I remember being 12 years old and feeling as if it was absolutely the worst year of my life. I was too old to be thought of as a child even though I still clung to things from childhood that were familiar and safe like my stuffed toy collection and Saturday morning cartoons. On the other hand, I was not old enough to be considered a teenager with all of the lure of makeup, mini skirts (this was the 60's folks) and boys. I didn't know how to define myself and it just about drove me crazy as I'm sure it did every other 12 year old girl before and since.
In July I will turn 65 and lately I've been having that same awkward feeling. It happens every time I go shopping for clothes, or turn on the TV, or pick up a magazine. I feel it when I look for a nice romance story on the bookshelves or on my Nook with characters I can relate to.
So here's the thing: I don't want to dress like my granddaughter, but I don't want to dress like Granny Clampett either. I don't want to have to sit through one more commercial for face lifts, or chair lifts, or pills, but I'd like to see more women my age sitting in board rooms, or classrooms, or workout rooms. I'd like to see designers and marketing people who do their homework and find out what women our age really want. If they would take off their mirrored sun glasses and take a real look at the demographics, they would find that Boomers, and especially Boomer Women, still have plenty of clout and aren't afraid to use it.
Perhaps, rather than try to find way to fit in one way or the other, we should just create a whole new age. I don't mean like calling 6o the new 40 or 65 as middle age (although that would be a nice thought, wouldn't it?). I mean like doing away with the whole idea of "old." or, "senior," and come up with a whole new niche. Or, maybe we don't even need a niche. Maybe we should just call ourselves, "Glorious Me," as in, "what would Glorious Me like to wear today?" or, "maybe Glorious Me should just write that book where the characters are in their 60's, vibrant, healthy and looking for love?"
So, here and now I am throwing down the gauntlet and starting a whole new age group called Glorious Me. I invite you all to join me and add your own thoughts and ideas. Let's start a revolution that says, "look out world, here we come."
And so it is.
P.S. I eventually gave up the Saturday morning cartoons but, as you all know, I still have the teddy bears. Rock on!
Monday, May 5, 2014
Monday, April 21, 2014
A Teacher Is ... The Power Of One
In 1960 I was in the 6th grade at P.S. 90 Elementary School in Queens, NY. My teacher's name was Mr. Zimmler. He was the first male teacher I ever had and to say that he was unique was an understatement.
Mr. Zimmler was a short, stubby man with a ring of shocking, dark black hair around a bald head. Everything about him was stubby, right down to his fingers. Nevertheless, he wore a dark suit to school every day even though he always looked like he was terribly uncomfortable in it.
There are two things I remember most about him other than how he looked. One was that he loved to read, and he shared that love with his class. At the end of each day about 15 minutes before the bell would ring, he would take out a book and read to us. He had a deep, resonating voice and he would read from the classics, from all different genres, with passion and feeling. His special love was the Civil War, and when he read "A Stillness At Appomattox," you could hear a pin drop in the room. When the bell rang, we would all utter a collective moan knowing we had to wait until tomorrow to hear what happened next.
The other thing I remember about him was that he was a man who observed the proprieties in life which included how his class behaved. He would tolerate no insubordination, no lack of self-control. He addressed each of us by our surnames, as in Miss Smith and Mr. Jones. His favorite method of punishment for any infringement of the rules was the dreaded Composition. Now these were no ordinary compositions. These were very specific and very long, at least to an 11 or 12 year old. "Mr. Jones, tonight you will write a 500 word composition on why it is important to do your homework," or, "Miss Smith, 800 words tonight on why it is impolite to comb your hair in class."
Now I was an avid student, always ready and willing to learn, so my assignments never had anything to do with not doing homework, or paying more attention to my appearance than to what was going on in class. No, my assignments always had to do with my mouth, or, rather, my inability to keep it closed. I was a woman with causes, lots of them, not the least of which was inequality, both with the civil rights of African Americans, and with women's rights. This translated in class into lectures to my male classmates on inappropriate language and behavior around the "women" in the room, many of which got me no satisfaction and a lot of punishment compositions on topics like why it was un-ladylike to hit Frank over the head with a notebook if I didn't like what he called me. However, rather than address my own failings, I would launch into one of my tirades on freedom of speech as long as it didn't cross the boundaries of good taste, or why women needed to be treated as equals. He never said a word when I handed in my epic essays the next morning, just said thank you and went on with his day. By June I was up to 1,000 words.
