.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592272840692483762" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I had suddenly discovered the problem: I had felt at home in Washington D.C. – just not in the place where we actually <i style="">lived</i>.<span style=""> </span>I felt at home where I worked and where I went to school – forty-five minutes southwest of our apartment.<span style=""> </span>I felt at home surrounded by my summer camp kids, who wanted me to bandage their knees and tell them stories and teach them how to make jewelry.<span style=""> </span>I felt at home, knowing that I was good with those kids and that their parents appreciated everything that I did with their children.<span style=""> </span>I felt at home working with Eleanor, who was always more of a friend than a boss, like an aunt or even an older sister who welcomed me into her own family.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I also felt at home going to school down the street at American University, which I described a little bit in a previous post – but my description of the campus doesn’t really explain that I felt comfortable there because I was respected for my scholarship, my knowledge about certain types of literature, my proficiency with research and teaching.<span style=""> </span>(And I could run up and down the halls of the Literature Department in my bare feet with the Professor’s kids.<span style=""> </span>That also made me feel quite comfortable.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The flutter of nostalgia in my heart kept growing, and when I reached the Starbucks and was swept into Eleanor’s hug, my nostalgia was in my throat, practically choking me with happiness.<span style=""> </span>I felt it now – I felt like I was home.<span style=""> </span>Call it a cheesy Steel Magnolias moment or something, but Eleanor really feels like family to me – and more than just a random part of my family.<span style=""> </span>Eleanor reminds me of my grandma.<span style=""> </span>Their personalities aren’t exactly alike, but they are similar/complementary in many ways.<span style=""> </span>The two of them would have gotten along fabulously, and I always wished that I could have introduced them.<span style=""> </span>(I can picture them linking arms, my grandma intimately leaning toward my friend and wanting to discuss my many good qualities and accomplishments.)<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">They would have gotten along so fabulously because at the heart of it they had the same expansive love for other people – and they both love me.<span style=""> </span>That is why talking to Eleanor is a lot like talking to my grandmother.<span style=""> </span>It’s the way that they both love me, the way that I can really say anything and they understand it in a certain way. <span style=""> </span>I may have learned to distance myself from most people while living in Washington D.C., but Eleanor is an incredibly easy person to talk to and to love.<span style=""> </span>I have all but forgotten what it feels like to have that kind of woman right there with you, talking to you about hormones and chocolate binges and career options and husbands and car accidents and fear and grief.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So now I am incredibly confused.<span style=""> </span>My morning drive along Canal and MacArthur Streets, the pale pink flowers budding on the trees, my hours spent in Starbucks with Eleanor – all these things awakened a nostalgia that in some ways, I wish had remained buried.<span style=""> </span>Even if we could afford to live down by Georgetown (which we can’t), we would still have to deal with traffic in order to visit friends or even make a Target run (across the bridge in Virginia).<span style=""> </span>Even if we could live near our best friends in Alexandria and I could spend evenings out drinking with my literary buddies at AU again (and believe me, literature people are hilarious when they’ve been drinking), I wonder if my soul wouldn’t slowly start to shrivel up again from spending so much time behind the wheel of a practically-stationary vehicle during my commute.<span style=""> </span>I wonder if my husband wouldn’t spend a few months dealing with the same kind of commute and come to the conclusion that we had made a terrible mistake moving back into the urban sprawl.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Most of all, I’m afraid that no matter where my husband and I decide to spend our future, one or the other of us won’t be truly happy with what we’ve chosen.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-21654343138183347862011-04-02T18:07:00.008-04:002011-04-02T18:30:04.509-04:00To Write or Not to Write<div style="text-align: justify;">The headline is as follows: <i style="">Self-Proclaimed Writer Gives in to Bout of Selfish Lethargy, Questions Identity Due to Lack of Discipline and Product</i>. </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSfl1Haddrm-UXSGq0LwEec49MF5pTmNI9hZDn-BxIuVS6wa8u0hXXQxPY4zy_mFhZSmC_F4NG4GZHhnYjmZebuEN6Fdc81fq2jzRIxpcyGw2_CNlx8udHQkDMxGmx4ebA4PuQJp6EAA/s1600/NextGreatBaker.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSfl1Haddrm-UXSGq0LwEec49MF5pTmNI9hZDn-BxIuVS6wa8u0hXXQxPY4zy_mFhZSmC_F4NG4GZHhnYjmZebuEN6Fdc81fq2jzRIxpcyGw2_CNlx8udHQkDMxGmx4ebA4PuQJp6EAA/s400/NextGreatBaker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591111981489909442" border="0" /></a>It may seem over-dramatic for me to be thinking along these lines when all that’s really happened is that I’ve let my blogging slide, but I feel like a contestant on a reality show that isn’t making the cut.<span style=""> </span>I’m like one of those chefs that hasn’t prepared enough for the final bake-off on <i style="">The Next Great Baker</i>; my German Chocolate layers are going to be sagging and I’ll have to try to even out the finished product with extra fondant – but you can always tell that someone has cheated when you cut into the cake.<span style=""> </span>In other words, my blog is the regular writing exercise that I need to maintain at least a sense that I’m moving forward as a writer – that I’m continuing to use and hone my skills, keep track of my thoughts, and amass material for the book that I will theoretically someday write.<span style=""> </span>But I haven’t been writing and posting too much lately – I’ve been more interested in sleeping and reading after work.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This leads to the dramatic question of whether or not I really have the chops to make it as a writer – or am I simply a good communicator?<span style=""> </span>I am, after all, only a self-declared writer and don’t really feel comfortable calling myself an author at this point, since I have only published a couple of academic articles, and haven’t even <i style="">produced</i> (let alone published) any short stories, novels or non-fiction books.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Of course, anyone is free to disagree with the way I am parsing the definitions of writer and author, but it is important to understand that in my mind, having published my critical opinions on other people’s works of fiction does not fulfill my ultimate goal of writing and publishing memoirs and fiction.<span style=""> </span>This isn’t to say that one type of writing is better than others, merely that they are different, and that I still feel as though my goal of writing stories of any kind is a far-off dream.<span style=""> </span>I think I have become one of those people who says things like, “I always <i style="">meant</i> to write a novel…”<span style=""> </span>Or perhaps I qualify as one of those people that says, “I’m writing a novel,” when really they have a few scribbles and dead-end ideas that they haven’t worked on for months but they can’t consciously acknowledge that they will never actually finish their project.<span style=""> </span>I’m not sure whether it would feel worse to know that I am someone who failed because I didn’t have the discipline to even start, or someone who failed because I didn’t have the discipline to keep going.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In any case, I sometimes question whether or not I should really call myself a writer.<span style=""> </span>Sure, I write for a living now, so I suppose that counts – I write pages and pages about how communities in the Bronx and other parts of New York are poverty-stricken and need various types of support services; I write blurbs and press releases about the events and fundraisers at our social services organization.<span style=""> </span>I write web content and email updates; I engage in the act of writing plenty.<span style=""> </span>I can even claim fairly accurately that I do all that well – because I am a skilled communicator.<span style=""> </span>My boss seems fairly pleased with me, others have praised what I have contributed to the organization so far – I should be happy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But although I have found a good career, it doesn’t help meet my personal creative goals.<span style=""> </span>Writing for a living isn’t the same as being the author of a novel, something that I would be proud to contribute to the world’s accumulation of <b style=""><i style="">art</i></b>.<span style=""> </span>(Cue the song “Glory” from Rent – the one where Roger sings about his desire to leave behind one thing that will “redeem this empty life” when he dies.)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><center><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zw6xtW3lRfs" allowfullscreen="" width="320" frameborder="0" height="280"></iframe><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Maybe the problem is that we aspiring artists set the bar too high – Roger wants to “find Glory / in a song that rings true / truth like a blazing fire / an eternal flame.”<span style=""> </span>But that is a seriously ambitious goal, and we can’t all be Bonos and Dostoevskys.<span style=""> </span>Even if I published a novel and it got some buzz for a while, what are the chances that it would gain the kind of readership that Fyodor and Charles Dickens still enjoy?<span style=""> </span>How many of us really express “truth like a blazing fire” that cuts to the heart of everyone who reads our work?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The other day, my husband asked me, “Do you still want to write a book someday?”<span style=""> </span>His question seemed to come out of nowhere, and it bewildered me for a minute.<span style=""> </span>Yes, of course I <i style="">want</i> to write a book… perhaps even more than one.<span style=""> </span>But how realistic is that dream?<span style=""> </span>Is it realistic enough for me to consider it a <i style="">goal</i> and not just a fantasy?<span style=""> </span>Is it any more realistic than my dream of owning a yacht??<span style=""> </span>I have to question the practicality of my own goals if I can’t even maintain a regular (creative) writing schedule while I’m working a nine-to-five job.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It was nice to realize that my wonderful husband was asking that very question because he was contemplating scenarios in which he would work full time and I would stay home with our kid(s) and write a book, so perhaps it will be more feasible for me to devote more time and energy to writing longer projects at some point in the future.<span style=""> </span>But even so, one has to question the feasibility of a goal that may always have to be put off for something more immediate.<span style=""> </span>I’m reminded of a refrigerator magnet that my grandma used to have: a bright pink elephant with the words “I’ll diet tomorrow” stamped into his flank.<span style=""> </span>More than a reality show contestant, I resemble that elephant; I might as well be tattooed with the words, “I’ll write tomorrow.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzqHXC5mxOvSd5bO_KNnMn8mRSMy2xrlwHQwvhv4fIlf29LcKiBDidnUoX6K4-9sJaDz6hPdOzc1iJvPCx3veZQ2LjlgyA0i5v0TY7zWbLitAOEXQFrqY_2mpxCKrlQWzxyeQjxRernQ/s1600/DietTomorrow.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzqHXC5mxOvSd5bO_KNnMn8mRSMy2xrlwHQwvhv4fIlf29LcKiBDidnUoX6K4-9sJaDz6hPdOzc1iJvPCx3veZQ2LjlgyA0i5v0TY7zWbLitAOEXQFrqY_2mpxCKrlQWzxyeQjxRernQ/s400/DietTomorrow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591115780261459154" border="0" /></a>My lack of desire to sit down and write is not from lack of material, though – I still haven’t blogged about the rest of my weekend in D.C., which on some level I am eager to get down on paper and share with my small but devoted audience.<span style=""> </span>I had some thoughts and experiences that I, being the egomaniac that I am, think were pretty interesting.<span style=""> </span>The stuff of epiphanies, -- absolutely brilliant, you know.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’ll force myself to get back to that subject in a day or two, but once I realized that I had been putting off the writing most of the week, I couldn’t help but mull over my identity as a writer a bit.<span style=""> </span>My title at work is “Communications Associate and Grant Writer,” which may be a more accurate reflection of my identity overall as my life follows its new course.<span style=""> </span>I communicate skillfully and I write very specific forms.<span style=""> </span>Does that make me an author?<span style=""> </span>Not in my opinion.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But maybe I need to be a little less hard on myself.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I also need to take heart from the very thing that shook me to the core this past December/January – the crazy new direction that my life has taken.<span style=""> </span>I suppose that if it has already happened once or twice, it could happen again.<span style=""> </span>I could end up living on a yacht off the coast of Greece, writing novels and collecting a paycheck as big as Stephen Kings.<span style=""> </span>Of course, it’s more likely that I’ll pop out a baby or two, then try to write a novel in between soccer practices and swim meets.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNiJj3SLXfrokEOcJeondcDnn3hclm2Wuk8uiIsq-tf7M2apDKTFiD9BUjMP-ddyjQmnsR2BbrD6NI2YiKPiA2bAJ9MlHJvvm6f-9Q3GsFIzFpibYl30C03q7ef2fi6rPr0zW52NrRWs/s1600/StephanieMeyer.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNiJj3SLXfrokEOcJeondcDnn3hclm2Wuk8uiIsq-tf7M2apDKTFiD9BUjMP-ddyjQmnsR2BbrD6NI2YiKPiA2bAJ9MlHJvvm6f-9Q3GsFIzFpibYl30C03q7ef2fi6rPr0zW52NrRWs/s200/StephanieMeyer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591114473382544626" border="0" /></a>(Hey, if Stephenie Meyer can do it, then why can’t I? I have to admit that I'm rather taken by the whole story of how she wrote <span style="font-style: italic;">Twilight</span>, staying up late at night after her husband and children had gone to bed, afraid to show anyone but her sister what she was working on. And now she has five novels and as many movie adaptations to her name, not to mention all the fan paraphernalia and a flirty little red sports car that she bought with her bonus check.)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In the meantime, my modest goal is to continue blogging – because if nothing else, it allows me to keep track of my thoughts, accumulate ideas and stretch my narrative muscles in a way that I just can’t do when I’m writing a grant.<span style=""> </span>I don’t need to be a Nazi when it comes to maintaining a strict schedule for my blog, but if I let it slip by too much, I will be abandoning something much larger than just the blog itself.<span style=""> </span>I will be abandoning the idea that I am working toward the book that I promised my grandmother that I would write – and if nothing else, I can’t let <i style="">her</i> down.<span style=""> </span>That is a pretty good reason to keep thinking of myself as a writer and working toward that goal.<br /></p> </center>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-33328970197976818872011-03-30T20:47:00.006-04:002011-03-30T21:11:43.242-04:00No Place Like Home<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’ve written in previous blog entries how sometimes I feel a bit like Dorothy from <i style="">The Wizard of Oz</i>, and over the past few days, I’ve found myself wishing that I had a little bit more of the confidence that Dorothy displayed when she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, clicked her heels together and chanted, “There’s no place like home.<span style=""> </span>There’s no place like home.<span style=""> </span>There’s no place like home.”<span style=""> </span>In that moment, at least, she knew exactly where her home was – back in Kansas with Uncle Henry and Aunty Em.<span style=""> </span>She may not have been trying to run away at the beginning of the film, but by the time she has journeyed through the land of Oz, she knows that there’s no place she’d rather be but Kansas.<span style=""> </span>Her voice is fervent and self-assured as she recites the magical mantra, and happily, she ends up back in her very own bed, surrounded by loved ones.<span style=""> </span>But if I had my own pair of magical ruby slippers right now, I’m not so sure where I’d ask them to take me.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-kzAiz3rWmnm2mo_Lqz6P-WUXlfnCg3I8oEDmpgitpNvEKwb613uRI4lilrlbvmaMqhSEB2rSC5CH1Z6cKuVzuLY8D7sO4pKR6J6pIq5QjVABGaP0S7ivgDRBkvZVpY-XOw8k8UMN0c/s1600/RubySlippers.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-kzAiz3rWmnm2mo_Lqz6P-WUXlfnCg3I8oEDmpgitpNvEKwb613uRI4lilrlbvmaMqhSEB2rSC5CH1Z6cKuVzuLY8D7sO4pKR6J6pIq5QjVABGaP0S7ivgDRBkvZVpY-XOw8k8UMN0c/s400/RubySlippers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590041397836712226" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My husband and I are originally from Michigan, which has become a wasteland during this fabulous economic recession.<span style=""> </span>We left our home state so that we could go to graduate school and get jobs, but we were a bit ahead of the crowd.<span style=""> </span>It seems like we started a trend – and when it comes to considering your individual survival, it’s a trend that makes sense.<span style=""> </span>We worry, in fact, about our friends and family who are still back in Michigan and are either fearfully monitoring the precarious position of their jobs, or counting down the days until the unemployment checks run out.<span style=""> </span>We miss our parents, brothers, sisters and friends more than we can say – but we also know that we can’t go back.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Moving from Michigan to Washington D.C. was extremely difficult – more difficult than I thought it would be.<span style=""> </span>I had imagined that setting up shop in D.C. would be a lot like going off to college – I would go to parties, meet new people, make new friends.<span style=""> </span>I had a lot of friends in college.<span style=""> </span><i style="">A lot</i>.<span style=""> </span>I had eight bridesmaids, for Pete’s sake – and that was the whittled down number.<span style=""> </span>I used to be good at mingling, chatting, being social.<span style=""> </span>But the reality is that once you graduate from college, it’s a lot harder to meet people, so things didn’t turn out quite like I had envisioned.<span style=""> </span>We had been living there a couple of years before we really hit it off with anyone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I missed being social – and I also missed having a <i style="">place</i> that felt homey.<span style=""> </span>When I was in college, I felt like I belonged at Eastern Michigan University.<span style=""> </span>During a five minute walk across campus, I would see three or four different people who would want to stop and talk, I would zig-zag my way from building to building, taking care of different pieces of business.<span style=""> </span>I knew how to handle different all my different responsibilities, accounts and social situations.<span style=""> </span>I also felt like I belonged in the town of Ann Arbor.<span style=""> </span>With all it’s little novelty shops, old theaters, restaurants, bookstores and hang-out coffee joints, there were a million different familiar places that I could settle down for an afternoon to read, finish up some homework or catch up with a friend.<span style=""> </span>I knew my way around.<span style=""> </span>I had routines and favorite seats.<span style=""> </span>And all of this gave me confidence.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVd9teCTOyewvlIV8hmPbidoy2GLvJOnx5bxwciVLVNBFUXg1SBTIBjwDlrQjJKjjVUOPaF6qT4ha047t92lyNpB0-tPl22gdUCWMzQFjw8VSkJtJjJXOFwdqwmtgjPoIkJP64x7BmzQ/s1600/AnnArbor.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVd9teCTOyewvlIV8hmPbidoy2GLvJOnx5bxwciVLVNBFUXg1SBTIBjwDlrQjJKjjVUOPaF6qT4ha047t92lyNpB0-tPl22gdUCWMzQFjw8VSkJtJjJXOFwdqwmtgjPoIkJP64x7BmzQ/s400/AnnArbor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590042183106273474" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">D.C. wasn’t really like that, though.<span style=""> </span>We lived in a less-than-stellar neighborhood and I didn’t really enjoy going out on my own.<span style=""> </span>When I went to visit the campus of American University, I had the biggest thrill that I had experienced in a long time – it was adorable, clean, safe and, as I told my husband when I came home, it was “me-sized!”<span style=""> </span>As soon as I stepped onto the quad, I immediately had a sense of belonging that I hadn’t experienced since we left Ann Arbor.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately, after I completed two years of graduate school, they insisted on giving me a diploma and sending me on my way.<span style=""> </span>I threatened to chain myself to the furniture in the Literature Department Lounge so that I wouldn’t have to leave, but I’m not sure how I would have gotten my meals on the weekends.<span style=""> </span>So, I felt like I lost the only place that felt truly homey to me in D.C.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXKFDHYoSdt-6hniPLrVoEYCjEBFSqzCBhODAIXsNzQRFPHNpD-iXKsIMUEbIqmXC2KKzsctbPrfJDEJ20UuLp5P85JuEkNEIMWC9LOqZRnYpF6ofOh7P4O1GxCdxjdfUabGWM4NRY6I/s1600/AUQuad.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXKFDHYoSdt-6hniPLrVoEYCjEBFSqzCBhODAIXsNzQRFPHNpD-iXKsIMUEbIqmXC2KKzsctbPrfJDEJ20UuLp5P85JuEkNEIMWC9LOqZRnYpF6ofOh7P4O1GxCdxjdfUabGWM4NRY6I/s400/AUQuad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590043829790605282" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Fast forward to July 2010, when we moved to Nyack.<span style=""> </span>Our little village in the Hudson River Valley reminds me so much of Ann Arbor.<span style=""> </span>As we drove down Main Street toward Broadway, coasting slowly down the hill that overlooks the water, I had that feeling again.