What is your Yardstick?

In writing yesterday about success, I wrote about measuring yourself by your own yardstick, rather than one that is imposed by, or suits someone else. From the moment we are born, we are being measured against some while-not-always-arbitrary standard, one not necessarily our own. At birth, if you are born in a hospital in the US, you get an APGAR score, which has to do with color and breathing and other standards of newborn vitality. But while a good APGAR may measure the unlikelihood of infant mortality, it is not an infallible measure, and some babies with poor APGARS defy the odds and manage to grow and thrive. We know the fallibility of standardized test scores and how they may measure how frightened or upset a child is, rather than their intellectual achievement. And while these may seem extreme examples, aren’t we surrounded by suggestions, if not downright dictums about how to measure success in life? Some manufacturers of luxury cars tell us that if we are not driving their product, then we have simply not “arrived”. The same goes for other luxury products, like purses, and watches, and shoes that proclaim that a woman has attained some standard by being able to afford these luxury items. Not to say that men are excluded from this race, and their toys also define them. All I am speaking about, is the imposition of a yardstick not one’s own, and then defining oneself as a failure because of it. If I were to allow the makers of the BMW motorcar to define me, then I would indeed have failed to measure up. However, since I don’t know them, and they don’t personally know me, why should I let them set my standard? Same goes for the nameless crowds who need to be seen in the “best” stores, or the “in” watering holes. They don’t define the extent of my success or failure; do you allow them to define yours? Every day that I get to know myself better, I add to the truth of creating my own standard, and as I add to this truth, I am less likely to be made unhappy by not meeting someone else’s. Measuring yourself against someone else’s standard is as ludicrous as someone measuring the “redness” of my hair. There is no redness in my hair. My hair is salt and pepper, and has been for the last many many years. It was not red and will not be red, just as my height should not be measured against the norm for a runway model. I am far shorter and have no hope, at this time in my life, of reaching that standard. I am learning, and I hope teaching as well, to know myself better, to accept myself more respectfully, and to find harmony and balance in my life. And I am adjusting my yardstick as I go. I hope that you will do the same for yourself.

What is success?

Have you ever heard of someone in your very outer circle, meaning, friends of friends, or relatives of friends, or relatives of relatives, as kind of someone who didn’t quite “make it”, only to learn later of the great love that people felt for him, and the esteem in which they held him? I recently had that experience and although I never really knew this individual personally, I was ashamed that I had swallowed this ‘unsuccessful’ description of him without a thought or even a challenge in my own mind of who he was and what were his accomplishments. When I recently questioned my own feeling about regrets that I had over the things that I had and had not done, someone suggested to me that perhaps I was using someone else’s yardstick to measure success. And I began to see that we need to measure success in our lives by what we ourselves value. While some value money and the outward trappings of financial success and security, it is just as sure that others measure success by the number of friends cultivated and cherished, and still others by the number of good works accomplished, or whether if tithing, for example, is a value to them, they are meeting their responsibility to do so. I think that what you value bears thinking about on a regular basis, because, as we are well aware, our values change, due to circumstance and experience. Not that if you valued being a good and charitable person, that might change, but if you find yourself in new circumstances, what it means to be a good and charitable person might change. Let me give an example: if you are used to donating a certain amount of money every month to the food band, and you suddenly lose your job and have to watch your pennies, then you might not have the money to donate, but rather might have more time for hands- on help. It doesn’t make you any less charitable, it just makes you charitable in a different way, and both are sorely needed. Whether you do one or the other, you are successful and true to your own yardstick. So I urge you to define your idea of success so that you can live up to it, and you are not always running around trying and perhaps falling short of someone else’s definition of success. Look around--who do you admire, and why? What do they do to achieve their idea of success, and what do they have to bypass or leave undone? Is that OK with you? If you have to miss out on your child’s sports league in order to have some level of success, or if you have to disappoint your parents, how does that feel to you? Be honest with yourself and weigh your wants and needs in the balance. Find your own yardstick for success, and keep looking, because as sure as the days pass, your measure will change. And then be the best of what you have decided is important to offer the world. It will make you feel great, and will make the world a better place.