On the last day of school, during our traditional homeroom party, he called me aside and asked me to follow him down the hall. I could not imagine what I had done now. Usually we did not know whether we had gotten promoted until the report cards were handed out right before we left, neither did we know who our teacher for the next year would be until then either. Mr. Zimmler stopped in front of the room of a 7th grade teacher, Mrs. Rothholtz, who was also an English teacher. He told me to go in as she wanted to see me, and then return to his room "post haste."
She greeted me warmly and invited me to sit down next to her desk. She opened a folder that was laying there and, low and behold, there were all of my punishment compositions. She told me that Mr. Zimmler had brought them to her attention. I started to sweat: my reputation was preceding me. Then she said that such talent needed to be nourished. She gave me a reading list for over the summer with names like Fitzgerald and Hemingway, and poets like Edna St. Vincent Millay and Emily Dickinson, then handed me a book called, "So You Want To Be A Journalist." She said she was looking forward to working with me in September.
When I got back to my class room, Mr. Zimmler said nothing but his smile said everything.
One person alone can change lives. Each in our own way, we touch the lives of others. Whose life can you touch today?
And so it is.
Mr. Zimmler was a short, stubby man with a ring of shocking, dark black hair around a bald head. Everything about him was stubby, right down to his fingers. Nevertheless, he wore a dark suit to school every day even though he always looked like he was terribly uncomfortable in it.
There are two things I remember most about him other than how he looked. One was that he loved to read, and he shared that love with his class. At the end of each day about 15 minutes before the bell would ring, he would take out a book and read to us. He had a deep, resonating voice and he would read from the classics, from all different genres, with passion and feeling. His special love was the Civil War, and when he read "A Stillness At Appomattox," you could hear a pin drop in the room. When the bell rang, we would all utter a collective moan knowing we had to wait until tomorrow to hear what happened next.
The other thing I remember about him was that he was a man who observed the proprieties in life which included how his class behaved. He would tolerate no insubordination, no lack of self-control. He addressed each of us by our surnames, as in Miss Smith and Mr. Jones. His favorite method of punishment for any infringement of the rules was the dreaded Composition. Now these were no ordinary compositions. These were very specific and very long, at least to an 11 or 12 year old. "Mr. Jones, tonight you will write a 500 word composition on why it is important to do your homework," or, "Miss Smith, 800 words tonight on why it is impolite to comb your hair in class."
Now I was an avid student, always ready and willing to learn, so my assignments never had anything to do with not doing homework, or paying more attention to my appearance than to what was going on in class. No, my assignments always had to do with my mouth, or, rather, my inability to keep it closed. I was a woman with causes, lots of them, not the least of which was inequality, both with the civil rights of African Americans, and with women's rights. This translated in class into lectures to my male classmates on inappropriate language and behavior around the "women" in the room, many of which got me no satisfaction and a lot of punishment compositions on topics like why it was un-ladylike to hit Frank over the head with a notebook if I didn't like what he called me. However, rather than address my own failings, I would launch into one of my tirades on freedom of speech as long as it didn't cross the boundaries of good taste, or why women needed to be treated as equals. He never said a word when I handed in my epic essays the next morning, just said thank you and went on with his day. By June I was up to 1,000 words.
On the last day of school, during our traditional homeroom party, he called me aside and asked me to follow him down the hall. I could not imagine what I had done now. Usually we did not know whether we had gotten promoted until the report cards were handed out right before we left, neither did we know who our teacher for the next year would be until then either. Mr. Zimmler stopped in front of the room of a 7th grade teacher, Mrs. Rothholtz, who was also an English teacher. He told me to go in as she wanted to see me, and then return to his room "post haste."