<span style=""> </span>I gaped at the bright blue façade of the Blissful Spa, the little second hand stores and gift shops, and the wooden sign hanging outside of the Patisserie.<span style=""> </span>I knew I was home, and so did my husband.<span style=""> </span>We hadn’t seen more than a thirty-second stretch of street in Nyack when we turned to each other and said, “We <i style="">have</i> to find an apartment here.”<span style=""> </span>And even though we don’t know many people here – we certainly haven’t made the kind of good friends in New York like we have in Michigan and D.C. – I still have that feeling that we belong in Nyack.<span style=""> </span>I have favorite spots to sit by the creek at the park, at the Art Café, at the library.<span style=""> </span>I have opinions about local restaurants and certain routines.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So when we went back to Washington D.C. for a visit this past weekend, it threw me for a bit of a loop.<span style=""> </span>We drove down Friday morning and met a friend for coffee and some bookstore browsing.<span style=""> </span>Then another friend had us over for dinner, and we were able to catch up with several people.<span style=""> </span>It was great seeing everyone and after we left, my husband was practically glowing.<span style=""> </span>With a big grin on his face, he told me, “It’s good to be back.<span style=""> </span>It feels like coming home.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Awkward pause.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know what to say because despite the fact that I loved every minute of the time spent with friends, there still wasn’t a sense of belonging in my heart.<span style=""> </span>Washington D.C. was where I learned to <i style="">detach</i> from people, places and things.<span style=""> </span>It was there that I learned how to cope with isolation and long-distance relationships.<span style=""> </span>While I had once been deeply interwoven into a church community in Michigan, it was in D.C. that I became an island, an independent and absorbed academic.<span style=""> </span>I may have met some great people in D.C., but I didn’t allow myself to get too attached to most of them.<span style=""> </span>And I certainly didn’t get attached to our neighborhood, with its punk car thieves and active local arsonists.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My husband made several comments that night, in fact, that made me feel awkward.<span style=""> </span>Usually he and I feel the same way about things like this – we both loved our undergraduate alma mater, Ann Arbor, and some of the suburban hang-outs near my parents’ home like Royal Oak and Birmingham.<span style=""> </span>We’ve usually agreed on places that we have disliked, and we both immediately <i style="">loved</i> Nyack.<span style=""> </span>But here was my husband sharing a well-spring of happy feelings, practically saying that he wanted to move back to D.C… and my heart just felt hollow.<span style=""> </span>All I could think about was the hours that I spent sitting in the most horrendous urban traffic that you can imagine – the Capital Beltway.<span style=""> </span>Even traffic in New York City has nothing on the Washington D.C. Beltway, and while my husband never had to commute to work on this notorious freeway, I did.<span style=""> </span>His experience and my experience of living in the D.C. Metro Area were quite different, and I’m all too aware of how urban congestion can literally choke you, smother your soul.<span style=""> </span>I now relish the fact that I live in a village, and that if I’m going to get held up by traffic on my way through town, it’s going to be <i style="">pedestrian </i>traffic.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">There were some tense moments that night, as I tried to let my husband enjoy the buoyant feeling in his heart without out-and-out lying to him about how I felt.<span style=""> </span>And honestly, the difference between our reactions scared me.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t help but wonder, what do I do if he decides that he really does want to move back to D.C.?<span style=""> </span>Now that I’ve realized just how cramped I was, packed into that tightly-packed urban sprawl, I don’t think I can leave the Palisades cliffs and the Hudson River.<span style=""> </span>I don’t think I could survive without the park with the creek where I actually feel safe to go and sit by myself.<span style=""> </span>Now that I’ve learned to live detached from the people around me, I’m not sure that even the idea of moving back to be with some of my favorite people in the world (and there are a few of them in D.C.) is enough motivation to uproot me from Nyack.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsqL3Bsddtv4f2qatQ2ILSBvJe1ly77_z0aRJSHuB4DQHn9eWCKIammPHtPa74ZIJFSWoT6-dy4y2qnWLHEZpNWn4aP0kFh6Ee8rTPf3XRkXqRZoaW2oTJakVIwdnoesFgyZQ58Fwg9s/s1600/NyackShops1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsqL3Bsddtv4f2qatQ2ILSBvJe1ly77_z0aRJSHuB4DQHn9eWCKIammPHtPa74ZIJFSWoT6-dy4y2qnWLHEZpNWn4aP0kFh6Ee8rTPf3XRkXqRZoaW2oTJakVIwdnoesFgyZQ58Fwg9s/s400/NyackShops1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590044887710831970" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">[There is more to come on the subject, though…]</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-72751874104381572932011-03-22T19:07:00.012-04:002011-03-22T19:35:23.123-04:00Alone at the Clinique CounterGrief is a strange and changeable monster.<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Some days, it is strong and ferocious, washing over me like a tidal wave – an apt comparison to a tsunami even, since my memories of my grandparents become a painful surge with the potential to destroy everything in their path.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdtrL2c5Q9lfUPFpVoV4ikqFvBa-D3jR-4M9CqpEAvcGhqklWUd9csM1-bA9KlEsWWS074lnDQn_h6Y6Qxr86_mbmfVMOXTxwIPv8HuQc1T5RudN4jwHfgFt6ggOLB6eP3ai4dGaShxo4/s1600/SugarFree.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 195px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdtrL2c5Q9lfUPFpVoV4ikqFvBa-D3jR-4M9CqpEAvcGhqklWUd9csM1-bA9KlEsWWS074lnDQn_h6Y6Qxr86_mbmfVMOXTxwIPv8HuQc1T5RudN4jwHfgFt6ggOLB6eP3ai4dGaShxo4/s320/SugarFree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587045146091455698" border="0" /></a>Then on other days, I can chatter casually, even flippantly about my grandparents with co-workers, hair dressers and waitresses.<span style=""> </span>With a little smile, I can say something to my husband like, “Remember how grandma used to buy us those horrible sugar free candies at the dollar store?<span style=""> </span>I never had the heart to tell her that I didn’t like them because it made her so happy to bring us a treat she had always two or three more bags for us.<span style=""> </span>Don’t we still have a big jar of them somewhere?”<span style=""> </span>In certain moments, I somehow manage to be detached from the strongest emotions that otherwise threaten to overwhelm me – and I can enjoy the memories of my grandparents <i style="">precisely</i> <i style="">because</i> I’m detached.<span style=""> </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Sunday was one of those days that I felt separate from my emotions, as though the grief belonged to someone else.<span style=""> </span>I could see it, almost pick it up in my hands and examine it.<span style=""> </span>I was hanging out at the mall – all by myself because my husband was out of town this weekend.<span style=""> </span>But despite the fact that it’s pretty pathetic to go marathon shopping by yourself, I wasn’t sad about the current dismal state of my social life.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">I felt lonely not because I was alone, but because shopping was a special pastime that I shared with my grandma.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">When we were young, my grandparents would take me, my brother and my cousin to the mall all the time. They would allow us to sit at our very own table and order the grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate milk ourselves.<span style=""> </span>This is a big deal for a five or a six year old, and as we chattered with the waiter, we felt as though we were independent grown-ups.<span style=""> </span>After lunch we would wander around the mall for a while with grandma and grandpa trailing behind us, peering in the shop windows at the glittering gowns on display.<span style=""> </span>While at the mall, my grandparents allowed us a sense of independence and freedom that was exhilarating, especially to a couple of kids whose mother wouldn’t allow us to go down the block on our own.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Later in the afternoon, we always got to order a <b style="">giant</b> cookie before we went home.<span style=""> </span>I believe my grandparents might have actually believed that not only were cookies an excellent treat, but were a valid remedy for many minor illnesses.<span style=""> </span>I remember a couple of times that I had a stomach ache and was surprised that when they came to pick me up from school, they didn’t take me home and tuck me in to bed – instead, they insisted that I would feel much better after we went to the mall for a cookie.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKvtwKFxeavhwEUdULiBlBb651qOD7T0rAQDs33hyphenhyphenYbFbuzlku93pS0HihIsZHGzvIRy4NBqb0k-lj-jabw3XmfIm0W-ejysTDj9a_pBxZTtElKoMjnN84GBz3dxihSYQJc-f86hzUb2M/s1600/MrsFields.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 420px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKvtwKFxeavhwEUdULiBlBb651qOD7T0rAQDs33hyphenhyphenYbFbuzlku93pS0HihIsZHGzvIRy4NBqb0k-lj-jabw3XmfIm0W-ejysTDj9a_pBxZTtElKoMjnN84GBz3dxihSYQJc-f86hzUb2M/s400/MrsFields.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587045569254429314" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">In fact, I think I played hooky from elementary school more often with my grandparents than I ever tried to ditch class in high school!<span style=""> </span>I felt sort of guilty sitting out in the open, in middle of the mall at 1 o’clock in the afternoon.<span style=""> </span>I worried that someone would catch us and yell at us for sitting there so casually, munching away on our cookies.<span style=""> </span>My grandparents, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease.<span style=""> </span>The funny part was that their remedy worked – I suspect that my stomach ache had more to do with social anxiety than anything else, so a cookie and a little time spent with grandma and grandpa turned out to be the perfect medicine.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMFvhstTNn_2nRMIDA3zVC2bxSkhEh2cZ7pt5RmO5ZaYY4aLUPk0Rgutn8Qb3Qm7dtp6yQqpauP6cXeFAwX471Liyws9UILCOQg3SQBVb8LW9wXwLd1gUgx8bC4QltlQywHR7JekS2NCo/s1600/Lipstick.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMFvhstTNn_2nRMIDA3zVC2bxSkhEh2cZ7pt5RmO5ZaYY4aLUPk0Rgutn8Qb3Qm7dtp6yQqpauP6cXeFAwX471Liyws9UILCOQg3SQBVb8LW9wXwLd1gUgx8bC4QltlQywHR7JekS2NCo/s320/Lipstick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587046325356380946" border="0" /></a>As I got older, my grandmother became my best friend and my favorite shopping partner.<span style=""> </span>We would go to the mall at least once every season (spring, summer, fall, winter).<span style=""> </span>Children and teenagers are always growing and always need new school clothes, after all.<span style=""> </span>But these were not just quick trips to find a functional, institutionally-approved wardrobe; these were full-day excursions, complete with a leisurely lunch, during which grandma imparted many important life lessons.<span style=""> </span>She taught me to appreciate good-quality fabric and stitching, to avoid horizontal stripes, and create a clean, uninterrupted visual line from head to toe in order to appear thinner.<span style=""> </span>She taught me to always buy more than one tube of lipstick when I found a shade that I liked – so that you’d have enough for a long time if the cosmetics company discontinued that color.<span style=""> </span>The same goes for a good pair of shoes or nicely-fitting jeans – buy more than one pair and you’ll be set for years.<span style=""> </span>She helped me develop an eye for coordinating colors and her taste for anything sparkly rubbed off on me.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">She taught me all of that before the age of twelve and so by the time I was a teenager, I was as picky of a shopper as she was.<span style=""> </span>Even after I started hanging out at the mall with my teenage friends, I still went shopping with her for my clothes because she would be much more honest with me about how something fit.<span style=""> </span>“That doesn’t flatter you,” she would sometimes tell me, wrinkling her nose.<span style=""> </span>“It makes you look pregnant, the way that it poufs out over your stomach…” But before you imagine that her comments were cruel, let me assure you that I appreciated them – her honesty made her a much better shopping partner than any of my peers, who were afraid to hurt my feelings.<span style=""> </span>But there was also the fact that when something did “flatter my figure,” she was a much more gratifying admirer than any of my friends would have been.<span style=""> </span>Her eyes would sparkle and she would begin to beam.<span style=""> </span>I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be nearly as vain if it weren’t for her unadulterated admiration.</p><div> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Because of both her honesty and her appreciation, she was also the first and most important person to take when shopping for special events.<span style=""> </span>She and my mother accompanied me to choose every single prom dress I ever bought, and while in college, she once convinced me to go out and look for a black cocktail dress – when I didn’t need one for any particular reason.<span style=""> </span>(We actually ended up buying two that day!)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7kj4m_wgYA793idGIGnYAFMFryBWHvvEsUNsobt83eWwOzC6VWTzMX0-YBFHHDr_2tPeyfwI9d6MTYkgJT4qTBAQtLP4qafgKSSRR4PMEu9pmpmKhLtNQMaoAUTiP8VKEr9DnvIpQaE/s1600/LaurenGrandmaProm.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 420px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7kj4m_wgYA793idGIGnYAFMFryBWHvvEsUNsobt83eWwOzC6VWTzMX0-YBFHHDr_2tPeyfwI9d6MTYkgJT4qTBAQtLP4qafgKSSRR4PMEu9pmpmKhLtNQMaoAUTiP8VKEr9DnvIpQaE/s400/LaurenGrandmaProm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587048563478582802" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Grandma and my mom both obviously had to be present for every single trip to the bridal salon when I was planning my wedding as well.<span style=""> </span>She became obsessed with Oleg Cassini, the designer that created my gown.<span style=""> </span>She was also the one who insisted that I buy a $200 wedding veil simply because it was the only one that had sparkles… if I wasn’t going to buy it, she was going to buy it for me, and that was that.<span style=""> </span>According to grandma, you <i style="">cannot ever</i> under-estimate the value of sparkles.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Once I moved to Washington D.C., I never did find another shopping partner and so my trips to the mall became lonely affairs.<span style=""> </span>I sometimes drag my husband in to the dressing room once I have tried everything on and vetoed the losers – his job is to apprise the second round contestants.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes he helpfully offers comments like, “that pattern looks like cauliflower,” and then I know I have to return that shirt to the rack.<span style=""> </span>But he lacks the critical eye and the ability to color-coordinate that my grandmother had.<span style=""> </span>I started calling my grandma from the dressing room, trying to describe the items that I was trying on, which met only with limited success since she obviously couldn’t see how the clothing actually looked on me.<span style=""> </span>But at least it was a little bit like having her with me.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">The day after she died, I decided that I had nothing appropriate to wear to her funeral – and something that would have been incredibly important to my grandma would have been my wardrobe and appearance when I got up to give her eulogy.<span style=""> </span>I knew that in order to honor my grandmother properly, I had to go shopping.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">And so, despite the fact that I hadn’t slept more than 45 minutes and I felt like I was a zombie that had been drained of even the desire to consume human brains, I went to the mall the day after my grandmother died.<span style=""> </span>It was the most miserable shopping trip of my entire life.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">I wanted to find some kind of a black or dark dress, or perhaps a fancy top and black pants.<span style=""> </span>But there wasn’t a single dress or dress blouse that didn’t either 1) have awful-looking ruffles all up and down the front or 2) look like a skanky clubbing outfit. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh, grandma,”</span> I muttered to myself, “I'm glad you can't see all these hideous ruffles.<span style=""> </span>What are they thinking this season?”<span style=""> </span>When I couldn’t find anything to wear at any of my favorite stores, I stopped and thought, “What would grandma do?<span style=""> </span><i style="">She would tell me to look in Macy’s and the other department stores</i>. She would tell me to persevere, at least until I had exhausted my options.”<span style=""> So </span>I trudged around the mall for another two hours without success (the hideous ruffles were <i style="">everywhere</i>), and ended up buying four different sparkly scarves in a fit of self-indulgence and self-pity. I came home in despair, knowing that I still didn't have anything nice to wear for the funeral.<span style=""> </span>(Thankfully, I was able to find a dress in a last-ditch effort at a little shop near my parents’ house. I made my mom buy something new to wear, too -- reminding her that Grandma would have told us to go out and get something nice.)</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">Now when I go to that mall by myself, I can’t help but think of that horrible day, the day after she died, at least for a moment. Because of that epic shopping failure, even my mall in New York seems to have a strong connection to my grandma.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">And when I took myself to the Clinique counter on Sunday, of course I thought about her.<span style=""> </span>She is the one who scheduled me for a Clinque pore-cleansing and make-over when I was in high school.<span style=""> </span>She was the one who insisted that I buy <i style="">two</i> tubes of Stellar Plum the last time we dropped by the counter in Macy’s together.<span style=""> </span>After all the time I spent fusing over foundations and powders and lipsticks with grandma, I suddenly found myself going for a consultation at the Clinque alone.<span style=""> </span>And although I didn’t cry while I was there, I felt very hollow inside knowing that I couldn’t even take home my new lip gloss to model for my grandma and ask her if she thought it was too dark.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWxWVUAjL67JJrs9mxnbSZ0Amej7rZ4Jt1uC2NfchWeoW-TwL55mHkpf6butGPF9jnr9jvGtaHo0NiORer6Pd9tENhyuiFNxV7922dD1yRt8Qmqna2l_ieGNS3Gh4zCh84TeYIAbMmBM/s1600/Clinique.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWxWVUAjL67JJrs9mxnbSZ0Amej7rZ4Jt1uC2NfchWeoW-TwL55mHkpf6butGPF9jnr9jvGtaHo0NiORer6Pd9tENhyuiFNxV7922dD1yRt8Qmqna2l_ieGNS3Gh4zCh84TeYIAbMmBM/s320/Clinique.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587051043287360754" border="0" /></a>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-62713770785286349812011-03-19T20:10:00.008-04:002011-03-19T20:41:30.683-04:00Keep Myself Awake<div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve spent several comfortable years in the academic life, which allowed me to teach classes from 8:30 to 11, make it home in time for lunch, then enjoy a nap or a walk before throwing in laundry, then reading or writing for the rest of the afternoon.<span style=""> </span>Don’t get me wrong – there were some long, torturous 8 hour days of paper-grading thrown in there, too.<span style=""> </span>But I had it pretty nice.<span style=""> </span>If I wanted to take the afternoon off to read a novel or go shopping, I could usually do so.<span style=""> </span>But now I’m up every morning and driving across the TappanZee Bridge by 8 AM, knowing that the return trip won’t come until 5:30 or later. </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I squint against the sunlight both ways, but when I first started my new nine-to-five, my worry wasn’t that the sunrise would affect my eyesight so much as the fluorescent office lighting.<span style=""> </span>Thankfully, I don’t work in a cubicle; I have my own office and can shut the lights off.<span style=""> </span>I only have one narrow, high-up window, but it lets in enough sunlight so that I can read the stacks of papers on my desk, so I’ve developed a habit of working for most of the day in the dark. <span style=""> </span>I believe this is saving me from developing a dangerous addiction to Visine or Clear Eyes, and it’s far more Zen. Then again, maybe I've picked up one too many habits from my favorite film noir characters and broody vampire detectives.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-4kvniH18OuRi91w-m3XMmyKd8SLowvszjyMktXhvPUuUbVNcn-esmjTBWEissJrmKFBGU4mM1oZE7s-BS7OlJpKvji3uXasRSSX86HHpwSc_N4uNqziQ-hFlejAozfDJxN7_yNG2Q4/s1600/Angel01.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-4kvniH18OuRi91w-m3XMmyKd8SLowvszjyMktXhvPUuUbVNcn-esmjTBWEissJrmKFBGU4mM1oZE7s-BS7OlJpKvji3uXasRSSX86HHpwSc_N4uNqziQ-hFlejAozfDJxN7_yNG2Q4/s320/Angel01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585952744634052898" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But when I began working a more traditional schedule, I had far greater fears than the possibility of developing Bleary Eye Syndrome.<span style=""> </span>Mainly, I was – and continue to be – concerned that a 40 hour a week job eats up a lot more time than just 40 hours a week.<span style=""> </span>Let's do the math. There’s the commute, which I estimate takes me another 7.5 hours a week on average.<span style=""> </span>But that is still less than 50 hours, and there are 168 hours in a week, so even if you sleep 56 hours a week (8 hours a night), you should still have somewhere between 60 and 70 hours to yourself.<span style=""> </span>Right?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOZ-RehAQLA4aU468KQQjHkvp7NBjU7s0mF_pWfG3nzIZAv1h1RZw8vtyp8kdQcwP4Fi5ybw7WJiV-wYdqbWnzNjlpBCyfhyvIyHjmBk1-VTKTZn7Fdr_LlmGIMud5fI_9fEBehWqJ0s/s1600/calculator.