Designing your life

Designing Your Life 9.23.13 I usually have a list of things that I need to do everyday. The list is the usual “to-do” list: go to the cleaners, drop off the library books, call someone, buy something, make appointments, etc. But, it occurs to me that life should really be more than a list of things to do among and between the routines of our lives. If we are lucky enough to be able to build a home, or even remodel a room in our home, there is a plan, a blueprint that we follow in order to make the end result fit our projected use and what we had in mind for it to look like. We do all the preliminary work, the shopping, the comparing, the prep, with the end result in mind. And if we think of the things that we do on a day to day basis as individual projects, we do the same, whether it is making a party, or planting a garden or making dinner. We know what we want the end result to look like, and then we do what is necessary to hire the people, or buy the ingredients, or create the ambience to make the end result as close to what we had in mind as possible. I have been thinking about what a difference it would make if we approached designing our lives in the same way. How much of life is done on an ad hoc basis? Sure when the baby spills his milk, it may not fit into your designed life to have to clean it up, and when you are dressed and ready to leave for the theater, and your child suddenly comes down with the flu, or the baby sitter cancels, designed life be damned. But over all, I wonder if it is possible to have an overarching purpose that you mentally check in with every day to see if you are fulfilling it? It is so easy to get bogged down in the minutiae of days and weeks, in the needs of the moment, that we forget to check in with ourselves. If your soul is getting short shrift, if you are starving for meaning, if you are rushing around and never arriving at a destination that feels satisfying, then take a moment to stop and think about imposing a blueprint, thinking about the eventual outcome and seeing whether what you are engaged in matches the end result you had in mind. A colleague of mine posted the following on Facebook recently, and it made me think about this very subject, and whether I am feeding my soul or just marking days off the calendar. Perhaps it will make you wonder as well. Be good to you Be yourself, truthfully Accept yourself, gratefully Value yourself, joyfully Forgive yourself, completely Treat yourself, generously Balance yourself, harmoniously Bless yourself, abundantly Trust yourself, confidently Love yourself, wholeheartedly Empower yourself, immediately Give yourself, enthusiastically Express yourself, radiantly

A time for every purpose

I have been reminded lately in so many ways, that so much of what we study in the Bible, if heeded, would lead us to not only understanding, but to an easier ride through life. I was reminded the other night and told my darling daughter that there is indeed a time for every purpose. My sweet dog Lucy had a time to live, and although my heart fights it, the time to die came, and we must accept that there will be sorrow and grief for a while, but after that, there will be the happy memories of walks in the park, watching the ducks, conversations we shared, even though I did the actual talking for both of us, and the sweetness of true love. To love and to let go when the time is right is all we can do in our powerless state. I am in a place in my life when I look at the “stuff” around me that is left from the acquisition phase of life, and remember how many times I acquired something because it was cute, or interesting, or even weird. Many of those things have memories attached to them. Some of them even have someone else’s memories attached to them. But the ones that I really treasure are the ones that seem to tell me or remind me of something valuable that I might have forgotten, or not yet learned. I have the cigarette case that belonged to my grandfather, and it reminds me of his methodical way of counting our ten cigarettes in the morning, filling the case, for that was all it held, and when those were done, no matter the time of day, he was done smoking. I keep the case, not because I smoke, but because I hope that seeing it will teach me when ‘enough is enough’ in all the different areas of my life. Just because there is more cake on the plate, does not mean that I am not finished with my portion. Just because I can think of a few more angry words, does not mean that the disagreement is not over when everything that was necessary to say has been said. As I prepare to part with the things that have less importance to me, I love that someone else may find the very things that I can part with something that has or gives great meaning to their life. For years, I have had bookcases full of books in my house, and I have recently begun to sort them, and to share them. Mostly, I have already read them, and will not be doing so again, with few exceptions. Having them gathering dust in my library does not introduce a new idea into the world, it does not improve anyone’s mind, it does not add to the learning in the world, or be the germ of a new idea. Giving them away, hoping that someone else will have the enjoyment that I had when I first read that book, or connect with an idea that they had not previously entertained, is so much better than the dust platforms that they had become on my shelf (although I do dust my books quite often). This time of year is the time to plant, so that we may sow later, it is a time for new thoughts, new friends, new learning. It is also a time for remembering—what we have done in the past year that we would not like to repeat, what we need to see with new eyes, who we need to see in a new light, and what we would like to create with this one precious life we have. Every morning that we open our eyes is a new opportunity to have more joy, to share it, to create love and share learning. I have been looking around me, and the long hot summer has taken a toll on our gardens, and even the trees look dusty. As we enter upon a new year, let us hope that Nature will be kind to us, and bring rain in its season in the proper amounts so as to nurture us. And then let us return the favor, to nurture our planet and to be kind to it, to care for it, for it is the season to harvest and rejoice.