She greeted me warmly and invited me to sit down next to her desk. She opened a folder that was laying there and, low and behold, there were all of my punishment compositions. She told me that Mr. Zimmler had brought them to her attention. I started to sweat: my reputation was preceding me. Then she said that such talent needed to be nourished. She gave me a reading list for over the summer with names like Fitzgerald and Hemingway, and poets like Edna St. Vincent Millay and Emily Dickinson, then handed me a book called, "So You Want To Be A Journalist." She said she was looking forward to working with me in September.
When I got back to my class room, Mr. Zimmler said nothing but his smile said everything.
One person alone can change lives. Each in our own way, we touch the lives of others. Whose life can you touch today?
And so it is.
Monday, April 14, 2014
The View From The 21st Century
I am writing this on my brand-spanking-new laptop computer complete with all of the bells and whistles, some of which are so strange looking that I have no idea what they are for. That's okay, like everything that has been coming at me since we entered this new century, I will figure it out by and by.
I have been debating the pros and cons of buying a new computer for many, many months now. Did I really want to go to the expense of a whole new laptop when I might be able to get the old one upgraded again? Did I really need a web cam? Plus all of the updated software I needed (I was running an old Word Perfect program that was just a step up from a chisel and a stone). Finally, I sat myself down and gave myself a good talking to:
"Listen, girlfriend. You always settle for less. You always settle for make-do-with-what-you have.
You use that laptop every day. You use it to write your blog and to work on your book. It is
not compatible with anything created after Adam and Eve! You Deserve A New Laptop."
Never in my entire life had I told myself that I deserved anything .... well, I mean, other than that dish of watermelon sherbet I had after I did that 3 1/2 mile walk on Saturday. I mean something big. I had never allowed myself to believe that I deserved to treat myself to something that I wanted badly. I thought back to a video I had seen of a program that Life Coach Cheryl Richardson had done for PBS some time ago. In it she challenged us to be willing to "give up good for great." An upgrade on my 8 year old laptop would be good. New software would be good. A brand new laptop with every I needed and wanted on it would be great.
So I went for great. I'm probably going to be playing with all of the new apps and buttons for the next 6 months at least. Rather than being overwhelmed by them as I would have been not too long ago, I told myself that if I could figure out how to set up a blog site by myself, I could figure out all of this new stuff as well. Wait until I figure out Skype! Won't my grandson be surprised when Grammy hows up waving to him from 200 miles away? Look out, 21st century, Grammy is hot on your trail!
And so it is.
I have been debating the pros and cons of buying a new computer for many, many months now. Did I really want to go to the expense of a whole new laptop when I might be able to get the old one upgraded again? Did I really need a web cam? Plus all of the updated software I needed (I was running an old Word Perfect program that was just a step up from a chisel and a stone). Finally, I sat myself down and gave myself a good talking to:
"Listen, girlfriend. You always settle for less. You always settle for make-do-with-what-you have.
You use that laptop every day. You use it to write your blog and to work on your book. It is
not compatible with anything created after Adam and Eve! You Deserve A New Laptop."
Never in my entire life had I told myself that I deserved anything .... well, I mean, other than that dish of watermelon sherbet I had after I did that 3 1/2 mile walk on Saturday. I mean something big. I had never allowed myself to believe that I deserved to treat myself to something that I wanted badly. I thought back to a video I had seen of a program that Life Coach Cheryl Richardson had done for PBS some time ago. In it she challenged us to be willing to "give up good for great." An upgrade on my 8 year old laptop would be good. New software would be good. A brand new laptop with every I needed and wanted on it would be great.
So I went for great. I'm probably going to be playing with all of the new apps and buttons for the next 6 months at least. Rather than being overwhelmed by them as I would have been not too long ago, I told myself that if I could figure out how to set up a blog site by myself, I could figure out all of this new stuff as well. Wait until I figure out Skype! Won't my grandson be surprised when Grammy hows up waving to him from 200 miles away? Look out, 21st century, Grammy is hot on your trail!
And so it is.
Monday, April 7, 2014
The Honor Is All Mine
I was reading a post today on Facebook from a sixty and over group and they asked the following question: "What is your most emotional memory?" Just about every woman who responded had the same answer: "when my mother passed away." This response got me to thinking about how we see ourselves as mothers verses how our children see us.