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOZ-RehAQLA4aU468KQQjHkvp7NBjU7s0mF_pWfG3nzIZAv1h1RZw8vtyp8kdQcwP4Fi5ybw7WJiV-wYdqbWnzNjlpBCyfhyvIyHjmBk1-VTKTZn7Fdr_LlmGIMud5fI_9fEBehWqJ0s/s320/calculator.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585953681726105922" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But you can’t forget to add all those pesky household and personal hygiene things in to the tally – showering (and for some of us, blow-drying your hair), preparing food and washing the dishes… let’s say there goes another ten to fifteen hours during the week.<span style=""> </span>We’re down to 50 hours, but you have to remember that half of those hours are your two weekend days.<span style=""> </span>In that time, you’ve got to do laundry, go grocery shopping, go to church, take the car for an oil change – and you should probably at least acknowledge your husband at some point.<span style=""> </span>So when am I supposed to find time to write??<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m aware that all these things are the normal concerns and activities of normal adult human beings and that I shouldn’t be so irked at having to fit my life into this schedule, but as I’ve explained before, I’ve been <i style="">extremely</i> spoiled.<span style=""> </span>Not only did my parents, grandparents, and even my husband cater to my desires to a certain degree, but my chosen career as a professor often enabled my whims.<span style=""> </span>I could take papers to correct at the bookstore, which made grading feel less like work because I could go browse the shelves. I could make the rounds of local coffee shops and restaurants during the afternoons, or choose to put off my work until the middle of the night if I wanted.<span style=""> </span>I thrive on flexibility, and a career as an academic allowed me to do so much more reading, writing – and ultimately, <i style="">living</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When I started this nine-to-five gig, I was afraid that I wouldn’t have much time left for “living” – although admittedly, my definition of the word would seem fairly boring to many, since it basically involves reading and writing out of doors as much as possible, whether at the park or the beach, or by an open window.<span style=""> </span>It also involves long walks and the general ability to kum-bah-yah with nature on a frequent basis.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMysthfglIwbRDYrlyEtURJ4X39Tk_uHQsi28R-HjnZWg9i-1-9DOyiulh5l6Om8Pzq2RHB1Et0Nv-hbfDYAPzifPhTop30mKk6oEasmZDpFdTM1WJAFH0P5OgPDj4BcaJZECbJGG8ew/s1600/Nature.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMysthfglIwbRDYrlyEtURJ4X39Tk_uHQsi28R-HjnZWg9i-1-9DOyiulh5l6Om8Pzq2RHB1Et0Nv-hbfDYAPzifPhTop30mKk6oEasmZDpFdTM1WJAFH0P5OgPDj4BcaJZECbJGG8ew/s320/Nature.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585955163919655618" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">What I’ve discovered is that even though the different responsibilities at my new job are actually pretty interesting and enjoyable (to me) and I’m happy to devote time to these tasks, I come home exhausted and unable to fully enjoy those twenty-five free hours that I’m supposed to have to myself during the week.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I can’t keep my eyes open for more than an hour or two after eating dinner, so I’ve found myself falling asleep to <i style="">The Daily Show</i> and <i style="">The Colbert Report</i>; my routine is starting to remind me of graduate school, which is not a time in my life that I particularly want to repeat.<span style=""> </span>Ever.<span style=""> </span>Again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Over the past week, I’ve been even more drained for some reason; I think I fell asleep around 7:30 or 8 PM almost every night.<span style=""> </span>Look at me – I’m not even thirty and I’m already turning into my grandpa.<span style=""> </span>He was a sweet man and I love him dearly – but wasn’t I already boring enough??<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Honestly, I can live with being a generally boring person to the outside world, but it is important to me that I am able to continue reading and developing myself as a creative writer and memoirist.<span style=""> </span>I want to be able to recapture the more amusing, self-depreciating tone that used to come a lot more easily to me as I wrote.<span style=""> </span>(Anyone else miss those posts?)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I also just want to be able to enjoy the simple pleasures in life.<span style=""> </span>Is it too much to ask that if you’re earning enough money to be able to buy a few books and a dinner out, that you also be able to enjoy said books and your husband’s company?<span style=""> </span>I really don’t want my life to be all about a paycheck – or even about a career, for that matter, even though it’s a career that I’ve decided is interesting, valuable and fulfilling.<span style=""> </span>I still crave the freedom to freely express myself – consistently, <i style="">constantly</i>.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In order to be able to do that, though, I may need to resort to more coffee and diet Coke to keep me awake.<span style=""> </span>I may gain a new appreciation for my chronic insomnia, and you might start to notice that my blog posts begin appearing at 2 AM, there to greet you when you come bleary-eyed to you computer in the morning.<span style=""> </span>I may develop an addiction Visine after all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Whatever happens, I know that I’ve spent too much time lately in a haze of one kind or another – grief and exhaustion have defined my life, weighted me down and limited my sense of adventure.<span style=""> </span>Everyone has been urging me to get out and make new friends, which will certainly become more of a priority soon.<span style=""> </span>But first I need to simply be able to stay awake…</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/rJCuhG2fhrQ" allowfullscreen="" width="420" frameborder="0" height="340"></iframe></div>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-69855383406025569192011-03-17T21:56:00.010-04:002011-03-19T20:17:34.865-04:00Where There is Despair<div style="text-align: justify;">As Japan continues to be in the news, my heart continues to ache for the victims – particularly the children – of the earthquake(s) and tsunami that hit their country last week.<span style=""> </span>I’ve noticed, though, that of the photos released in the days following the disaster, most of them were not of suffering, injured people – the kinds of graphic pictures that were released following the earthquake in Haiti last January.<span style=""> </span>Instead, many of the photographs from the disaster in Japan are of damaged property: landscapes of decimated houses, twisted cars and other debris.<span style=""> </span>From the media reports that I’ve seen, it seems as though there aren’t as many seriously injured people in Japan; a representative from a Doctors Without Borders Assessment Team reports that the need for clean water, food and shelter is more immediate and widespread than medical emergencies.<span style=""> </span>Even so, I’m somewhat bothered by the fact that many photographers seem to have been more interested in property damages than suffering human beings.</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjmalanjiKxUzeM64TyEaRlaAOWyN0xApeATqiPmw3GyHInl_v0GKpTNErQ3nsys4hRYpnTv03cg1mzI4pY4ic7QQjY1f-gvU8Z_FfBLqX8Prkq5b1QuXtIhQg2s52X_GDLlBpSKCSA4/s1600/JapaneseDestruction.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjmalanjiKxUzeM64TyEaRlaAOWyN0xApeATqiPmw3GyHInl_v0GKpTNErQ3nsys4hRYpnTv03cg1mzI4pY4ic7QQjY1f-gvU8Z_FfBLqX8Prkq5b1QuXtIhQg2s52X_GDLlBpSKCSA4/s400/JapaneseDestruction.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585236037896902930" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But I don’t want to judge anyone too harshly – none of us truly know how to respond when something of this magnitude occurs.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And that’s something that’s been on my mind a lot in the last week – my own response to natural disasters, tragedies of epic proportions, raw human suffering and need.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So many people – my friends, my co-workers, people on Facebook and Twitter – have been discussing the tragedy.<span style=""> </span>I’ve seen many status updates either directly or indirectly related to the quakes.<span style=""> </span>#prayforjapan and similar hashtags have been trending on Twitter.<span style=""> </span>(For those of you who are not Twitter-literate, that basically means that the topic “pray for Japan” has been extremely popular.)<span style=""> </span>I’ve been participating in a discussion with other bloggers about whether or not we will post on the tsunami.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But despite all the media coverage and conversation on the damage from the quakes, the danger from the over-heating nuclear power plant, and the suffering of the Japanese people, I’m not as visibly, demonstrably distraught over the current situation as I was last year about the disaster in Haiti.<span style=""> </span>I think that this is partially because last January, I was on Winter Break when earthquake struck and so I sat at home for several weeks, watching footage of screaming children having an arm or leg amputated without any anesthetic.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNxtax-np0QC0FgMReSb66qcxRjEnZ5iifvMgEHwV4vDK94a4dpEZ6JJEKcSuT08KrE0kURaK2Lwe6toeDYVEgoCv7NWCoh3tmPWC46Bi37vDuK7ibcdk9ILf6SacLQG7S-ah9WC5lNOI/s1600/HaitiAmputee.php"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 397px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNxtax-np0QC0FgMReSb66qcxRjEnZ5iifvMgEHwV4vDK94a4dpEZ6JJEKcSuT08KrE0kURaK2Lwe6toeDYVEgoCv7NWCoh3tmPWC46Bi37vDuK7ibcdk9ILf6SacLQG7S-ah9WC5lNOI/s400/HaitiAmputee.php" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585237136481820338" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I would turn on the news and then spend the next half hour (or more) listening to various reports with tears streaming down my face.<span style=""> </span>In contrast, I haven’t shed more than a solitary tear here or there for the Japanese people.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But before you think I’ve turned into some kind of unfeeling Gila monster over the past year, let me explain.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At some point last January or February, I realized that sitting around my apartment in Maryland and crying didn’t really do anyone any good, least of all the Haitians themselves.<span style=""> </span>I wanted to help, but I’m not a medical professional and couldn’t volunteer to help in that sort of capacity; I can't even stomach having my own blood drawn and have to kick back on a cot until my wooziness subsides. I didn’t really think that I was in much of a position to volunteer to fly down and dig people free of the rubble, either – my arms are approximately as strong and muscular as a well-cooked fettuccine noodle.<span style=""> </span>I really wouldn’t be all that useful in a crisis situation, to be honest.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I desperately wanted to help – the footage of those screaming children was enough to turn anyone’s stomach, not just a soft-hearted former elementary school teacher such as myself.<span style=""> </span>But as an under-paid adjunct professor, I didn’t have much extra cash in my bank account.<span style=""> </span>I donated what I could, but still found myself sitting around and sobbing and asking, <i style="">now what?</i><span style=""> </span>Tears were not the answer, though – that was just wallowing.<span style=""> </span>I realized that if I was so moved by the suffering I was seeing, I needed to find an active way to help.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Essentially, I made a decision about the kind of person that I wanted to be. <span style=""> </span>I didn’t want to sit around wringing my hands, limited by my own tiny bank account.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t want to donate $50 and be done with the situation, either – I couldn’t simply forget the children who were suffering in Haiti, and even if I <i style="">could</i> have put them from my mind, I didn’t <i style="">want</i> to forget them.<span style=""> </span>I realized, though, that constantly thinking about them wasn’t healthy.<span style=""> </span>I needed to find a healthy emotional response and a way to help.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I racked my brain for things I could contribute.<span style=""> </span>People were donating clothes, but I wasn’t satisfied with the idea of rounding up a few sweatshirts to send off.<span style=""> </span>Representatives of relief organizations were getting on TV and telling people that money was the best thing to donate, anyway, because then these organizations could purchase exactly what was most needed – water, food and medical supplies.<span style=""> </span>My bank account was currently drained down to its minimum required balance and I wouldn’t be receiving another paycheck until Winter Break was over, so I became convinced that I needed to FIND more money somewhere else.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then I came up with the idea of selling my hand-made jewelry.<span style=""> </span>I had more than I could possibly wear, plus extra supplies from teaching jewelry classes and leftovers from my own projects.<span style=""> </span>I went out and purchased some extra jewelry wire, then got to work making duplicates and triplicates of my own necklaces.<span style=""> </span>I opened an <a href="http://www.etsy.com/">Etsy</a> store, linked it to my Facebook account, and basically spammed all my friends to buy my jewelry with the promise that I would donate all the proceeds to the Red Cross, Unicef and Doctors Without Borders relief efforts in Haiti.<span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL90gtm2-IKBRY4SQi1KiTqdAyMsVdPwkoasMbOxX7MOGZooErtqJ3KsmGsQV1I0WO1YF1Eka_b-_-Ti8G2luxRA-A4XkTSNqtOUmlCNsQ-W1r6JPrLMQuUwfl8RjZTFZFx__MfOgh7hg/s1600/IMG_1955-1.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 370px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL90gtm2-IKBRY4SQi1KiTqdAyMsVdPwkoasMbOxX7MOGZooErtqJ3KsmGsQV1I0WO1YF1Eka_b-_-Ti8G2luxRA-A4XkTSNqtOUmlCNsQ-W1r6JPrLMQuUwfl8RjZTFZFx__MfOgh7hg/s400/IMG_1955-1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585240439157124578" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">By the time I had to close up shop in May (in order to pack things for our move to New York), I had raised and donated a few hundred more dollars.<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t that much money in the grand scheme of things, but that cash bought some blankets, medical supplies and tent shelters for the Haitians.<span style=""> </span>And I was crying a lot less.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And this is the kind of person that I want to be – not unmoved, but <i style="">moving</i>.<span style=""> </span>When we see suffering, we should be moved by it – but sometimes we are so upset that we become paralyzed.<span style=""> </span>At least, that has been <i style="">my</i> tendency in the past.<span style=""> </span>But someone who is paralyzed by disaster is powerless to help alleviate suffering.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I don’t want to be useless in a crisis, unable to help.<span style=""> </span>I don’t want to be limited by my own emotions; I want to overcome my human frailty in order to act on my human empathy.<span style=""> </span>As stated in the beautiful Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi: “Where there is despair, [let me sow] hope.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/IFkjdFgqOY4" allowfullscreen="" width="450" frameborder="0" height="340"></iframe></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I don’t mean this to be a religious appeal or any kind of guilt trip – I just simply want to declare my own desire to be a stronger, more selfless person.<span style=""> </span>I’m not really sure if I’ve reached that goal, or if it’s a goal that you can even <i style="">reach</i> fully.<span style=""> </span>It seems likely to me that the average person could always find more ways to give of herself.<span style=""> </span>But this isn’t all about donating time or money to me, but also about being <i style="">strong</i>.<span style=""> </span>Strong enough to face heartache and disaster and keep going, so that instead of indulging my own grief, even in the most warranted moments, I might wipe away other people’s tears.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes, more than anything, it is that strength that I long for.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But the suffering people on my mind right now are half a world away in Japan, and so instead of wiping away tears, I am going to check my bank account balance and see if I can't find ten or twenty more dollars to donate.<span style=""> </span>And then I’m going to go on a walk with my husband and clear my head, because it never does anyone any good when I sit around at home too much.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-4989104340143856742011-03-15T20:29:00.010-04:002011-03-15T20:52:37.647-04:00Thirty Seconds<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“What are you doing?”<span style=""> </span>The harsh whisper came across the table, startling me and stirring up a streak of fear that shivered through my stomach.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I had been caught. Caught reading a novel in the middle of class.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCwDgO6cAYM4ZTUD1gppKxvmzHtQpN1aK48m57nnob3A2IbLvpJcBxW45KJ4CW98Ica1lCEK56zwcMyoI14hAVX91XASE1is1YwMwz5Oz08n3mGF7EWPm7exdWPBRcdTvkmvijmyPTqE/s1600/OpenBook.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCwDgO6cAYM4ZTUD1gppKxvmzHtQpN1aK48m57nnob3A2IbLvpJcBxW45KJ4CW98Ica1lCEK56zwcMyoI14hAVX91XASE1is1YwMwz5Oz08n3mGF7EWPm7exdWPBRcdTvkmvijmyPTqE/s320/OpenBook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584469547041708594" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=""></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I hadn't been caught by the teacher, but by the new boy. The cutest boy in class.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At that moment, the latter seemed to be more mortifying.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I shoved the book farther under the table.<span style=""> </span>“Nothing.<span style=""> </span>Reading,” I said defensively.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“No you weren’t,” he said, his tone belligerent.<span style=""> </span>He leaned in toward me, getting dangerously close.<span style=""> </span>I could feel my face turning red as he said, “You couldn’t have been reading.<span style=""> </span>You were turning the pages too fast.”<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I stared at the fringe of thick, dark lashes around his coffee colored eyes.<span style=""> Even though I couldn't look away from his eyes, I somehow noticed </span>his rosy cheeks.<span style=""> </span>His close proximity made me tremble a little: this was an intense moment for a sixth grader.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I gulped.<span style=""> </span>“I <i style="">was</i> <i style="">too</i> reading.”<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“How fast can you read, then?” he demanded, still whispering.<span style=""> </span>So far, the teacher had not noticed our quiet conversation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Oh, crap.<span style=""> </span>Now he was challenging my skill as a reader – one of the few skills that I felt I possessed.<span style=""> </span>I had to defend my honor – but I didn’t have a clue how fast I could read.<span style=""> </span>I just knew that I read fast.<span style=""> </span>And I also knew that I suddenly wanted very badly to impress this cocky, handsome sixth grade heartthrob.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m sure I must have stuttered and blushed.<span style=""> </span>“I don’t know,” I told him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He paused for a minute, tilting his head and studying me.<span style=""> </span>By this time, I must have been redder than Anne Shirley’s carrot-colored hair.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“I’ll time you,” he said.<span style=""> </span>He held up his wrist, displaying his watch.<span style=""> </span>“We’ll see how long it takes you to read a page.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtaLiRyYEj0OvYL3I-Q8L8mxLTzuwQp5jnJMIX5-eGIXWqjvQLGNVLRTA_ldlkPTBeaTGmHPdEhGcBlMb7Dw_Q8ud59Osn4WaqhD5crQhf4R8L0fidyKbsyaJ3xoSoweaO6FGYQn4aEM/s1600/WristWatch.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtaLiRyYEj0OvYL3I-Q8L8mxLTzuwQp5jnJMIX5-eGIXWqjvQLGNVLRTA_ldlkPTBeaTGmHPdEhGcBlMb7Dw_Q8ud59Osn4WaqhD5crQhf4R8L0fidyKbsyaJ3xoSoweaO6FGYQn4aEM/s320/WristWatch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584469684136359106" border="0" /></a><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Now the pressure was on.<span style=""> </span>I was a shy and stuttering sixth-grade geek with no other way of impressing the new boy than to try and dazzle him with my intelligence and speed-reading skills. But perhaps more important than that, I suddenly felt the need to prove to myself that I was good at something.<span style=""> </span> So I nodded, pulled my book back out from under the table, and set my eyes to the top of the page.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Okay,” he whispered, his eyes on the minute hand as it ticked slowly around.<span style=""> </span>“Wait, wait – go.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I skimmed the page quickly, looking up and whispering a triumphant “Done!” when I had gotten to the bottom.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Thirty seconds,” he said, looking at me with new admiration with those coffee-colored eyes.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t stop staring at his thick lashes.<span style=""> </span>“And you remember what you just read?<span style=""> </span>Tell me what was on the page.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I gave him a quick recap of the subject.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t tell him exactly what had happened, but I knew what characters had been talking and what general subjects they had discussed.<span style=""> </span>It was enough to convince him that I had actually absorbed the information on the page in thirty seconds.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Having convinced him, I suddenly felt a new pride in my identity – I might have been a book geek, but at least I was a <i style="">skilled </i>book geek.