Healing and Wholeness

The loss of a beloved pet is unlike any other. It’s not greater, or less. But it is different. Today, only five days since my darling Lucy died, there is a hole in me that I feel will never be filled. Of course I will heal from this loss. I have achieved a sort of healing from other losses in my life, my beloved parents, brother, grandparents, and even other pets, but this one is different. Losing Lucy was like losing a part of myself. She was my constant companion, since the day we brought her home from the shelter. She was attuned to my moods; she followed me around the house, and awaited my return when I had to go out. She told me things with her glance and her body language, and I always felt that when I spoke to her I was carrying on a two way conversation. I am still in the depth of the shock of loss. I realize, however, that accepting loss is an important part of life. And as we get older, the losses mount up, and we face loss in so many forms that when we are younger, we just never happen to think about. When we experience loss, we learn empathy and compassion, but we also learn that the pain of loss is worse even than physical pain. Dean Koontz, in his book Odd Hours wrote: “Grief can destroy you—or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. Or you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn’t allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it.” So the reason I allow myself the indulgence of writing about my loss, is to reflect on the sacredness of the bonds that we make in life, whether for our families, our loving and loved friends, our beloved pets, and even for the ‘things’ we love because of the memories they represent for us. Grief is the recognition that something that we had and valued has passed out of our sphere. And if we are careful not to become bogged down in the grief, we can take the next step in the process by recognizing the gratitude we feel for the joy of having had that person, or that pet, in our lives—for the joy shared, for the sacred times and bonds of love. I am still expecting to see Lucy when I get out of bed in the morning, when I look over to the spot on the floor of my office that she occupied when I was working on my computer, and when that place is empty, I feel the pang of loss, but I will not always. I am making the effort to appreciate the hours I spent grooming Lucy, and how we both enjoyed it. I am remembering her doggy smile, and the days when she would chase a ball on our early morning exercise, and I am reflecting that smile. I am consciously trying to capture a sense of gratitude for all the years of happiness that we shared, and when I do those things, I know that healing will come and with it some restoration of wholeness. It will take a while, and the wholeness will never again be really whole, because the Lucy part will be missing, just like the Victor part is missing, and the Mom and Dad parts are missing. But with the wake-up call that each loss is for us, let us be more aware of the sacredness of each relationship and each day, and experience the gratitude for it that makes life worth living.

The Lessons of a Life

In every act that we undertake in life, there are lessons to be learned. And in even the hardest lessons that we have to learn, there are choices to be made and things for which to be grateful. We may not recognize at the time what we should be grateful for, but given an open mind and heart, it will come. Today, I have made the choice to put aside the pain of having had to make the choice to release my beloved Lucy from the pain with which she has been living, and to make of my own life a more barren place, a place without a fuzzy friend and companion who shared my deepest secrets, my highest highs, my greatest disappointments and fears, and who kept counsel with me when I needed a confidant. Lucy came to us from the shelter. She was two years old, not particularly housebroken, because she had been kept out of doors all of her life, even in the rain. She had not had an easy life. She was timid, even though she was a large dog and could have been fierce. She had been mistreated in the home she lived in, and brought to the shelter with two other dogs to get her away from an angry old man with a cane that he wasn’t afraid to use as a weapon. Her sweetness was apparent to Reina who was almost eighteen at the time, and we said it was her turn to choose. When we adopted her, she carried the name “Negra”, meaning black. She was black and tan, as beautiful a German Shepherd as can be, and when we left the shelter, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was playing, and she became Lucy to us. She loved to chase a ball, she wasn’t much interested in food, and I had to teach her to bark when the doorbell rang. We would go toward the door together, me barking, and her looking at me as if I’d lost my mind, but she finally caught on that she was the one who was supposed to be barking. Her patience in learning how to live in a household where she was treasured and pampered and loved was almost hard to watch. She expected to be punished when she made a mistake, and she had to learn, I think, not to be afraid. From the early days, Lucy learned that I would take her out, feed her, brush her, and I had to learn that she would miss me, and wait for me by the door and depend on me, and sleep near my bed, and shadow me everywhere in the house. I had to learn to be loved with that adoration that only a dog can give. She was young and strong and would leap into the back of my car to go for rides. Taking her out in the morning taught me the value of regular exercise. When we went to our local park, children would often gather around us, because she was so big and beautiful, and some would hang back in fear, but she would win them over with her quiet ways. She would stand still and let me show the little ones how to let their hands be sniffed so that Lucy could be sure they were not dangerous. Never once in eleven years did I see her become aggressive. Bob often said that having Lucy around was like having a tranquilizer in the house. She was so mellow and loving, that even the worst day could be made better by petting her. Our home was a better place because she was part of it. Our previous pet had attacked food the moment it was put on the floor for her, but Lucy, one of three in her original household, learned that food had to be approached carefully, because it might be fraught with danger, a lesson that we could possibly all afford to learn. Today’s lesson was the hardest. It was that I had to let her go. I could not hold her for myself, but had to consider her pain and her welfare first. Lucy will remain part of me as long as I live, and it is one of the great comforts that I was able to bring a measure of happiness and love to her life that she had not previously known .Holding Lucy in my heart is not like holding Lucy in my arms, but it will have to suffice. If there is a Rainbow Bridge, and I truly hope that there is, I know that my other dogs were waiting there for her to welcome her to that place of no pain. All the pain is left behind, but here there is also gratitude—for the lovely and loving years we spent together, me as your Mom and you as my sunshine, my eternal toddler. I know that as the days pass, there will be other lessons as well that you have left behind, my darling dog, and I will keep learning them, as I must.