Mothers take a really big hit in our culture. We are blamed for all of the dysfunctional behavior on the planet, or so it seems, and for turning out all of these disturbed children who grow up to be disturbed adults. Yet good or bad, effective or ineffective, the passing of our mothers forces us to take a closer look at them as individuals, as people, and as teachers. What matters to me is not whether I did a good job at raising my girls or not, but whether what they learned from me will serve them in their own lives and the lives of my grandchildren, and beyond. If I can leave them any pearls of wisdom at all, it would be these:
Mothers take a really big hit in our culture. We are blamed for all of the dysfunctional behavior on the planet, or so it seems, and for turning out all of these disturbed children who grow up to be disturbed adults. Yet good or bad, effective or ineffective, the passing of our mothers forces us to take a closer look at them as individuals, as people, and as teachers. What matters to me is not whether I did a good job at raising my girls or not, but whether what they learned from me will serve them in their own lives and the lives of my grandchildren, and beyond. If I can leave them any pearls of wisdom at all, it would be these:
- Learn from my mistakes, don't repeat them
- Self-love and self-care isn't being selfish, it's being responsible
- To admit you were wrong is to grow
- Live your passion now
- Love your children where they are, not where you want them to be
I've written before about my joy at watching the livestream of the Decorah Eagles on UStream. Every year I watch them return to their birthing nest in the late fall to make the necessary repairs, lay their eggs in late February and wait like an expectant Auntie for the first chick to make his or her appearance in late March. So far we have two hatched out of three eggs with the third one due any day. I can sit for hours just watching that mother eagle on the nest, getting up only to feed her babies with the food Dad has brought her and to rearrange herself over them against the wind, snow and cold of an early Iowa spring. She never falters in her duties and her presence is both protective and powerful. I've watched this same behavior with wolves and their pups. It is from these noble teachers, and from the stories of my ancestors, that I have come to realize that being a mother is not a job, not a chore, but an honor. I am humbled by this and know that it will make me more aware of the things I say and do that my children will carry with them when I choose to make my own transition. When I think of all the women who long for children and can't have them, I feel deep gratitude for having been chosen for this honor, and I accept it with all of the dignity I can muster.
And so it is.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Where's Your Walden?
Last week I was pulling books off of my bookshelves in my semi-annual book purge. For some reason when Autumn begins to turn cold with hints of the Winter to come, I find it absolutely necessary to attend every book sale and garage sale in order to stock up on reading material in the event that I am snowed in for weeks at a time and cannot feed my habit. It doesn't matter that, A. I live 3 blocks from the library, B. The longest we've ever been snowed in is two days and, C. I have a Nook and can download books from the library or the online store without leaving home. It just doesn't fill me with the same amount of assurance as the sight of sagging book shelves bursting forth with invitations to hours of delight in the land of imagination.
As I was picking up each title and wondering what had possessed me to buy these in the first place (I already read this last winter, I told myself more than a few times), a book fell off and hit my foot. Ouch! It was a hardcover. I picked it up and turned it over. Walden by Henry David Thoreau. I doubt there are many members of the Baby Boomer Generation that did not find this particular title on their required reading lists in either high school or college. How many of us in the throes of the peace and love movement did not dream of living off the land and turning our backs on the establishment. However, by the time the movement was at it's peak, I was already married and a mother trying to make a go of a bad marriage and a string of bad decisions. However, I never stopped believing that I would find my Walden. Twenty years later, I did. In March 1992 I moved in to the top half of an historic old home in a small village in upstate New York on the banks of a river that had an Indian name a mile long, but which I nicknamed My Walden. For seven beautiful years I had the opportunity to introduce me to myself and to know, finally, who I was.
Sadly, economics forced me out of my nest on the river, jobs in that area being scarce. For the last 15 years I have dreamed of the day when I would retire full time and go home once more to My Walden. Now with that possibility on the horizon, I am asking myself some serious questions: Was it the actual place that soothed my soul and healed me, or was it what I learned there? Is it possible that it was like going away to college where you learn what you need to know and then go out into the world and live it? It would be a big undertaking to once again move myself bag and baggage back to a place where most of my old friends are gone and my family would not be 5 minutes away as they are now, when what I'm really after is the "feeling" of My Walden? Is that something that I can recreate wherever I am?