<span style=""> </span>And even though the cute boy and I didn’t exactly end up being lunch buddies, he actually paid attention to me from time to time – and I didn’t stutter and blush nearly as much when I answered him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m not exactly sure what made me think of that incident today, a little moment from the life of a bookish sixth grader who has clung tenaciously for the sixteen years following to the identity that I established at that moment.<span style=""> </span>First I was a reader, then I blossomed into the writer and communicator that I am today.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At that age, I could never have imagined that I’d be able to talk as much or as loudly as I do at parties, chatting with all kinds of people for hours without stuttering.<span style=""> A regular Little Miss Chatterbox.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzTuPsJlDsKCVzePYrfp-U4LmQnM4ytdfxbz8F9eEHqVsHgnmWUjnTlvzRMpbpbOcgNAQ3L8B1siGrMD_9k8Ws4XTf67pGuyH07MNw873Y_4DCNHcnnKEUgLfg43nAADJ-60PW1BWgtA/s1600/LittleMissChatterbox.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzTuPsJlDsKCVzePYrfp-U4LmQnM4ytdfxbz8F9eEHqVsHgnmWUjnTlvzRMpbpbOcgNAQ3L8B1siGrMD_9k8Ws4XTf67pGuyH07MNw873Y_4DCNHcnnKEUgLfg43nAADJ-60PW1BWgtA/s400/LittleMissChatterbox.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584470156850297202" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=""></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""></span>I could never have pictured myself up in front of a classroom, with enough confidence to not only skillfully teach, but even <i style="">entertain</i> my eighteen and nineteen-year-old students.<span style=""> </span>But maybe it was this very moment – where I was pushed to declare myself, to defend my ability and so define myself through that ability – that made the rest of my career possible.<span style=""> </span>I had always loved reading, but I remember this moment so clearly because it was the first time that I had been challenged to prove that my skills were impressive and important.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So maybe it is thanks to the boy with the thick, dark lashes and a gaze with the intensity of a laser gun that I became confident, sure of who I was and who I wanted to be.<span style=""> </span>I was <i style="">proud</i> of myself, perhaps even for the first time.<span style=""> </span>In those thirty seconds, I learned some extremely important things.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I am a reader, a critic, a writer, a communicator.<span style=""> </span>I am <i style="">good</i> at those things, and those things are valuable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And from that day forward, I have never stopped defining myself that way.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-6250134754606410812011-03-12T02:56:00.019-05:002011-03-13T05:10:56.611-04:00The First Opportunity<div style="text-align: justify;">As I <a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/03/it-starts-at-home.html">posted on Thursday</a>,<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> I want to look for more opportunities to challenge myself to be a better person.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t sure if I wanted to take the<a href="http://40days.bloodwatermission.com/"> 40 Days of Water Challenge</a>, giving up all beverages except water for 40 days and donating the money that I would be spending on coffee, tea and pop (soda, for my East Coast neighbors).<span style=""> </span>My challenge to myself doesn't even have to involve sacrificing something; it could involve other types of fundraising efforts, or include volunteering to serve in other ways. But in the wake of <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20110313/ap_on_bi_ge/as_japan_earthquake">the massive earthquake and tsunami in Japan</a>, I’ve found something that I could (even should) challenge myself to give up for a good cause: <span style="font-style: italic;">book buying</span>. </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpzVcYGyHvWX3Z5_r9FGWyLmieTyE9UzataAefUD2NQdGK5lIN2pSpZxxVxgsw_aW5nAtABoGkTSSF0QIdEejSg-zkTHcI-a-Y0_QiXK3Rhs9XMZ6bZ3VT3VRWVsPPHn5E5rBkyR4huo/s1600/BookStack.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpzVcYGyHvWX3Z5_r9FGWyLmieTyE9UzataAefUD2NQdGK5lIN2pSpZxxVxgsw_aW5nAtABoGkTSSF0QIdEejSg-zkTHcI-a-Y0_QiXK3Rhs9XMZ6bZ3VT3VRWVsPPHn5E5rBkyR4huo/s320/BookStack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583109785062349042" border="0" /></a>Now there’s a real indulgence: my book buying addiction.<span style=""> </span>I call myself a book store junkie, an Amazon whore.<span style=""> </span>I can never resist browsing the latest books when I visit the mall and I spend many nights of insomnia trolling the premier online bookseller for deals and new reads.<span style=""> </span>My only Black Friday tradition is to surf through literally <i style="">hundreds</i> of pages of discounted books and DVDs, getting most of my Christmas shopping out of the way and always picking up at least fifty dollars of stuff from my own wishlist.<span style=""> </span>I don’t even want to admit to you (or my husband) exactly how much of my paycheck each month goes to pay my Amazon bill… and I love my Amazon credit card, which lets me earn triple the points for each dollar spent on their website, all of which tally up and let me earn AMAZON GIFT CARDS.<span style=""> </span>My husband struggled at first to understand why I didn’t just want cash back – but oh, the lure of more books, free books.</p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzuhUfVEab-gscZTqPYDhlghiE89QpWvpssPySCJ5Vp7ETc7QT-GPOna8d-bOPDgOaumSd5TZWCuOQZYUDpQSnz8oWC-TDHmiZ-Q4xbkZDJamRKOD3NWRdPVM-CYuBguJSPlMAXTY5HM/s1600/Amazon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzuhUfVEab-gscZTqPYDhlghiE89QpWvpssPySCJ5Vp7ETc7QT-GPOna8d-bOPDgOaumSd5TZWCuOQZYUDpQSnz8oWC-TDHmiZ-Q4xbkZDJamRKOD3NWRdPVM-CYuBguJSPlMAXTY5HM/s320/Amazon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583109918733882354" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But this isn’t meant to be a public service announcement for Amazon.<span style=""> </span>Or maybe it is, sort of.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In times of disaster, Amazon has dedicated homepage placement and donated use of their payments technology to the American Red Cross. Amazon.com customers have contributed more than $35 million to global relief programs since 2001.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b>2001</b>: $6.9 million contributed for 9/11 relief in the U.S.<br /><b>2004</b>: $15.7 million contributed for tsunami relief in South and Southeast Asia<br /><b>2005</b>: $12.4 million contributed for Hurricane Katrina relief<br /><b>2008</b>: $180,000 contributed for Cyclone Nargis relief in Myanmar and earthquake relief in China<br /><b>2010</b>: $750,000 contributed for earthquake relief in Haiti</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />$6.9 million for 9/11 relief is amazing. $15.7 and $12.4 million even more so. But why only $180,000 and $750,000 for Myanmar, China and Haiti? Can't book lovers do better than that?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My thought was, <i style="">how much money do I spend on books each month... each week? Can't I match myself and/or give up a week or two of book buying to help ease the suffering,and devastation in </i><i style="">Japan</i><i style="">? </i>I indulge my book buying impulse so often these days, after all.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiynaT0Rx3uStG1Mt-qM-xcjEUdPhb6Sa54zlxcwASgp7NRCVHGkKljvYRm4-VD3Zwcc8EfoO4Wkd6GhOg7DBwMs2vL_eD0RUbU42TfqTK5feDQngpNR6VO4mdiJEgegs7mZW-aOYVlYeA/s1600/IMM.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 195px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiynaT0Rx3uStG1Mt-qM-xcjEUdPhb6Sa54zlxcwASgp7NRCVHGkKljvYRm4-VD3Zwcc8EfoO4Wkd6GhOg7DBwMs2vL_eD0RUbU42TfqTK5feDQngpNR6VO4mdiJEgegs7mZW-aOYVlYeA/s320/IMM.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583113874445899826" border="0" /></a>For example, on <a href="http://wonderlauren-reads.blogspot.com/">my book blog</a>, I participate weekly in a meme called “In My Mailbox.”<span style=""> </span>This is an opportunity for book bloggers show off books that they have purchased or received that week (not necessarily in the mail literally), <i style="">before</i> they actually read and review them. We post our purchases, then read about everyone else's new books.<span style=""> </span>The point is that book lovers get to share their excitement over new acquisitions with each other. We’re all book geeks of one kind or another, and our enthusiasm needs an outlet, an audience that understands our bookish glee over new paperbacks and hardbacks, those beautiful covers and unread pages…<span style=""> </span>It also ends up being extra promotion for the specific titles and authors, so everyone wins.<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Many people who are regular participants of In My Mailbox acquire between <span style="font-style: italic;">four and twelve novels </span><i style="">each week</i>, and ever since I got a full-time job, I too have been indulging myself a fair bit.<span style=""> </span>I no longer feel guilty dropping money on a few books each week when I find them discounted on Amazon, or when I want to grab a couple specific titles so that I can join a new online reading challenge. I've definitely been spoiling myself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So when I saw the Amazon banner inviting donations to the Red Cross Japan Earthquake/Pacific Tsunami Fund, I realized that instead of giving up beverages, I should start by giving up books.<span style=""> </span>At this point, though, my TBR (“To Be Read,” terminology of the book-addicted world) stack is so high that I won’t be lacking anything to read, anyway.<span style=""> </span>It’s not a sacrifice of my intellectual life or my reading enjoyment so much as a sacrifice relating to my <i style="">shopping impulses</i>. Some of you will understand when I say that it's an emotional sacrifice.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Most of my readers probably aren’t book bloggers, but I challenge you to think of something that you spend $10–30 a week.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s a Starbucks addiction, a tendency to overspend at Target (I do that, too) or even just a comparison to your monthly Netflix bill.<span style=""> </span>You spend $10 or $15 dollars a month to get DVDs through the mail and access instant viewing.<span style=""> </span>Can’t you spare just as much for people who have just lost their homes?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I challenge you to give what you can. Even text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10. Most of us can probably spare the cost of a single new book or a month of Netflix.<span style=""> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And I am issuing a special challenge to book bloggers this week: those of us who have jobs (even low-paying jobs at libraries, non-profits, elementary schools, etc.) should think about this: if we have money to splurge (as we so often do) on books, can't we give up our indulgences every once in a while to help when a need like this arises?<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I'm going to go examine my Amazon credit card bill, determine what I spent on books within the past few weeks, and match the amount, donating to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/b/ref=amb_link_355543322_2?ie=UTF8&node=2673660011&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=right-csm-1&pf_rd_r=16MM1Q61Q0T9DKMTTY9M&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1290944142&pf_rd_i=507846">the Red Cross Fund for the victims of the Japan Earthquake and Pacific Tsunami through Amazon</a>. This is my first opportunity since challenging myself to do something concrete, even if this first step probably won't change my personal character that much.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_y0OK_tTTPEuO6luARRhlBPpZwLzx5rWKeZrCx8I9CGbrfxI1eoLHu0JN3-OobY9BsoP_SiTEA46vrrM2gZwlM4Yb4LH0gHqjecDRta2GUk_4wiJPtIK92zlxEtntpUqX1umGC0NDMGc/s1600/RedCross.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_y0OK_tTTPEuO6luARRhlBPpZwLzx5rWKeZrCx8I9CGbrfxI1eoLHu0JN3-OobY9BsoP_SiTEA46vrrM2gZwlM4Yb4LH0gHqjecDRta2GUk_4wiJPtIK92zlxEtntpUqX1umGC0NDMGc/s320/RedCross.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583111025839056210" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m not posting this because I want a pat on the back – I’m posting this because I want you to join me.<span style=""> </span>Find something that you can give up for a week or two, then donate.<span style=""> </span>And then come back and leave a comment here for me, letting me know what you’ve chosen to give up – I think it would be really cool to hear about other ideas of what people decide to do.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-11072814114431189022011-03-10T02:17:00.008-05:002011-03-10T02:32:56.669-05:00It Starts at Home<i style="">“Everything thinks about changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”</i><span style=""> </span>– Leo Tolstoy <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In order to spark some ideas and strategize for my new role as a PR/Communications Associate at a non-profit organization, I’m reading an awesome book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Networked-Nonprofit-Connecting-Social-Change/dp/0470547979/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1299737890&sr=8-1">The Networked Non-Profit: Connecting with Social Media to Drive Change</a>, by <a href="http://www.bethkanter.org/">Beth Kanter</a> and Allison H. Fine.<span style=""> </span>Yesterday, on the train ride home from a class on Grant Proposal Writing, I came across Tolstoy’s quote in Kanter and Fine’s book.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I realized that while I used to closely connect my concept of “who I am” with the lofty aspirations that I had to change the world, that my identity became less and less dependent on my role as a social servant.<span style=""> </span>After moving around a few times, experiencing a crisis of personal religious thought and the East Coast cold shoulder, and slaving away in isolation as a graduate student, I became more of a pragmatist, a realist – yes, you could even say a bit of a jaded cynic.<span style=""> </span>(Although I work for a non-profit now, so the idealist must still be in there somewhere, and clawing her way to the surface again.)<span style=""> </span>I had been a resident of <a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/01/once-upon-time-in-not-so-far-off-land.html">the Land Called Youthful Ignorance</a>, but I packed my bags and moved to <a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/01/little-comedy-even-in-land-of-terrified.html">the Land of Terrified Disenchantment</a>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Thinking about Tolstoy’s words, I felt inspired to come up with ways that I could change <i style="">myself</i> before/while I take on the huge task of trying to promote and shift a movement of social change.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been generating a lot of exciting ideas for projects that my non-profit organization could make a difference in the Bronx, one of its core service areas.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been excited about how we could use Facebook, bloggers, and possibly even tweets to spread awareness, raise money, collect donations of books and clothes, find volunteers and supporters.<span style=""> </span>But if I’m honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve really given much thought to changing the person that I am, at least in that capacity.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXipYUlkWiCnKDaxIF2kkpOPP1BiE_ALn8BT2czRLt0xaNlPxi7ra6xilFhoFU0NvlmJUDTcSmR76s41DTYoRHmq31801m8xubKChKG-H9m4vYoZRj8fH8hESodJk6sUD6-ifGhqpwiU/s1600/Iron.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXipYUlkWiCnKDaxIF2kkpOPP1BiE_ALn8BT2czRLt0xaNlPxi7ra6xilFhoFU0NvlmJUDTcSmR76s41DTYoRHmq31801m8xubKChKG-H9m4vYoZRj8fH8hESodJk6sUD6-ifGhqpwiU/s320/Iron.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582348078504475762" border="0" /></a>I think a lot about my selfishness in the context of my relationship with my husband.<span style=""> </span>I think one of the perfect ways to sum up my experience of marriage is the Bible verse Proverbs 27:17 that says, <i style="">“As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”</i><span style=""> </span>My husband certainly spoils me in many ways, but beginning even before we got married, my relationship with him has forced me to confront and change many aspects of my selfishness.<span style=""> </span>Whereas my parents and grandparents spoiled me in almost every way imaginable, taking care of their little princess, my husband expects his wife to be his partner – and rightly so.<span style=""> </span>And I’m honestly grateful for the way that our conflicts and struggles have sharpened me, whittled me down little by little.<span style=""> </span>I want to be a mature, responsible, capable woman.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But while marriage has perhaps been the experience that has “sharpened” me the most, there are other valuable relationships and situations that challenge and sharpen a person – many of which have slipped out of my life since we moved away from our friends and families in Michigan almost six years ago.<span style=""> </span>While I used to be a dedicated member of a church community, deliberately allowing myself to be checked and challenged by several close Christian friends, I no longer have people in my day-to-day life that notice and speak up when something about my behavior is less than admirable.<span style=""> </span>It’s almost a bit of a shock when I get into a deep conversation with one of my old friends and they point out that I’m being kind of a jerk about something.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I think I’ve slipped a little ways down the rabbit hole and gotten away from Tolstoy’s intended meaning – or have I?<span style=""> </span>There are a hundred different ways – a thousand – that we could each resolve to change our behavior, our demeanor, our hearts.<span style=""> </span>Wouldn’t each of those decisions make the world a little bit better?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But here’s the kicker.<span style=""> </span>I came home to find this email in my inbox: <i style="">“40 Days of Water Begins Today!<span style=""> </span>Sign Up Now!”</i><span style=""> </span><a href="http://40days.bloodwatermission.com/">40 Days of Water</a> is a fundraiser for the awesome charity <a href="http://www.bloodwatermission.com/">Blood Water Mission</a>, which "empowers communities to work together against the HIV/AIDS and water crises in Africa."<span style=""> </span>The concept of the 40 Days Fundraiser is this:<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.6in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><i style="">It’s a big commitment to not drink anything but water for Forty days. But from March 9 to April 23, that’s exactly what we’re asking you to do. By giving up what you'd normally drink in exchange for the water from your tap, you can save that money and donate it to help build clean water projects for communities in </i><i style="">Uganda</i><i style="">. Imagine it this way, <strong>because $1 can provide a year of water for 1 person in Africa, with each drink you give up each day, you'll be providing years of water for someone else.</strong></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.6in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><br /><i style=""><strong></strong></i></p><i style=""> </i><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.6in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><i style=""><i style=""> </i></i></p><i style=""> </i><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.6in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><i style=""><i style="">We hope that through this experience you’ll be reminded daily of the privilege of having safe water at your everyday disposal, and that you gain a sense of solidarity with your neighbors in </i><i style="">Africa</i><i style="">. We also expect that your heart will be filled with hope that something can be done about the water crisis – and that you’re a part of actually doing it.<strong></strong></i></i></p><i style=""> </i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style=""><br /></i></p><i style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJ62Eulf5ArmbXvZW0fnMIMvY8In41z6nlb__EAGGImurcXUaI12-96GkdBKYoWIryNtKjHkqybS08I8jpRe072psJVDZqhUzDHesJD_GScbLWHwp8fghoydPFqJ-KQM3PHWnn36DzUA/s1600/40Days.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 425px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJ62Eulf5ArmbXvZW0fnMIMvY8In41z6nlb__EAGGImurcXUaI12-96GkdBKYoWIryNtKjHkqybS08I8jpRe072psJVDZqhUzDHesJD_GScbLWHwp8fghoydPFqJ-KQM3PHWnn36DzUA/s400/40Days.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582349282083070914" border="0" /></a><br /></i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">An awesome idea, right?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Except I hate the taste of water.<span style=""> </span>Except I have a stomach condition and I often drink peppermint or chamomile tea to aid my digestion.<span style=""> </span>Except I love cream soda.<span style=""> </span>Except with my new job, I need the caffeine in my diet Coke to get through the day, especially when my insomnia has kept me up the night before and I’m running on four hours of sleep, trying to produce copy that sounds eloquent for a grant proposal or a newsletter.<span style=""> </span>Except I hate the taste of water.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My first round of thoughts:<i style=""> <i style="">Can’t I just donate a chunk of money?<span style=""> </span>Even a dollar would provide a water supply for someone else for a full year.</i></i></p><i style=""> </i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And then I respond to myself: <i style=""><i style="">Lauren, you’re such a selfish jerk.<span style=""> </span>You want to change the world?<span style=""> </span>Or even just yourself?<span style=""> </span>But you can’t even give up drinking diet Coke and tea for forty days.</i><br /></i></p><i style=""> </i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Maybe my stomach condition is a legitimate excuse, maybe not – that’s not so much what I want to debate.<span style=""> </span>I want to think about the kind of person that I really am and challenge myself to find small ways that I can make a difference.