Things Gained and Lost

This morning, as I moved the wet laundry into the dryer, I relived a sweet memory, or memories, of the years I spent hanging wet laundry out on a clothesline. It got me to thinking of all the changes we have all made over time, many to the good and some not so good. When I was in junior high school and had learned to type, I typed my older brother’s term papers on a manual typewriter. We had bought it second hand, the clacking keys sometimes stuck and made so much noise, that often when I got the pages to type late and was typing late into the night, I had to do it downstairs where I did not disturb the rest of the family. When the ribbon needed a change, I practically had to take a bath afterward because I got so dirty. And if we needed more than one copy, I had to deal with carbon paper—and the erasures on the copies that had to be dealt with. Later, when I was eight months pregnant, I typed my husband’s thesis on an electric typewriter. Because it was electric, each keystroke was equally hard, so the printed page appeared more even. There were no especially dark letters, but the erasure problem persisted, but since there had to be five perfectly printed copies, if there was a mistake the whole page had to be retyped. All of this brings me to today, as I sit here at my keyboard, looking at my monitor, making corrections as I go, and even having the machine itself call for spelling and grammar corrections, knowing that each printed copy, no matter how many I want, or whether I want them to be printed “portrait or landscape”, they will all appear exactly as I decide I want them to. And even if I decide I want to make a few changes later, I can do that too without starting all over. And how many other things can we point to and say pretty much the same things. I never go to the market or out in the car without my cell phone, and yet, for many years I managed to shop without calling home, and I managed to get around town usually without needing assistance. Yes, I am happier to know that my daughters have a cell phone should they need help in a hurry, but what has been the price of all of this convenience? Sticking to just these two examples, the price of having my computer is the fact that my desk is dedicated to it. Without a room dedicated to it, others have to be annoyed by the glow and the sounds, and the clacking of keys. One price of the convenience of email is that we no longer send love letters on beautiful stationary that can be tied up with a ribbon and put away to read later when we want to remember. It is also that we are forever at the mercy of advertisers, or the urgencies of others. It is the vulnerability of young children to predators on the internet. I fear that another cost is our attention span. When dial-up is so slow that we can’t stand it, waiting for an elderly person to finish crossing the street is at risk. Sometimes being able to call someone right now when I am in a foul temper, rather than waiting until I have gotten home and put away the groceries, giving me time to cool off and get some perspective is no advantage. I feel as if I am getting to be a curmudgeon, when I see people in the park talking to their phones, rather than to each other or their children, when I see teens in a group, all texting, rather than laughing and flirting and talking to each other, and it makes me sad and a little angry at the same time. We are losing the art of face to face conversation, of hearing each other, of considering the effects of our communications. I do not argue here for the abolition of technology or advancement, I guess what I want is an understanding of what can be lost if we do not take the gains in our stride.