<span style=""> </span>I want to think about changing myself before I go on a mission to change the world, or even the Bronx.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m going to search out some different events like 40 Days and sign up to participate in some of them, as well as consider if there are any other ways that I can challenge myself to “sharpen” my character.<span style=""> </span>Change starts at home – in your heart, if I’m allowed to be hokey for a minute here.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">What are some ways that you challenge yourself?</p><i style=""> </i>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-13741129496797743282011-03-08T05:21:00.010-05:002011-03-08T05:45:46.998-05:00Workaholic<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I think I can officially be considered a “workaholic” of sorts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Job #1: Grantwriter</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">While I’ve been a fairly polished, organized and artful writer for a long time, grantwriting is a whole new skill and art form to learn.<span style=""> </span>Basically, you’re asking someone to give you a huge wad of cash (the first grant that I’ve been assigned to work on is an ask for $50,000).<span style=""> </span>This means that you need the style and aplomb to convince the grantmaker that the people served by your organization have a particularly compelling need; moreover, that your organization is capable of meeting that need once given the necessary funds.<span style=""> </span>In order to be convincing, you need to write a proposal that is a winning combination of frightening statistics (for example, 40% of residents of the Bronx live in poverty), compelling personal stories, and your organization’s record of success managing funds and meeting the community’s needs.<span style=""> </span>There is a narrative, and then there are forms.<span style=""> </span>Lots and lots of forms.<span style=""> </span>For the past month, I’ve been busy learning how to put all these things together… and I still have a lot to learn.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:14pt;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlwm8DnwVUs1fNNccHRwGXAOZRXeB33SwCC2i3c2C23-ANyGoaV_M-5UKfXKRfsHbuIpD6CySYTotrrh71ApsxhvdyGIrO5Z8HRiwrCC3gK_yUHb5ycYneFp79xSDmFAddqhR3PKZqWo/s1600/Forms.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZlwm8DnwVUs1fNNccHRwGXAOZRXeB33SwCC2i3c2C23-ANyGoaV_M-5UKfXKRfsHbuIpD6CySYTotrrh71ApsxhvdyGIrO5Z8HRiwrCC3gK_yUHb5ycYneFp79xSDmFAddqhR3PKZqWo/s320/Forms.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581654673847754914" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">If I’m honest, though, I <i style="">actually like it</i>.<span style=""> </span>A friend of mine called to catch up the other day, and when I told him that I was learning the fine art of grant writing, he apologized profusely.<span style=""> </span>“No, no,” I assured him.<span style=""> </span>“I know this makes me an even bigger geek – but I like doing the research.<span style=""> </span>I’m learning a lot about poverty, parenting, the foster care system, autism, etc.<span style=""> </span>And I love writing the narrative.<span style=""> </span>Of course, budgeting has never been my strong suit…” </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Job #2: Communications and Public Relations Associate</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This job title could mean a lot of things – one of my pet peeves while I was job hunting was the ride range of companies that slapped the title “associate” on any and every listing.<span style=""> </span>From what I can tell, it’s the easiest way to say “you’re not a manager, but you’re still going to be asked to manage a lot.”<span style=""> </span>I’ve seen it applied to secretarial positions, sales clerk positions, copy writing positions, glorified babysitting positions…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigzq0H2CTKI2TS5fPqnBjakV0l5he1lkXPmSooQiAT02GzVipqelMZxykI7a4FoQvNq0fVTj1PYPv8BKcnCUmT1s4vF8iprTDxYI0yODhdlZXAe_ST-Oa1_pZaDmeXNkWA-UyJEurZCrs/s1600/LoisLane.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigzq0H2CTKI2TS5fPqnBjakV0l5he1lkXPmSooQiAT02GzVipqelMZxykI7a4FoQvNq0fVTj1PYPv8BKcnCUmT1s4vF8iprTDxYI0yODhdlZXAe_ST-Oa1_pZaDmeXNkWA-UyJEurZCrs/s320/LoisLane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581655407378924722" border="0" /></a>Fortunately, what this translates to in terms of my own job is a list of tasks and responsibilities that I genuinely enjoy.<span style=""> </span>I <a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/02/little-bit-like-lois-lane.html">get to play Lois Lane</a>: I write for our organization’s website, email newsletter, and hard copy publications.<span style=""> </span>I also get to manage our Facebook page, monitor the web for instances that we appear in the news, and eventually develop some other strategies for spreading awareness about what we do.<span style=""> </span>I’m learning more about the concept of branding (how you make a name for your company or organization, then present a compelling story) and networking.<span style=""> </span>It’s actually quite fascinating… I’ve even been reading little bits and pieces on branding and social networking some evenings after work.<span style=""> </span>(See?<span style=""> </span>Workaholic.)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">“Jobs” #3 and #4: Personal Blogger (on A Little Bit of Wonder) and Book Blogger/Reviewer (on <a href="http://wonderlauren-reads.blogspot.com/">Little Wonder’s Recommended Reading</a>)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Okay, so these aren’t paid positions.<span style=""> </span>I shouldn’t call them jobs – especially if they’re hobbies, meant for my own enjoyment.<span style=""> </span>I shouldn’t feel obligated to blog, right?<span style=""> </span>Except I have a <i style="">do do do</i> mentality.<span style=""> </span>I’m always working on a project, always designing something, making something, reading something, writing something.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcGQ9TpSl_ZtY6_Q_nZGEr1TGUPHGfUeUwz3XIqeE4gWCTy47azXy6_2HR3M1xRb5ktait8wRf7S07qeoxjoWKjdwIk_MZ5x7XYOZPCmnaiBcUAumrtQGaTcDUHQNVz-IG9LkLHm9ky0/s1600/BookStack.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcGQ9TpSl_ZtY6_Q_nZGEr1TGUPHGfUeUwz3XIqeE4gWCTy47azXy6_2HR3M1xRb5ktait8wRf7S07qeoxjoWKjdwIk_MZ5x7XYOZPCmnaiBcUAumrtQGaTcDUHQNVz-IG9LkLHm9ky0/s320/BookStack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581656365079792834" border="0" /></a>In my world, even the (hundreds and hundreds) of books that I want to read become items on a checklist, and I have to be careful not to get too bogged down with my <i style="">read more read more</i> mentality, or I stop enjoying myself.<span style=""> </span>I think this is partially a product of my stretch in graduate school, but it’s also just who I am.<span style=""> </span>I have always been eager to <i style="">read more read more</i> – the term “voracious reader” is particularly apt.<span style=""> </span>It’s like an insatiable hunger.<span style=""> </span>And I have always churned out pages and pages and pages of writing.<span style=""> </span>Back at my parents’ house, I have whole shelves full of journals, from back before I started typing my entries and blogging.<span style=""> </span>There have always been projects that have kept me up until 3 AM – websites or artwork of some kind.<span style=""> </span>I just can’t keep still, can’t shut my brain down. I'm kind of an intense person.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The blogging, then, is great for several reasons; overall, writing focuses my energies productively. My book blog forces me to really think about what I read, keeps my literary analytical skills sharp despite the fact that I’m no longer taking or teaching literature classes, helps me keep track of all my thoughts, and keeps me connected to a literary community.<span style=""> </span>Journaling on A Little Bit of Wonder helps me to think through my life and therefore live more deliberately, and also serves as a sounding board and first draft for things I would like to include in the memoir/novel that I would like to put together one day.<span style=""> </span>All very important things, all things that help me meet my personal goals of being a dedicated reader, disciplined writer and – someday – a published author.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">So what’s the problem?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The problem is, I go to work and I write.<span style=""> </span>On my lunch hour, I read and/or write.<span style=""> </span>I drive home, kiss my husband hello, grab some dinner, and sit down at my laptop to write.<span style=""> </span>On the weekends, I throw in a load of laundry, go pick up some more diet Coke from the grocery store, read 1-2 novels, and write.<span style=""> </span>There isn’t time for a lot of variety in my life these days, now that I work 40 hours a week and still try to blog in my spare time (at least six entries a week, between the two blogs).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6_F6sDgiKO7NKuWL9K7LDNs9-PGsZ_FheUVyptKZH89gE8w0cn5hnHX3vwB2yUvhzpXFiIMawUKBCRh48WM-KPCfhS_84rJ-OQHf-p6oFpCYaNEYyYeXd4UG73qQ7lgtJRnfC009lOw/s1600/Typing.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6_F6sDgiKO7NKuWL9K7LDNs9-PGsZ_FheUVyptKZH89gE8w0cn5hnHX3vwB2yUvhzpXFiIMawUKBCRh48WM-KPCfhS_84rJ-OQHf-p6oFpCYaNEYyYeXd4UG73qQ7lgtJRnfC009lOw/s320/Typing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581657063750530898" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m a little bit concerned that as long as my blogging and writing are a priority, I won’t be able to develop much of a life that exists outside of all my “jobs.”<span style=""> </span>Thank God for my husband, who is a much more individual than I am.<span style=""> </span>He gets me out of the house most weekends – this weekend, we managed to go out to Greenwich Point again on Saturday and take a seven mile walk in our neighborhood on Sunday.<span style=""> </span>But I worry that I’m neglecting him for most of the week.<span style=""> </span>And I don’t know when I would have time to socialize, even if I did feel like making friends in Nyack (which I’m still not quite ready to do… not quite yet).<span style=""> </span>I think at some point, something is going to have to give – especially when we want to have kids (in three or four years, perhaps).<span style=""> </span>But even before then, will I really be able to maintain such a rigorous writing life?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Yet all of these things have become really important to the way that I now define myself as a person and maintain my goals.<span style=""> </span>I don’t really know if I can keep up the pace, but I’m going to be disappointed if I can’t… and I feel that by giving up some of my blogging, I would be greatly diminishing the likelihood that I will actually ever produce a novel or a memoir – I can’t simply rely on my grantwriting to keep my creative narrative skills sharp.<span style=""> </span>So, I’ve got to find a way of balancing all the writing with more exercise, socializing, etc… and once in a while, I’ve got to find a way to take care of other random but important responsibilities.<span style=""> </span>I’ve got to find time, for example, to take down my Christmas tree one of these days.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-18005624269398831802011-03-06T19:14:00.006-05:002011-03-06T19:23:43.067-05:00The Penguin Plunge<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When my husband and I lived in the Washington D.C. metro area, we were in graduate school and needed to find an apartment with relatively low rent.<span style=""> </span>We ended up grabbing a deal on a one bedroom, one bath with a den – plenty of closet space and the all-important extra room for my book collection, carefully shelved behind glass doors.<span style=""> </span>Our rent was around $1000, which is cheap for the D.C. area, but the appliances all worked and everything was clean, so we didn’t ask too many questions.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It turns out we had moved into a somewhat notorious apartment complex – famous for the arsons that were taking place a few blocks over from us and the car thefts that were pretty run-of-the-mill.<span style=""> </span>We personally experienced the car theft, in fact – twice before we moved out.<span style=""> </span>(Those are actually pretty funny stories, despite the fact that the incurred repairs cost us a lot of unexpected cash… you’ll never meet a dumber set of car jackers than the teenagers who took our Plymouth for a joy ride.<span style=""> </span>Except perhaps the thief who tried to steal our vehicle when it had a dead battery, then ended up leaving us his own car key on the seat.<span style=""> </span>Too bad we didn’t know where <i style="">he</i> was parked.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Let’s just say that being a little blond white girl, I didn’t really feel all that comfortable going for a walk by myself when we lived in the suburbs of D.C.<span style=""> </span>Of course, I could drive over to the park in historic Greenbelt and sit reading at one of the picnic benches without fear of being harassed.<span style=""> </span>But there were times when I tried to walk in my own neighborhood and a truck full of greasy, shifty-eyed men followed me, which understandably made me quite nervous.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So when we moved to Nyack eight months ago, I suddenly felt FREE.<span style=""> </span>In this little river town with a cobblestone library and row after row of Victorian houses, I can wander through the neighborhoods without my husband acting as a chaperone.<span style=""> </span>I can walk to the post office, the Starbucks and any number of mom-and-pop restaurants, coffee houses and gift shops.<span style=""> </span>There are even a few art galleries and several antique stores.<span style=""> </span>I feel a little bit guilty and un-politically correct for saying it, but I’m back in the tax bracket where I feel most comfortable and safe.<span style=""> </span>It immediately felt like <i style="">home</i>, the very first time that we drove through Nyack – its quaint little shops remind us of Ann Arbor and Birmingham, which are two of my favorite places to hang out near my parents’ home in Michigan.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qkB-_yVt_F3irkaiRKOkkPjBTCpxT8DhZFLSdMtjuv1bqvqbJSKz6-KTyWy_m54IX1j_Cz861RWc-XYhRpYM0zY0bopF_Y0iYsZDdweYuOVjvaZSOcUqR-tyE8hN214lD8aido2IqRE/s1600/NyackShops1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9qkB-_yVt_F3irkaiRKOkkPjBTCpxT8DhZFLSdMtjuv1bqvqbJSKz6-KTyWy_m54IX1j_Cz861RWc-XYhRpYM0zY0bopF_Y0iYsZDdweYuOVjvaZSOcUqR-tyE8hN214lD8aido2IqRE/s400/NyackShops1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581126257343790498" border="0" /></a></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Beyond just the picturesque and charming setting, though, Nyack makes me happy because it is the kind of <i style="">community</i> that makes me comfortable – and even glow with pleasure.<span style=""> </span>You can tell that they have the kind of neighborly attitude that we missed when we left the Midwest – in fact, they’re a little <i style="">more</i> neighborly than the residents of suburban Detroit.<span style=""> </span>Nyack seems like Avonlea – like I could walk down the road and find Green Gables or the White Sands Hotel.<span style=""> </span>All throughout the summer, the merchants put on street fairs featuring dozens of out-of-town art vendors.<span style=""> </span>There’s a weekly Farmer’s Market that they set up in the parking lot of the bank.<span style=""> </span>My husband and I haven’t become a part of the community yet – we’ve been too busy getting settled with our jobs to go out and meet people – but I love to watch as the residents put on events, invite people in to their beloved little river town, and take care of those who are a part of their community.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">For example, we’ve stumbled across a couple of events in town designed to raise money for cancer survivors and local children with hefty medical bills.<span style=""> </span>It was last fall when we first saw the community coming together like this – we were out for a walk in the evening and saw a procession of tiny flickering lights that began at the riverside playground and wound up the hill toward town.<span style=""> </span>We asked what the rally and parade were for and learned that the event was in support of local residents battling cancer, survivors and their families.<span style=""> </span>The candles were in memorial of those who had lost their fight against the disease, and you could purchase your own to help raise money for those who are still fighting.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then today, we were out on a walk in the unseasonably warm March weather, when we came across dozens of people emerging from the park wearing beach towels.<span style=""> </span>Yes, beach towels.<span style=""> </span>I did a double-take, then insisted that my husband and I make a detour to explore what was going on.<span style=""> </span>Down by the Hudson River, we found residents of our new home town decked out in everything from Speedos and bikinis to full scuba gear (no joke).<span style=""> </span>There was a bandstand set up and several tents with refreshments – and everyone was standing around drip, drip, dripping.<span style=""> </span>It turns out that this was <a href="http://sites.google.com/site/penguinplungeny/">the local Penguin Plunge</a>, a dip in the river organized to raise money for two local children with serious medical conditions and not enough money to pay the bills.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGyztQ3PtPsnV_9HTmgp4L9VJwa_p-1XFdv6CmW5bQZJISCTtO2ezlXovedAQzBdpMFRMybK8yG8JiCn4xqXIv3P9prA4C0TT4SBtFGb0X80htnyG61PgzYIcTuK20hyphenhyphenO-kGAKJE9Skc/s1600/PenguinPlunge2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGyztQ3PtPsnV_9HTmgp4L9VJwa_p-1XFdv6CmW5bQZJISCTtO2ezlXovedAQzBdpMFRMybK8yG8JiCn4xqXIv3P9prA4C0TT4SBtFGb0X80htnyG61PgzYIcTuK20hyphenhyphenO-kGAKJE9Skc/s400/PenguinPlunge2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581126868942361330" border="0" /></a><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I love that there were people of all ages jumping into the river today, just blocks from my apartment – there were even three little boys dressed in Batman raincoats and hats who looked as though they might have made the plunge in their superhero attire.<span style=""> </span>And I LOVE that the residents of my new home are stepping up to raise money for other families.<span style=""> </span>When we lived in the suburbs of D.C., we were surrounded by people who couldn’t make ends meet – but from what I could tell, their typical reaction was to smoke more weed (which we could smell drifting from one apartment to the next, and into our kitchen, where I had to constantly keep a Febreeze candle burning).<span style=""> </span>I’m sure that there were plenty of hardworking people who lived in our apartment complex, but they kept to themselves – they were probably intimidated by all the car thieves and arsonists, too.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Here in Nyack, I almost feel like I’m back in the Midwest again – and it’s a welcome change from the East Coast mentality that we experienced (although not from everyone) in D.C.<span style=""> </span>As we walked through the crowds of dripping teens and adults down at Memorial Park today, I found myself wishing that we knew someone there, someone to that would call out a hello and welcome us into a circle of bystanders.<span style=""> </span>Someone who would offer me a cup of coffee and would try to convince me to participate in the Plunge next year.<span style=""> </span>I found myself feeling a little bit more willing to go out and meet people soon.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I need to take a plunge of my own.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxXKW7m3TsAijWS3jrq6g57dTMhyphenhyphenOQ6lYO2bbQzUS_Kyiwf4pWlfiPiWxcrkqR9Af2nCIcucs86Zibh39cj9BxCL6Le7ko5CZ9FN3KrEjCgYIyMXf3Elf_F5F1J2XIPO9CsS-GeIxZ50/s1600/PenguinPlunge1.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxXKW7m3TsAijWS3jrq6g57dTMhyphenhyphenOQ6lYO2bbQzUS_Kyiwf4pWlfiPiWxcrkqR9Af2nCIcucs86Zibh39cj9BxCL6Le7ko5CZ9FN3KrEjCgYIyMXf3Elf_F5F1J2XIPO9CsS-GeIxZ50/s400/PenguinPlunge1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581126707169427554" border="0" /></a>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-92186119534183485852011-03-05T13:15:00.010-05:002011-03-05T13:35:21.757-05:00Solitary<div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="">This post is dedicated to my closest and dearest friends, who are now not only located in </i><i style="">Michigan</i><i style=""> and </i><i style="">Washington</i><i style=""> </i><i style="">D.C.</i><i style="">, but spread as far as </i><i style="">Seattle</i><i style=""> and </i><i style="">Amsterdam</i><i style="">.<span style=""> </span>I’d also like to extend a special welcome to those participating in <a href="http://megwaiteclayton.com/1stbooks/megs-posts/she-writer-blogger-ball-redux/">the blog hop from SheWrites</a>.</i></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes the mornings seem bright, the sunshine reflecting off the Hudson River and rebounding off the nearby cliffs, massive rock outcroppings that are draped with giant white icicles right now.<span style=""> </span>The sunlight dazzles my eyes as I drive to work, but I don’t mind – I feel a little bit more alive because of the warmth, the brightness.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4v2xfdf0vrMpZwlStSZhVkLj3ynxjjUz3yfOZ_KxLrpp8OASfC1Yw-KqSRwUy21uRrvdCOPEmIMup5Isdjdbnn-N30SYF5a5C-_0W60IsK8B_vjSSAT-kJ-ZxZ2FWbHT0iN-jWURqAAA/s1600/Sunlight.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4v2xfdf0vrMpZwlStSZhVkLj3ynxjjUz3yfOZ_KxLrpp8OASfC1Yw-KqSRwUy21uRrvdCOPEmIMup5Isdjdbnn-N30SYF5a5C-_0W60IsK8B_vjSSAT-kJ-ZxZ2FWbHT0iN-jWURqAAA/s320/Sunlight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580661938092344162" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On those mornings, I feel excited about ideas that I am generating for different projects at my new job.<span style=""> </span>I feel empowered because despite the set-backs with my career in the academic world, I haven’t given up – I’ve successfully changed my course and even become excited about the things that I can do as a professional in the non-profit sector.<span style=""> </span>I daydream about art projects, blog tours, and unique donation appeals that we could set up on behalf of our organization.<span style=""> </span>After driving through the sunshine and running through ideas in my head, I even feel excited to begin working on grants once I get in to my office – and grants are not generally exciting things to write.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And then sometimes I feel exactly the opposite of excited and optimistic.<span style=""> </span>On those mornings, the sunlight seems to burn in my eyes, causing them to water and making it nearly impossible to see well enough to negotiate traffic.<span style=""> </span>I feel discouraged at the amount of effort everything takes – and I’m not even thinking about all the projects that I am beginning to accumulate at work, now that I’ve been employed for a month.<span style=""> </span>When I feel discouraged, it’s because I’m thinking about all the effort that I really should be putting in to the <i style="">rest</i> of my life.<span style=""> </span>The relationships.<span style=""> </span>With other people.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I work for a non-profit organization – don’t I do that because I love people?<span style=""> </span>Because I want to help others?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Well, yes.<span style=""> </span>But.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When my husband and I lived in Michigan, I was a social butterfly.<span style=""> </span>I loved being around people – all kinds of people, all the time.<span style=""> </span>During high school and college, I had quite the full social calendar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_M-A5zz5jWu36Nfywco9zGLBro3FhaJGwSMj-AwdH1GMj-s_lFrntuHNxGw6RgHkr1e9z3EXpU4VoIt4eJYyAd2diVNkaONcaofFJhrgxGs-qhfe8gAA65xnF8XUB4Z2o4eBgHhSjM4/s1600/BoonesFarm.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 354px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_M-A5zz5jWu36Nfywco9zGLBro3FhaJGwSMj-AwdH1GMj-s_lFrntuHNxGw6RgHkr1e9z3EXpU4VoIt4eJYyAd2diVNkaONcaofFJhrgxGs-qhfe8gAA65xnF8XUB4Z2o4eBgHhSjM4/s400/BoonesFarm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580662243365886226" border="0" /></a>More than that, though, I valued truthful relationships.<span style=""> </span>I built and maintained close, strong friendships with my best friends from elementary school and high school, my college roommates, bible study friends, and my husband (then boyfriend).<span style=""> </span>I was lucky to accumulate, in a few short years, perhaps more honest-to-goodness friends than some people ever have in an entire lifetime.<span style=""> </span>The kind of friends who will take care of you when you have a fever and you’re throwing up, or will get up at six o’clock in the morning to help you clean up the bathroom after the toilet has flooded.<span style=""> </span>The kind of friends who will tell you when you’re being a jerk, have it out with you and then share a box of chocolates and a bottle of cheap wine with you afterward.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then we moved to Washington D.C., the capital city of temporary internships and fast-track positions.<span style=""> </span>There are a ton of young professionals who come to D.C. to get a degree or take a good starting position, and then move on to another geographic location – a place that feels more like home.<span style=""> </span>At the very least, a lot of those young professionals eventually move out into the suburbs of Maryland and Virginia.<span style=""> </span>I’m not even sure what type of person actually ends up <i style="">living</i> long-term in Washington D.C., other than politicians, diplomats and other government employees.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">To the point: Jeremy and I went to D.C. to earn our graduate degrees as well, but we arrived with a Midwestern mentality and were disappointed by the region’s aloof attitude.<span style=""> </span>We went there to make friends and settle down, but we discovered that in the over-crowded urban sprawl of the outskirts of D.C., there weren’t too many people that were our age, shared our interests and had time for new/more friends.<span style=""> </span>And as we became more and more absorbed in our own academic and career goals, we likewise felt like we lost the time and interest to “be social.”<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It is important to note the difference between having <i style="">real</i> friends and being “social.”<span style=""> </span>Friendship involves being comfortable with other people, to the point that you can openly say what you think, have the confidence in your ability to resolve conflicts with that person, and dismiss the need for a polite, “grown-up” façade when you are around them.<span style=""> </span>Friendship takes a lot of time and effort.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYrgEtsFRNdOhmxnbSrmkw3-yVPfyQXjb_m_w_dqTz7d_Cs4x5wGiFtiCzkx6mb-Wd3HDa1ZwVi4ZXiI2cFRRxECJaC23azqQuph3C0KuX0qMdFHP-tzUQOFvEkawjygVdr4HkzH9IdE/s1600/chitchat.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYrgEtsFRNdOhmxnbSrmkw3-yVPfyQXjb_m_w_dqTz7d_Cs4x5wGiFtiCzkx6mb-Wd3HDa1ZwVi4ZXiI2cFRRxECJaC23azqQuph3C0KuX0qMdFHP-tzUQOFvEkawjygVdr4HkzH9IdE/s400/chitchat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580662716629957682" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In contrast, being social is attending various events with other people, enjoying more shallow conversations and jokes, sharing interests without sharing emotions.<span style=""> </span>Each fulfills a need, but in my mind, friendship is far more valuable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">After I started graduate school, I decided I didn’t really have the time, patience or desire to be “social” with random people.<span style=""> </span>It often ended up being more effort than entertainment, and I didn’t have a whole lot of free time to burn.<span style=""> </span>If I really wanted to have either an honest conversation or a deep, belly-shaking laugh, I talked to my husband or I called up someone in Michigan.<span style=""> </span>These are the people who I know I can trust.<span style=""> </span>These are the people with whom I can laugh.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">With time, Jeremy and I met a few people through work and school that became good friends and our lives in D.C. were richer because of those relationships.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then, when we moved to New York, we had to say goodbye.<span style=""> </span>Again.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We have lived in Nyack for eight months now, and I can honestly say that I haven’t made a single new friend.<span style=""> </span>I know one or two of the neighbors and the apartment manager well enough to say hello.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I talk to the librarians as they are checking out my books.<span style=""> </span>On the positive side, my new co-workers look like promising candidates.<span style=""> </span>But the closet thing that Jeremy and I have to an actual relationship in our new location is one good friend from graduate school that lives right in New York City. While we try to hang out with him as often as we can, though, he’s currently earning his Ph.D., so he doesn’t really have time to get together more than once a month or so.<span style=""> </span>(No hard feelings – I know <i style="">exactly</i> how that goes.<span style=""> </span>The workload is brutal.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So in contrast to the extremely social disposition I had throughout my undergraduate career, I’ve become a hermit – and even after emerging out from under the unending responsibilities of graduate school, I haven’t wanted to make the effort to get to know people.<span style=""> </span>I just keep thinking about all the good friends that, despite my best intentions and efforts, have faded from my life.<span style=""> </span>I think about my grandma and grandpa, who have now passed away.<span style=""> </span>I think about the way that before my grandparents died, they lost so many of their friends, one by one.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then I think about my <i style="">closest</i> friends, with whom I have managed to actually stay close, despite time and distance.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I can call Seattle and pour out my heart to my friend just as easily as I could have done when we lived just a few blocks away from each other.<span style=""> </span>But yet miscommunications and misunderstandings can develop between the closest of friends, even those that you’ve known for ten years or more.<span style=""> </span>And what might have been a little miscommunication becomes a lot more awkward and harder to resolve over a distance of five hundred or so miles.<span style=""> </span>I’ve had several long-distance misunderstandings recently that have really shaken me – they’ve made me realize how fragile even the strongest of my relationships truly could be.<span style=""> </span>When you’re main modes of communication are written – emails, Facebook, texting – you have to be even more careful with what words you choose.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So people fade from your life.<span style=""> </span>Do I really want to begin to make friends again, just to watch even more people fade away?<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I guess it boils down to a choice, and it’s really a choice about what kind of person that I want to be.<span style=""> </span>Do I want to be solitary, isolated, withdrawn?<span style=""> </span>Solitary doesn’t sound so bad – I’ve got my husband, I’ve got my books.<span style=""> </span>I’ve got a fulfilling job and my goal to write a novel or a memoir some day.<span style=""> </span>But “withdrawn” is a much more ugly word.<span style=""> </span>It makes me pause.<span style=""> </span>I don’t think that my grandma would want me to withdraw from the world – so from somewhere deep inside of me, I’m going to have to dig up some energy, go out and “be social.”<span style=""> </span>Thankfully, I don’t have to do it today – but I better do it soon because in the meantime, circumstances are shaping the person that I become, even in ways that I don’t realize.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-5391480509828573122011-03-01T20:15:00.012-05:002011-03-01T20:49:59.111-05:00The Curtains are Closed<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’ve always been an emotional kind of girl.<span style=""> </span>Over-the-top emotional, you could say—a bit dramatic.<span style=""> </span>Or, as my grandma used to put it, I’m just very <i style="">sensitive</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I cry easily.<span style=""> </span>And frequently.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aIYBeCUYQOKhL9hf0l8URhw3K8rhAbZV28JgPXvjW_V6vedpP3X4fY05j-KiHc5NyVXwxglY1O2yZwYddwSKlscwl-PEq30QEEWli0ZM6Iy0WMSi9X83eVkc5saOx3dhFu50ZfizFS4/s1600/Tears2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aIYBeCUYQOKhL9hf0l8URhw3K8rhAbZV28JgPXvjW_V6vedpP3X4fY05j-KiHc5NyVXwxglY1O2yZwYddwSKlscwl-PEq30QEEWli0ZM6Iy0WMSi9X83eVkc5saOx3dhFu50ZfizFS4/s320/Tears2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579285794226516370" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Ask my dad – who didn’t know what to do with his teenage daughter when she would, in the midst of an only mildly upsetting conversation, suddenly burst out crying and manage to tell her bewildered father between sobs, “I know it’s silly to be crying about this, but I’m (<i style="">hiccup</i>) about to have (<i style="">sniffle</i>) my period and I can’t (<i style="">gasp</i>) seem to help it…”<span style=""> </span>I was lucky if I could get all of that out before I trailed off into a low moan.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Or ask my husband how emotional I am, poor guy.<span style=""> </span>My dad only had to deal with me for a few very turbulent teenage years, but for some reason, my wonderful spouse has signed up to live in the eye of the tornado – for another forty, fifty, even sixty years.<span style=""> </span>Maybe he’s secretly masochistic.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I posted a few days ago, though, on <a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/02/inescapable-grief.html">the inescapable grief</a> that I believe is now a part of my personality, my very identity—and this is a new level of emotion.<span style=""> </span>The deep sorrow that I feel over the loss of my grandparents, the aching disbelief that Hank and Marge White have simply ceased to exist (at least as I knew them)—it is something that affects not just how I feel in the moment, but how I make decisions and how I think about myself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I have had my heart broken once or twice, I suppose you could say—in the more traditional sense of the word.<span style=""> </span>I have loved two different males (boys? men? something in between—guys?) that did not love me, and I thought the lonely ache of that would be enough to choke me, paralyze me.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But even then, my loving grandma (and my very giving mother) stepped in to reassure me, comfort me, and bolster me up.<span style=""> </span>Grandma was steadfast and particularly vocal of her belief that if the gentleman in question was <i style="">worthy</i> of me, then he would come around—and if not, good riddance.<span style=""> </span>She had some high expectations for those adolescents, if she thought that they were capable of seeing me the way that she saw me.<span style=""> </span>It should go without saying that this kind of romanticized perspective would be nearly impossible for a teenage boy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m not sure if all her loving comments were really all that comforting, but at least someone was around to hear me sob and wail and complain.<span style=""> </span>I’m not only emotional—I love an audience.<span style=""> </span>Or at least I used to.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This new, deeper grief has changed me, though—or maybe I changed before my grandparents passed away and I just haven’t realized it until now.<span style=""> </span>Either way, I no longer want an audience.<span style=""> </span>I don’t want to cry in front of anyone, even my friends.<span style=""> </span>I don’t mind when I break down in front of my husband, but even so, I’d prefer to keep it to myself.<span style=""> </span>I hold it tight in my chest, wait for the moments that I’m alone.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Before I got a job, I used to lie in bed for a while after my husband would leave for work, stare at the picture of my grandparents hanging on the wall, and despondently weep.<span style=""> </span>But I knew that they would be upset to see me stay in bed all day, so I would get up and find things to enjoy—for them, if not for me.<span style=""> </span>They would want me to be happy, to enjoy life.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Now I cry when I am in the bathroom, as I’m putting on makeup in the morning and thinking about how my grandma and I used to visit the Clinique counter together.<span style=""> </span>I cry when I am in the car, driving the Saturn that used to belong to my grandfather.<span style=""> </span>I named it “Henry” after him, and call it “Hank” and “Grandpa.”<span style=""> </span>I talk to the car, imagining it is him, and let myself weep on the drive home from work.<span style=""> </span>But I don’t cry very often when I am around people—even my family, who are all quite used to my emotional outbursts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This sorrow is private, more private than anything that I’ve ever experienced before.<span style=""> </span>(And yet, I’m blogging about it—a big step for me at this point in my life. It's taken me months to feel ready to address this subject on my blog.)<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I know that this desire for privacy isn’t really a strange thing for many people—most people don’t share their deepest emotions with the general public.<span style=""> </span>But I used to be a bit of an exhibitionist.<span style=""> </span>Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I simply couldn’t contain my emotions – they’d come pouring out of me, no matter where I was or who I was with. I could be working the cash register at the campus coffee shop with tears pouring down my face.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrFwXb-1z9dhhgADWO6gNJ9S4BFSD57NvDYEOzW6qOR07bNSLObc3RrUi6y4sW6QuayDXKVMz6cmTKvq2F-60G2alqYulNLvtQFIeiviwnPYdpUa81sQhNzm6rSfkUc7VNgElia5L38Q/s1600/Tears.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrFwXb-1z9dhhgADWO6gNJ9S4BFSD57NvDYEOzW6qOR07bNSLObc3RrUi6y4sW6QuayDXKVMz6cmTKvq2F-60G2alqYulNLvtQFIeiviwnPYdpUa81sQhNzm6rSfkUc7VNgElia5L38Q/s320/Tears.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579286139663637202" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">(Yes, that actually happened a few times.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t seem to stop the saline, which made it hard to find the right button and punch in the amount for a latte or a raisin bran muffin.<span style=""> </span>I probably gave several bewildered customers a discount or something.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The fact that I’ve been so reserved, that I’ve kept my grief to myself, is a huge shift in my personality.<span style=""> </span>And I wonder what it means.<span style=""> </span>I’ve changed—but I don’t know how I feel about this new, more private personality.<span style=""> </span>I think it’s partially connected to a larger change in how I relate to people; I’m much less friendly and open then I used to be.<span style=""> </span>But that’s a subject for another post.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The fact remains that I was once a performer, up on the stage, often sharing my latest heartache with anyone who would listen (and that included friends, roommates, friends of friends, roommates of friends, classmates, fellow coffee shop workers, the delivery guy…).<span style=""> </span>But now I’ve climbed down off the stage, or at least lowered the curtain.<span style=""> </span>The exhibition is over, and all that’s left is a hollow ache inside.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkC56aKhyphenhyphenbvOCU-nxUtzn0TYZLY_hkXwWfzq7D_XuKMHWXhaeSwGajBEJ_hE286TxKa7lJ9PrBMFWG_yjif1hggqaTeRCE6bLajSY6HSI9fAUYQmQmeW15moz8c2QmLFVFW5WQQVkHHN4/s1600/TheaterCurtains.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkC56aKhyphenhyphenbvOCU-nxUtzn0TYZLY_hkXwWfzq7D_XuKMHWXhaeSwGajBEJ_hE286TxKa7lJ9PrBMFWG_yjif1hggqaTeRCE6bLajSY6HSI9fAUYQmQmeW15moz8c2QmLFVFW5WQQVkHHN4/s400/TheaterCurtains.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579286743327241906" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6kmqjMRid9UFthWjPMrqaCUtAg4j0UP4VnaoIppahIAAsdnkMHOyDoFYLL5qav94rl53LMS2QyUrPkWTxn_AWqotQrANUCbLuNh-9npXPB3YqGvX-lpuPq9ytcLCS3tdjq3owFXZhxo/s1600/TheaterCurtains.jpg"><br /></a>I’m missing my favorite audience member—my grandma—and without my most ardent admirer, I think my career as a (live) performer has come to a close.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m still a writer, though—I guess some things never change.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-70150746123339354902011-02-27T18:46:00.016-05:002011-02-27T20:11:17.115-05:00Inescapable Grief<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The last three weeks – the first three weeks at my new job – have gone pretty well overall.<span style=""> </span>I’ve genuinely enjoyed myself as I have started to learn my new responsibilities; I’ve gone to several training seminars on grant writing in downtown NYC, posted my first few web articles on the organization’s website and sent out my first email newsletter.<span style=""> </span>I’ve had fun getting to know my co-workers, and seeing as how I feel pretty satisfied with where I’ve landed, I’ve already begun nesting.<span style=""> </span>My office is decorated with photos from my wedding, black and white snapshots of my grandparents and the obligatory Audrey Hepburn calendar.<span style=""> </span>I’ve also stocked up on Jolly Ranchers, Home-style Popcorn and about ten different kinds of tea.<span style=""> </span>I’m prepared for the afternoons when the munchies hit or my blood sugar starts to dip at three o’clock: I’ve even got chocolate covered pretzels stashed in my desk drawer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Here I am, ready to become an expert on grant writing, public relations and marketing via social media.<span style=""> </span>I’m excited to get started on the research that will help us write grants, reel in volunteers and set up a more targeted and effective (not to mention stylish) Facebook page.<span style=""> </span>And I feel good about the fact that is all be for a worthy cause. But some mornings – just after I’ve put on my mascara, <i style="">of course</i> – and sometimes while I’m driving home on the New York State Thruway, I start to sob.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’m not crying because of my job – I’m crying because my grandparents would be so proud and excited about my job and I can’t share it with them.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4qI9vyzYNOF76YxaurxLVJdBzJQP8xis9tYtXobxzDpSEV1f8OfBYibzyPa4R9TRvSjWNEbIt6nfe14EbiXGmoWnODcj6qrkzRdvhiCVbaNYulklgn8bZZ5oesPGz1wt0kqqjHV8Nus/s1600/49+G%2526G+w_Lauren+at+Wedding.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4qI9vyzYNOF76YxaurxLVJdBzJQP8xis9tYtXobxzDpSEV1f8OfBYibzyPa4R9TRvSjWNEbIt6nfe14EbiXGmoWnODcj6qrkzRdvhiCVbaNYulklgn8bZZ5oesPGz1wt0kqqjHV8Nus/s320/49+G%2526G+w_Lauren+at+Wedding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578521646051672914" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It was only a year ago that I was still able to call up my grandparents on my way home from work, and after asking me whether or not I was keeping my husband in line with a good smack every now and again, my grandfather would hand the phone to my grandmother.<span style=""> </span>Grandma would then spend the next half an hour asking about my students – she remembered a lot of the details that I had told her about different students’ learning disabilities and how I was working with each one of them to improve their writing skills.<span style=""> </span>She didn’t know their names, of course, but at that point, she was still able to keep them separate in her mind by what she knew about each one. </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">One of the great things about these conversations was that she was fully convinced that I had teacher super-powers.<span style=""> </span>This is probably why I get grand, over-blown ideas about what I can accomplish, in fact – because of her unfailing belief in my ability to save the day.<span style=""> </span>Even when I would get discouraged about the progress that one of my students was making (or <i style="">not</i> making), she would tell me, “You just keep working with her.<span style=""> </span>She’ll come around in time, since you’re giving her extra attention.”<span style=""> </span>Of course, my grandmother was no expert on learning disabilities or education – but she believed that <i style="">I</i> knew enough to do my job even better than the average teacher.<span style=""> </span>And she loved that I was helping people.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But last March, my grandpa’s prostate cancer had finally spread to his bones and what had been a manageable condition now kept him confined to bed and in incredible pain.<span style=""> </span>Radiation treatment didn’t really help – but it tired him out and made him even more miserable.<span style=""> </span>And going back and forth every day to visit her husband in the hospital and then the nursing home, my grandma grew weaker and more confused.<span style=""> </span>Her <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dementia">dementia</a>, which had been progressing fairly slowly, grew worse because of all the stress.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii65xS8CRtB7dIwDtW6nzxrILIRVS4Wz4It_hs2eQlBrzZwdRYONQRx8IXYPzqqxC5hmiCv_Fl0GINmgGSuUfFCg05lV9j3K-xCFn43aiE9dBuLgwfUfFJVOeqBdxniUI_I3CsVu0vtGg/s1600/GrandmaGrandpa2010.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii65xS8CRtB7dIwDtW6nzxrILIRVS4Wz4It_hs2eQlBrzZwdRYONQRx8IXYPzqqxC5hmiCv_Fl0GINmgGSuUfFCg05lV9j3K-xCFn43aiE9dBuLgwfUfFJVOeqBdxniUI_I3CsVu0vtGg/s320/GrandmaGrandpa2010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578533715661466018" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Grandpa passed away last May, and Grandma followed five months later in October.<span style=""> </span>I think she just decided it was time to go – her husband and all her oldest, closest friends were gone, she was losing the ability to take care of herself or even think clearly and despite all our best efforts, it was difficult for us to spend enough time with her.<span style=""> </span>She needed constant care, and one of my family members could only be at the nursing home with her for a few hours each day.<span style=""> </span>(I <i style="">cannot </i>express how much I hate that I live five hundred miles away from my family and could not be there with her.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My grandparents have always been a <i style="">huge</i> part of my life; they babysat me at least three or four times a week when I was growing up. We went to the mall, out to dinner, to playgrounds and amusement parks and concerts...<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWAu8Rs-v0qPzejiWPDTrMNteIwFSpReM7JNwwUbR9f5NtrvRO5NUA3GvnLSGFt2GAJQO-qeDugAdpQrib9zVehoFIoN0EuZsSjO4kV_1-FwlBoWBetg73EqlazD8aNHyilYKR-sMn30/s1600/picnic.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWAu8Rs-v0qPzejiWPDTrMNteIwFSpReM7JNwwUbR9f5NtrvRO5NUA3GvnLSGFt2GAJQO-qeDugAdpQrib9zVehoFIoN0EuZsSjO4kV_1-FwlBoWBetg73EqlazD8aNHyilYKR-sMn30/s400/picnic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578524642926494610" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then they drove an hour out to Ypsilanti every week to visit me while I was in college.<span style=""> </span>My grandma has always been one of my best friends – she was my favorite shopping partner, bought me my first mini-skirt, and even picked out my husband.<span style=""> </span>I always let her take credit for that one – she was so proud of deciding that Jeremy was the one for me.<span style=""> </span>“Don’t let him get away,” she told me, and I could only reply, “I’ll try not to… but there’s only so much that I can do.”<span style=""> </span>Even so, she taught me a few tricks that apparently worked, because here I am married to the man of her selection.</p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyU4SiGwUy4wYbFJD0TpfQNRX8t9wrks6Zynm1vsg8f92caSiuC5vvbXEg0oEk2AJQhCueCm2YRN7ZyP4OBm4nPEgimMuHNNocK8JluMqgOb-eVDRK8F7QhjMJ8cYBR19oagCzxsIblxw/s1600/13+H+%2526+M+Wedding+photo.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyU4SiGwUy4wYbFJD0TpfQNRX8t9wrks6Zynm1vsg8f92caSiuC5vvbXEg0oEk2AJQhCueCm2YRN7ZyP4OBm4nPEgimMuHNNocK8JluMqgOb-eVDRK8F7QhjMJ8cYBR19oagCzxsIblxw/s320/13+H+%2526+M+Wedding+photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578523511842030082" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So in 2010, I lost two of the people who have been the most influential in shaping who I am: the things that I believe and the ways that I understand the world, the ways that I act and the things that I treasure.<span style=""> </span>They have always been a part of me because I have absorbed everything that they taught me, everything that they were and are, so completely into my own identity.<span style=""> </span>I was in love with all the details that they could tell me about their courtship (see photograph); I wrote it all down in a book during college.<span style=""> </span>I was always asking them questions about the Great Depression and World War II; my husband, my brother and I all liked to hear my grandpa’s army stories.<span style=""> </span>From the time that I was young, they taught me to be a responsible, caring person – mostly through their own examples.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I could go on and on about how they were incredible role models for hours, but the main point is that they were amazing people who generously gave of themselves, serving their community and loving their family and friends with open, over-flowing hearts.<span style=""> </span>So I know that my grandparents would be incredibly proud of what I am doing now; they would be first of all excited that I had earned a job based on my skills as a writer, and they would be<span style=""> </span>thrilled to see me using my skills to help other people.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I can picture them – my grandfather would look like he was going to bust all the buttons on his shirt, with his giant grin breaking through his usually reserved nature.<span style=""> </span>My grandma would be practically bouncing around, even at 90 years old.<span style=""> </span>And she would be <i style="">glowing</i>.<span style=""> </span>That’s really the only word that describes the way that she used to look when she would attend a performance, award ceremony or graduation for us while we were growing up.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Glowing</i>.<span style=""> </span>Like one of those Day-glo Glow-Worms from the 80s.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Beaming</i> with pleasure that her offspring had accomplished what she, with her limited education, could not.<span style=""> </span>People keep telling me that they would be proud of me, as though I need to be reassured – but I know better than anyone what they would be saying to me every day if they were alive right now.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My grandparents are a part of me, perhaps as no other people are a part of me.<span style=""> </span>But now that they have died, what that means is that this grief is also a part of me.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes it’s a dull ache, like the beginning of a cramp that you know will get worse even if you pop a couple of IBu Profen.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes the grief is sharp and fast, as though I’ve sliced open my palm; it throbs and then grows numb.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes it’s strangely combined with joy – tender grief and this delight bubbling up inside me that I believe I can sense what they would be saying and doing.</p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVglilwYD4NAEjcWHpHYxv72mRPv7bYBvsNJzgBwp-E82yc6gCHsPJOKLwXtjNHqG2WmFlPrU9_F4cA7kLO0MeVqWLeP9APNDLEEQtKI3tKuTmNHMP1Az-Hg0F-npzhV1MpZz7VFlwOw/s1600/profile+pic+1.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVglilwYD4NAEjcWHpHYxv72mRPv7bYBvsNJzgBwp-E82yc6gCHsPJOKLwXtjNHqG2WmFlPrU9_F4cA7kLO0MeVqWLeP9APNDLEEQtKI3tKuTmNHMP1Az-Hg0F-npzhV1MpZz7VFlwOw/s320/profile+pic+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578523944747654402" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I think that grief is now an integral part of who I am as well, and so sometimes, when I am driving home from work, I think about what I would tell my grandma – <i style="">I bought this green vase to put on the bookshelf in my office, and I brought in a blue glass candle holder that catches the light and refracts it all over the office</i>.<span style=""> </span>She would want to know how I was decorating the place.<span style=""> </span><i style="">I wore a black and white striped collared shirt today, and a sparkly gray scarf</i>.<span style=""> </span>She would want to know what I was wearing.<span style=""> </span><i style="">I think I need to get a darker shade of lipstick to match my dark winter clothing</i>.<span style=""> </span>She would offer to buy me a new tube of lip gloss at Clinique.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In these moments, I let the waves of grief wash over me as I'm driving home from work – and I realize that I don’t ever want to stop having these conversations with my grandma, even if they are really conversations with myself.<span style=""> </span>This grief is a part of me now, a part of my identity just as much as everything that my grandparents taught me.<span style=""> </span>And it may be painful, but I <i style="">want</i> the grief to remain part of my identity – because the alternative is forgetting everything about them that was so beautiful, and I’m just not willing to do that.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-38565855824049314202011-02-24T21:46:00.019-05:002011-02-24T22:39:36.495-05:00It's Not Easy Being Green<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6oPWhixpeidE8udVALSqzrL7QAaSnniFD6dh2nWWmWSDjR17LG77DstSHTqWphmCVZpREd-TTb_GJ1CxoWKzfAb2GHRMY9LNc7nrmYqhuduTa75gxFyzFjmfaVvxmCiMJr53er2pdOc/s1600/LoisLane.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6oPWhixpeidE8udVALSqzrL7QAaSnniFD6dh2nWWmWSDjR17LG77DstSHTqWphmCVZpREd-TTb_GJ1CxoWKzfAb2GHRMY9LNc7nrmYqhuduTa75gxFyzFjmfaVvxmCiMJr53er2pdOc/s320/LoisLane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577456098733591474" border="0" /></a>She had gotten used to the byline, “<i style="">Lois Lane</i><i style="">, Investigative Reporter,</i>” which looked real sweet on the front page of <i style="">The Daily Planet</i>.<span style=""> </span>She worked her way to the top on her own – and she was used to getting all the credit for herself. <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“It was nothing,” she tells her colleagues as they applaud her. <span style=""> </span>The newsroom erupts in cheers after her latest exposé breaks, but despite her modesty, you can tell that she’s eating it all up from the wide smile on her face.<span style=""> </span>She loves the attention, the notoriety.<span style=""> </span>She loves the solo recognition.<span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then Clark Kent shows up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">From a small town in Kansas, he might as well have been fresh off the boat, as far as Lois is concerned.<span style=""> </span>But even though he only has a few articles from the <i style="">Borneo Gazette </i>to his name, he somehow wins over Editor-in-Chief Perry White – and suddenly the displeased Lois finds that she has a new partner.<span style=""> </span>“Kent is a hack from Smallville,” she tells her boss, refusing at first to work with the handsome but inexperienced boy from Kansas.<span style=""> </span>“Smallville.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t make that name up.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0IdCl6s4KHwV91vgGhUyQp1JWExvTvkgGyyeneyZ_9HEwblhPdEderQcprZpgkNt25wJk9sjShdsM-o_vI9cg5zLjFgH0yd8h0T1mw3MuwMtyoKji0flpDAbcrXl2Zn1vp9q1j6DKH8/s1600/LoisOnTop.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 332px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0IdCl6s4KHwV91vgGhUyQp1JWExvTvkgGyyeneyZ_9HEwblhPdEderQcprZpgkNt25wJk9sjShdsM-o_vI9cg5zLjFgH0yd8h0T1mw3MuwMtyoKji0flpDAbcrXl2Zn1vp9q1j6DKH8/s400/LoisOnTop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577458898476473730" border="0" /></a>When Lois finds that she can’t avoid the pairing, she gives Clark a huffy speech: “Let’s get something straight.<span style=""> </span>I did not work my buns off to become an investigative reporter for the <i style="">Daily Planet </i>just to babysit some hack from Nowheresville…. You are not working <i style="">with </i>me, you’re working <i style="">for</i> me.”<span style=""> </span>She pointedly informs him that he is way out of his league before they ever hit the streets together.<span style=""> </span>No way she wants to share the byline with the guy she calls <span style="font-style: italic;">Mr. Green Jeans</span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]-->. "I am the top banana," she tells Clark – and with good humor, he confirms, “You like to be on top.<span style=""> </span>Got it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But even though Clark Kent may have been “green” when he first arrived in Metropolis, having secret superpowers helped him climb the ranks faster than some of the <i style="">Daily Planet</i>’s less fortunate employees. <span style=""> </span>Jimmy Olsen, for example, was always pitching story ideas and being told to go back to writing obits or fixing the Chief’s golf clubs.<span style=""> </span>If someone wanted to hide information from Clark, he could always melt the locks on their file cabinets, listen in on their conversations with his super-hearing, or use his X-Ray vision to see what was going on behind all those closed doors.<span style=""> </span>And presto – he has a career as an investigative reporter, without working nearly as hard as Lois had.<span style=""> </span>Clark didn’t spend very long taking crap as the “junior reporter.”<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It’s probably going to take me a little bit longer to adjust to the “reporter” part of my new job as a communications/public relations person, though.<span style=""> </span>I have the enthusiasm – just no super-powers.<span style=""> </span>I feel a zillion times more vulnerable than Kent when he first arrived in Metropolis.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In fact, I feel more like Deb in the first few episodes of <i style="">Dexter</i>. Deb is a cop assigned to vice at the start of the series, but desperately wants to work homicide.<span style=""> </span>When she stumbles in to a serial killer case, she wants Dexter to help her figure out her next move.<span style=""> </span>“Can I bounce some ideas off you later?” she asks him.<span style=""> </span>“You know I always get smarter when I’m talking to you.”<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“You just need a little more confidence,” he replies, a little insensitive despite his best efforts to help her reach her own potential.<span style=""> </span>I’m not sure that I can define the look on her face when he says this – I think it’s a combination of disappointment, hurt, uncertainty, and even fear.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYG3WV4DG03Xt4RVP4lXlJxOjXgb3mK0AIogxZAT28UecBIaxbBscYidbkkkbcVu6DVlGKxsxnDjcmdmXKYFNFkToSsZQw6PVE1S_KI0qV63q6t7auvvQRszRhUErk-MTTGZ7Coj_MFck/s1600/DebDexter.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYG3WV4DG03Xt4RVP4lXlJxOjXgb3mK0AIogxZAT28UecBIaxbBscYidbkkkbcVu6DVlGKxsxnDjcmdmXKYFNFkToSsZQw6PVE1S_KI0qV63q6t7auvvQRszRhUErk-MTTGZ7Coj_MFck/s400/DebDexter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577458363885698386" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This is a mix of emotions so confusing and powerful that it can throw many of us for a loop, so you have to feel sorry for Deb. She remains hesitant, continues to stutter and stumble even after she is reassigned to the task force on the serial killer case.<span style=""> </span>She asks for Dexter’s help several more times, then embarrasses herself during a meeting when she can’t clearly express the strategy for investigation that she and Dexter put together.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I know that feeling – that uncertainty that holds you back, that keeps you from acting on your gut and doing your job.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Last Friday, we held an event on the campus of our organization, and I had two main roles: to help take care of last minute details so that the event would run smoothly and to “report” on the event so that I could later write it up for our email bulletin, website and print newsletter.<span style=""> </span>While the guests arrived, I was running around hanging parking signs, xeroxing extra fliers and getting coffee for the speakers.<span style=""> </span>No problem.<span style=""> </span>That’s the easy part.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But once all the guests had gone through the buffet line and were enjoying their breakfasts, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t time for the speakers to begin their presentations yet, but I couldn’t think of any questions for them.<span style=""> </span>I had stood with one lobbyist for several minutes, making small talk about the buffet and wracking my brain – but I didn’t come up with a single question of substance.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fs4aBr-8RHgerPid5nJPtANmC1t4lIN7rzsfshKv-OLNM8Fsfa509d8SR-x3zHi3wqQbzowXdhQNZKOD3wQsh2zShGlbQDRbWwadCgTiQ_WGPj-j1fpduYw0FVQjxold5BZb5VEQnw8/s1600/LoisReporter.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fs4aBr-8RHgerPid5nJPtANmC1t4lIN7rzsfshKv-OLNM8Fsfa509d8SR-x3zHi3wqQbzowXdhQNZKOD3wQsh2zShGlbQDRbWwadCgTiQ_WGPj-j1fpduYw0FVQjxold5BZb5VEQnw8/s400/LoisReporter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577460574976435170" border="0" /></a>But even though I wanted to sit down for a moment and rub my aching feet, I had the nagging feeling that I should be going out and talking to people in the crowd.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Wouldn’t </i><i style="">Lois Lane</i><i style=""> be asking questions?</i> I thought. <span style=""> </span><i style="">Wouldn’t she be gathering background information and looking for an angle?</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style=""><br /></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I stood up and surveyed the crowd.<span style=""> </span>Being new to the organization, I had no idea why any of these particular people had been invited to the event or who I should approach.<span style=""> </span>The best idea I had was to ask my boss who from amongst the guests might be a good person to interview, although by doing that, I risked creating the impression that I couldn’t take care of my job independently.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I decided though, that since I had only been on the job two weeks, asking for a little direction would be okay.<span style=""> </span>My boss was gracious – but distracted.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, I know who you should talk to – you should talk to Betty…” she said, pointing across the room.<span style=""> </span>“The woman with the short hair and the red sweater.”<span style=""> </span>But that was the only description that she managed to provide before an important donor claimed her attention.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At that point, I had two options: I could either wait for my boss to finish with one donor and hope to get more of an explanation before someone else needed her for something, or I could simply go interview Betty cold turkey.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Be like Lois Lane</i>.<span style=""> </span>I told myself.<span style=""> </span><i style=""><a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/02/little-bit-like-lois-lane.html">Wasn't that what you were just blogging about?</a> Be bold. Go ask the woman questions</i>.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Excuse me,” I said, when I reached the woman with short hair and a red sweater.<span style=""> </span>“My boss suggested that I come interview you for the piece that we’re writing up about the event, but honestly, I’m not sure why.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">That opening line ended up working much better than I expected, and I learned a lot of interesting things from Betty.<span style=""> </span>None of those things made it into <a href="http://www.leakeandwatts.org/news/2011/02/24/leake-watts-clients-connect-with-local-representatives-on-legislative-action-day">the short article that I wrote for our website</a>, but I’m hoping that I can include some details from our conversation in the (longer) print newsletter that we will put out in July.<span style=""> </span>Betty also introduced me to someone with whom she works, who likewise was very interesting to interview.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TPnMmKuTI57w-40cDL8RfSmUb_B_8pACsGz0-YrY3eKk6rOP23DGaya_ZemDanicywJyKDFZs4lTz3vACUkyFcAH_WjoaOKxTK1qTl2Az57npxKvHZ6LqbPJdhHea1GZoco9Y07fWr0/s1600/ReporterNotepad.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TPnMmKuTI57w-40cDL8RfSmUb_B_8pACsGz0-YrY3eKk6rOP23DGaya_ZemDanicywJyKDFZs4lTz3vACUkyFcAH_WjoaOKxTK1qTl2Az57npxKvHZ6LqbPJdhHea1GZoco9Y07fWr0/s400/ReporterNotepad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577463443373237314" border="0" /></a>I haven’t tried to write a journalistic piece or report an event in years, but even though I felt more than a little bit rusty, I’m pleased with how the day went and the kinds of details I was able to jot down in my little reporter’s notepad.<span style=""> </span>And yes, I got myself a little notepad.<span style=""> </span>If I’m going to pretend to be Lois Lane, I’m going to go all out and accessorize.<span style=""> </span>With those props in place, I <i style="">feel</i> ready – and that feeling is absolutely the same as <i style="">being</i> ready to do a job, right?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So here I am, notepad in hand, ready for the next story.<span style=""> </span>I’m looking forward to the day that I’m not so green, though, and not so hesitant.<span style=""> </span>I’ve got to plunge right in and ask questions – just like Clark Kent and Lois Lane.</p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-44549534214595666702011-02-21T17:19:00.007-05:002011-02-21T17:48:32.709-05:00One, Two, One, Two<div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve been thinking lately about different ways that a person might define him or herself.<span style=""> </span>For the last several months, I’ve been obsessively focused on my career because I’ve been in the midst of a career change, but I’ve been vaguely aware that it’s probably not healthy to define yourself solely (or predominantly) by your job, even if you hold the same position for thirty, forty, even fifty years.<span style=""> </span>It’s hard not consider yourself first and foremost a teacher, a musician or a scientist when you’ve invested so much time and energy into a particular field like that and I’ve devoted myself to literature and teaching for so long that even when I no longer consider myself “Professor Schultz,” I still find that I can’t seem to separate my identity from stories, books and writing. </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Even so, I know that there is more to me than a career, or even a long-standing and passionate interest that motivates my particular career choices.<span style=""> </span>After thinking about the lives of my grandparents, who were generous, servant-hearted people, I’ve concluded that one alternative means defining an individual is by examining the ways that a person treats other people (<a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/02/thread-that-runs-thoroughout.html">see my post on that subject here</a>).<span style=""> </span>Our actions toward our friends and family will, if we look closely enough, reveal certain things about our character.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But my husband took me out to Greenwich Point Park on Long Island Sound this weekend, and as we sat by the water, I started to think about how certain sensations could also be something that connects the dots between many moments in a person’s life.<span style=""> </span>A smell, a sound or a song – if experienced repeatedly, any of these could provide a link between different events in our lives and help make an individual moment more significant for us.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CpnF6nwAcOpEDhI6nJEO__org_fuWnGYDGg4HG-Tx2M2bu0oAN7j7ale1Yt6m7uNsR1O2TOVOXZAegwkawIs8DObjx5rJKR2auxp4mPqZ8A3m0ZqK2ql_cDxaYf1b6mKqrSLwOEUg8g/s1600/IMG_6736-1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CpnF6nwAcOpEDhI6nJEO__org_fuWnGYDGg4HG-Tx2M2bu0oAN7j7ale1Yt6m7uNsR1O2TOVOXZAegwkawIs8DObjx5rJKR2auxp4mPqZ8A3m0ZqK2ql_cDxaYf1b6mKqrSLwOEUg8g/s400/IMG_6736-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576272542189657378" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRG390eMb1014fByXsjNYQ0pP8aZukktpKak561A5fAsjQJP9k0Yslg13AfR0iqHgv6EDqUew19citcs-oWLvVrAc357b0oE-kkbBR0ISx4Py4ByFKADRnENbvrtbsXhvdytQUf-Rd5w/s1600/IMG_6736-1.jpg"><br /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When my husband and I drove out to Greenwich Point Park, we found a beach unlike any that I can ever recall visiting before.<span style=""> </span>There was no sand and very little grass – the entire shoreline was covered in shells.<span style=""> </span>Just mounds and mounds of shells, which covered even the narrow parking area.<span style=""> </span>This difference was exciting enough to propel me out of the car and into the cold wind, at least long enough to grab a couple of the shells and sparkling pieces of granite.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pdXbaXSw_KdLIVHsETNwjlLdDrBmH4eNxB_tkvYeRv5SoI8YY5uDqY0AQfohFffHI1TI-2PEgyaAiJ70YznBnFj8J26YMg_gb8oT1mKJ0ylGUORbFtB3QH-hm-8zAAB388aPTSC52P4/s1600/IMG_6739-1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pdXbaXSw_KdLIVHsETNwjlLdDrBmH4eNxB_tkvYeRv5SoI8YY5uDqY0AQfohFffHI1TI-2PEgyaAiJ70YznBnFj8J26YMg_gb8oT1mKJ0ylGUORbFtB3QH-hm-8zAAB388aPTSC52P4/s400/IMG_6739-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576272048263532114" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But the wind was far more blustery and cold out on the Point than we had anticipated, and we weren’t dressed warmly enough to enjoy walking along the shore.<span style=""> </span>So we retreated to the warmth of our little Saturn and simply sat in the parked car by the water.<span style=""> </span>We rolled the windows down about a half an inch and sat listening to the sound of the waves – and that’s when my sense of familiarity began to grow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I don’t mean that I was experiencing déjà vu – it was not the sensation that I had been to <i style="">this beach</i> before.<span style=""> </span>But it was the same sound of the water lapping against the shore that I have heard so many other times; the sound gave me the sense that this beach was tied to all the other beaches that I had visited, and that this moment was tied to many other moments that I have spent by the water.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“Do you remember,” I asked my husband, “the time that we went to Port Huron in March?<span style=""> </span>It was so cold and everything was iced over.<span style=""> </span>I was sick.<span style=""> </span>My nose was stuffed up and I was incredibly miserable, but I went because you wanted to see the water so badly.”<span style=""> </span>I paused, then added as an after-thought, “I love you a lot, you know, to go out like that in the middle of winter when I was sick.<span style=""> </span>Especially the middle of winter in Michigan.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“And do you remember,” I continued, “the time that we went to the beach and the wind was so strong that we had to sit with our heads under your jacket?<span style=""> </span>We made ourselves a little tent to keep the sand out of our eyes, but we were determined to enjoy the beach, since we had driven all the way there already.<span style=""> </span>I don’t remember where we were, though.”<span style=""> </span>I paused, then observed, “We are such determined beach people.”<span style=""> </span>I gestured to our current soundings.<span style=""> </span>We were, after all, sitting by a shore that was partially iced-over.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“We both love the water,” he said simply.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And it hit me at that moment that this is part of who I am, who we both are.<span style=""> </span>It may even be something that draws us together – the comfort that we are both able to draw from that sound of the waves on the shore, the need to listen to that particular natural rhythm.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In her essay “A Sketch of the Past,” Virginia Woolf, who is one of my favorite authors, relates that her “<i style="">first memory, and in fact it is the most important of all my memories… is of lying half asleep, half awake, in a bed in the nursery at St. Ives.<span style=""> </span>It is of hearing the waves breaking, one, two, one, two, and sending a splash of water over the beach; and then breaking, one, two, one, two, behind a yellow blind… of feeling the purest ecstasy I can conceive.<span style=""> </span>I could spend hours trying to write that as it should be written, in order to give the feeling which is even at this moment very strong in me.</i>”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So it seems to me that a certain kind of person is drawn to that sound of the waves; that sound means something to me, to my husband, to many people.<span style=""> </span>The sound is a constant – even if I go to the beach with different people, or to different beaches.<span style=""> </span>Although I can’t express exactly what it means, the sound of the waves is something that ties together many moments of my life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But it is not only the sound of the <i style="">waves</i> that seems to have the power to connect the dots between different moments of my life.<span style=""> </span>I experienced a similar nostalgia when I returned to my grandparents’ apartment after my grandmother passed away last October.<span style=""> </span>The space itself started to become foreign and uninviting once many of their things were packed up in boxes, but then I went into the bathroom.<span style=""> </span>I noticed a particular, familiar click of the latch as I pulled the door shut behind me.<span style=""> </span>The fluorescent light began a well-known hum when I flicked the switch, and the faucet made an oddly comforting sound as I twisted the knob.<span style=""> </span>Then I listened to the creak of the cabinet door as I moved it back and forth. <span style=""> </span>These sounds suddenly brought to mind the nights that I had stayed over at my grandparents’ apartment – I was reminded of the excitement that I felt when I stayed up until midnight with grandma watching <i style="">I Love Lucy </i>and <i style="">Mary Tyler Moore</i> on Nick at Nite.<span style=""> </span>I suddenly remembered the sneaky thrill I felt when I crept past my sleeping grandfather in order to use the bathroom during a commercial break.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iTLVurlHaUroEqFV2QWZJIKlHEhA-xBOaWuv1LBrGzl2QrpwfpjekJ0w1C_bvOqexsYWzqLEmYfVPh5L5i9D4ehVihzEiimXEnmV9qw5zE8i2umoP6v0vaCU18ldU3zk6i8jLX0omUI/s1600/LucyEthel.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iTLVurlHaUroEqFV2QWZJIKlHEhA-xBOaWuv1LBrGzl2QrpwfpjekJ0w1C_bvOqexsYWzqLEmYfVPh5L5i9D4ehVihzEiimXEnmV9qw5zE8i2umoP6v0vaCU18ldU3zk6i8jLX0omUI/s400/LucyEthel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576274083951806210" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I am not sure that I can explain how these sounds help define my identity, either.<span style=""> </span>But the click of that door latch and creak of that cabinet are noises that tie together many special moments of my early life, when my grandmother and I stayed up late at night and no one else seemed to be awake; it was then that we shared a secret little world.<span style=""> </span>The excitement that I felt during those sleepovers is the same excitement that I felt when I tried out my independence in other new ways – like sneaking out to see a movie or go to a party when I was in high school. <span style=""> </span>And because it was my grandmother who taught me to be more independent and a little bit naughty (even though she was mostly a very proper lady), every time I try something new out on my own, the exhilaration that I feel reminds me of her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In that way, so many moments of my life seem connected, and even the most disparate events seem to create a pattern.<span style=""> </span>Just like the repetitive sound of the waves on the shore: one, two, one, two, one, two.<br /></p>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4695839328432075679.post-9580196426301570222011-02-19T19:34:00.013-05:002011-02-19T20:08:46.971-05:00The Thread that Runs Thoroughout<i style="">This post is dedicated to Xiaoyan, whose comment gave me a new way connect the dots between my own questions and two of the people that I love the most.</i> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">After realizing that a career as a college professor was no longer a realistic option for me, I struggled to find a new direction.<span style=""> </span>At times, I felt discouraged by the thought that my life has had no clear, consistent focus.<span style=""> </span>When the depression would lift, I could see that teaching and writing were two skills that I consistently used in various jobs and personal pursuits, and so I searched for a way to continue using one or both of those things in a new career field.<span style=""> </span>Happily, I have found what (so far) seems to be the perfect new niche for me – a job in communications and grant writing for a non-profit organization.<span style=""> </span>In my previous blog entry, I even wrote that as I start to fulfill some of the responsibilities of my new job, I have been able to see connections to my past aspirations – specifically, <a href="http://laurenaliseschultz.blogspot.com/2011/02/little-bit-like-lois-lane.html">my childhood desire to be like reporter Lois Lane</a>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But a friend of mine posted a response to that entry that got me thinking.<span style=""> </span>She wrote: “<i style="">It's very nice that you're able to connect what you do now with your childhood dream/ambition. It seems you have always identified yourself mainly as a writer trying to use your words to make a difference. I've gone through many more identity changes…and now I'm really having trouble answering the “who am I?” question.</i>”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">After <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5sdSUG3kl4kCT1PVENQK0RB39azkBrplmHADSbvYZjXHGAO8xb04co-pkTm4NfWY9wRvk_tYBshCOCJHlXMLd8zLpUxxH3Jb4gI9y53FZuWT_7CYphyphenhyphenuGn9MsUFwABS_qq8BK5wVw84/s1600/Thread.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5sdSUG3kl4kCT1PVENQK0RB39azkBrplmHADSbvYZjXHGAO8xb04co-pkTm4NfWY9wRvk_tYBshCOCJHlXMLd8zLpUxxH3Jb4gI9y53FZuWT_7CYphyphenhyphenuGn9MsUFwABS_qq8BK5wVw84/s320/Thread.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575568673433910802" border="0" /></a>reading that, I started to wonder what I would do if I hadn’t been able to find a job that matched my interests and skills so well.<span style=""> </span>By connecting the dots between my childhood idol and some of the “reporting” that I will be doing in my new career, I have been able to find a thread that runs throughout the whole fabric of my life.<span style=""> </span>But are there other ways of linking your different experiences?<span style=""> </span>And why is it so important (for many of us, if not all) to find a connection like this between the past, the present and the future?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It has to do with, as my friend stated, the “<i style="">who am I?</i>” question.<span style=""> </span>It’s difficult to feel like you understand who you are if you cannot find something that holds everything together.<span style=""> </span>Human beings use all kinds of stories in order to give their lives meaning – it could be religion or history; it could be science or group-identification.<span style=""> </span>But I think that most of us want to find consistency, a theme for our personal story, a narrative that defines our goal and purpose.<span style=""> </span>Most of us feel better if we can say, “<i style="">this is who I am</i>” and “<i style="">this is what I do</i>.”<span style=""> </span>So if you don’t rely on a consistent career path to help you define yourself, what kind of a thread or theme can you trace back through your life?<span style=""> </span>What else can you use to help you determine the kind of person that you are? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The truth is, there have been many people who have not had the opportunity or the luxury of defining their identity through a “career path.” Throughout history, there have been a lot of people who were simply born into a trade – if a person’s father was a baker, he became a baker; if a man was a butcher, his son followed suit.<span style=""> </span>Many people haven’t had to wonder about how to define themselves; they simply accepted the situation into which they were born.<span style=""> </span>I sometimes wonder how I would feel if someone just handed me a butcher knife and expected me to learn how to slaughter a pig, simply because that’s what my father had done for a living.<span style=""> I'm fairly certain y</span>ou would find me passed out in the corner of the butcher shop after a test run.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Of course, society evolved.<span style=""> </span>Many people stopped invariably teaching their children the family trade, and while some people might have still defined themselves (or others) as farmers or factory workers, I wonder if many middle-class individuals relied on their jobs to understand themselves the way that so many career-driven young professionals do today.<span style=""> </span>Some people never had the education or job training to establish themselves in a profession.<span style=""> </span>They worked odd jobs all their life, or took a series of unrelated positions as the opportunities presented themselves.<span style=""> </span>This was the situation for my grandparents – particularly my grandmother, who worked as a telephone switchboard operator, a sales clerk and a secretary.<span style=""> </span>Because of my grandparents’ examples, I have the idea that the people of their generation didn’t tend to rely on a job to define themselves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">For example, even though my grandfather remained in the same line of work for many years, I don’t think about him as simply a Telephone Repair Man – and I don’t think anyone else does, either.<span style=""> </span>After briefly working on an assembly line at a Fanny Farmer candy factor, Grandpa got a job with Bell Telephone and remained with the company for 38 years, so he had more of an opportunity to establish a career than my grandmother.<span style=""> </span>He had to learn specialized skills to do his job – they didn’t yet use cherry pickers, so he had to climb telephone poles with special spiked boots, and once he was up there, he had to deal with all those wires.<span style=""> </span>When he went overseas during World War II, he was part of a communications unit that was responsible for maintaining telephone operations between different parts of the Allied forces.<span style=""> </span>So his commitment to telephone communications could be seen as a thread that ran throughout the different parts of his life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahd3ECpLpF0HLvocl2hyXShRKLdZZNLmzF-E2upvRDggOSueWbfQvcAbgWKUv0tLUqSa6PypdEatsYC3ZxJDpsSnBqUk0CAppVRgof21Ob7x7Ylpye_oXy71yHp6ZNkqlL0sx9wqrwHg/s1600/15+Hank+portrait+in+uniform.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahd3ECpLpF0HLvocl2hyXShRKLdZZNLmzF-E2upvRDggOSueWbfQvcAbgWKUv0tLUqSa6PypdEatsYC3ZxJDpsSnBqUk0CAppVRgof21Ob7x7Ylpye_oXy71yHp6ZNkqlL0sx9wqrwHg/s400/15+Hank+portrait+in+uniform.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575566566658583602" border="0" /></a>When I think about my grandfather, however, I think about him more generally as a handyman.<span style=""> </span>His career with Bell Telephone was only a part of that.<span style=""> </span>Grandpa knew how to make things, fix things, run and maintain things.<span style=""> </span>He built the tire swing in our backyard and a three-story Barbie house for me out of bookshelves.<span style=""> </span>He always took my car for an oil change and mowed the lawn at my parents’ house.<span style=""> </span>He trimmed the bushes, raked the leaves, and kept everything in the workbench neatly organized and labeled.<span style=""> </span>He also did all kinds of work for my uncle and aunt’s business and volunteered for odd jobs and janitorial work at our church.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZzU_lJVFluSAHcxBFZtqFx6lLM5ydTkn7m_SH1ZcRM3uRtXbvF06_x4gjq0oZsJwVkBEbYeVaBpRKf67PHBsQJNwHdzlhcfthO7-2EFNcvgLja-Eu5qyKSpEM62iSXR-4oOxhmsYO6M/s1600/Grandpa_smilingbig.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 348px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZzU_lJVFluSAHcxBFZtqFx6lLM5ydTkn7m_SH1ZcRM3uRtXbvF06_x4gjq0oZsJwVkBEbYeVaBpRKf67PHBsQJNwHdzlhcfthO7-2EFNcvgLja-Eu5qyKSpEM62iSXR-4oOxhmsYO6M/s400/Grandpa_smilingbig.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575565683056412194" border="0" /></a>If you want to understand who my grandpa was as a person, you have to know that that he was a handyman – and you have to understand <i style="">why </i>he did these things.<span style=""> </span>He used his skills as a handyman to serve our family and our church because that was how he showed his love and commitment to people.<span style=""> </span>He checked the fluid levels of my car so that I would never run out of oil and get stranded somewhere when the engine conked out.<span style=""> </span>He brought an extra half-gallon of milk over to our house in the middle of the week so that my mother wouldn’t have to worry about going to the grocery store after work.<span style=""> </span>He wanted us to be safe and happy; he was the patriarch of our family and to him that meant being a consistent, thoughtful provider.<span style=""> </span>He had no objection to women having careers, – he just believed in serving the people that he loved in as many ways as possible.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Once his cancer kept him confined to his bed, I could tell that he didn’t really want to stick around much longer – not just because he was in pain, but because he couldn’t <i style="">be himself</i> any more.<span style=""> </span>He couldn’t take care of us.<span style=""> </span>“Where have you been?” he would fret if we didn’t come to the nursing home until late in the day.<span style=""> </span>“I’ve been laying here worrying about you people.”<span style=""> </span>I could barely keep from crying when he said things like that.<span style=""> </span>Here he was, in so much pain from the cancer eating away at his bones, and he was <i style="">worried about us</i>.<span style=""> </span>That was just who he was, though – the welfare of the people that he loved was always more important to him than his own welfare, and he had to express that in certain ways.<span style=""> </span>He had to be able to mow the lawn or run the errands – he had to be able to keep things working.<span style=""> </span>He had the heart of a superhero and the practicality of a working man.</p><div style="text-align: justify;">And so my grandfather’s example has taught me that it’s not your career-oriented actions that define who you are as a person – it’s <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>of your interactions with people and the way that you live up to your responsibilities. Whether or not you have a career, I think you can define yourself as a specific kind of person by examining the ways that you treat people, the types of things that you do for those that you love, the ways that you enjoy yourself and bring happiness to others.<span style=""> </span>[My grandmother also helped to teach me this, and I will post more on that next time.]<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Dadi6Ug0V-au0eajXfLnDE2mj7XBW_y7rOTZOgM_ojimaKTMdcliVDSFXqJMQGC9Swh2ZWRQpG5Jxp652_hpIGR2mMZm6vZ_ExF438zbsrAoHUQDtJaF3hSHRTa-e-VpyhUC7_7jQS8/s1600/49+G%2526G+w_Lauren+at+Wedding.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Dadi6Ug0V-au0eajXfLnDE2mj7XBW_y7rOTZOgM_ojimaKTMdcliVDSFXqJMQGC9Swh2ZWRQpG5Jxp652_hpIGR2mMZm6vZ_ExF438zbsrAoHUQDtJaF3hSHRTa-e-VpyhUC7_7jQS8/s400/49+G%2526G+w_Lauren+at+Wedding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575567213427582642" border="0" /></a><br />I only hope that as I work to define myself both in and outside of the workplace, that I can consistently be a loving, unassuming person like my grandfather.<span style=""> </span>It might be too much to ask me to be unassuming – but I really hope when I look back on my life, I can trace a thread that I shows I consistently, patiently serve other people.</div>Little Wonder Laurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03937473248474032197noreply@blogger.com2