So I'm wondering what your Walden is? Is it a physical place, or is it a feeling, a knowing, a way of living? Is it something you can take with you wherever you are, or is it who you are? I would really love to know your thoughts on this and your own experiences. In the meantime, I think it would be a perfect way to spend an afternoon if I just made myself a cup of tea and curled up with old Henry David again on the banks of Walden Pond. Maybe by the time I"m done, I'll know the answer.
And so it is.
As I was picking up each title and wondering what had possessed me to buy these in the first place (I already read this last winter, I told myself more than a few times), a book fell off and hit my foot. Ouch! It was a hardcover. I picked it up and turned it over. Walden by Henry David Thoreau. I doubt there are many members of the Baby Boomer Generation that did not find this particular title on their required reading lists in either high school or college. How many of us in the throes of the peace and love movement did not dream of living off the land and turning our backs on the establishment. However, by the time the movement was at it's peak, I was already married and a mother trying to make a go of a bad marriage and a string of bad decisions. However, I never stopped believing that I would find my Walden. Twenty years later, I did. In March 1992 I moved in to the top half of an historic old home in a small village in upstate New York on the banks of a river that had an Indian name a mile long, but which I nicknamed My Walden. For seven beautiful years I had the opportunity to introduce me to myself and to know, finally, who I was.
Sadly, economics forced me out of my nest on the river, jobs in that area being scarce. For the last 15 years I have dreamed of the day when I would retire full time and go home once more to My Walden. Now with that possibility on the horizon, I am asking myself some serious questions: Was it the actual place that soothed my soul and healed me, or was it what I learned there? Is it possible that it was like going away to college where you learn what you need to know and then go out into the world and live it? It would be a big undertaking to once again move myself bag and baggage back to a place where most of my old friends are gone and my family would not be 5 minutes away as they are now, when what I'm really after is the "feeling" of My Walden? Is that something that I can recreate wherever I am?
So I'm wondering what your Walden is? Is it a physical place, or is it a feeling, a knowing, a way of living? Is it something you can take with you wherever you are, or is it who you are? I would really love to know your thoughts on this and your own experiences. In the meantime, I think it would be a perfect way to spend an afternoon if I just made myself a cup of tea and curled up with old Henry David again on the banks of Walden Pond. Maybe by the time I"m done, I'll know the answer.
And so it is.
Monday, March 24, 2014
I Think Mother Nature Is Having An identity Crisis
There is a saying where I live in upstate New York that says if you don't like the weather, just wait a minute and it will change. This morning was a perfect example of that very thing.
I woke up to beautiful sunshine for a change. Although there was some frost on the windows and the rooftops, just seeing the sun after this endless winter was a blessing. It filled me with energy and I popped out of bed determined to get some stuff done that I had been putting off while I tried to shake yet another cold and another bout of "when will winter end" blues.
I fed the cats, parked myself in meditation and morning prayers for about 30 minutes, wrote "Flower Bear's Thought For The Day," (Flower Bear has a Facebook page where she lays down a bit of Bear Wisdom every day), then went into the kitchen to make breakfast and empty the dishwasher.
There are no windows in my apartment kitchen. When I came out with my morning smoothie in one hand and my coffee in the other, I turned the corner to go into the den to write, and ... it was snowing! A full-blown snow squall was blowing past the window over my desk. I could feel my energy meter take a plunge back into the red zone. "Are you kidding me?" I yelled to Mother Nature. "Can't you make up your mind what season you want to be?"
I sometimes wonder if Mother Nature is having an identity crisis. Is it possible that she's been around so long she's going through menopause just like the rest of us? Maybe hot flashes one day and the need to bake in the sun the next? Does she get cravings for ice cream (okay, that's just me, it has nothing to do with menopause)? Does she feel like she's still 40 one day and 90 the next? Has she reached that age where she's just not sure who she's supposed to be?
I think the hardest thing about getting older is trying to decide who we are now, and who we are supposed to be. One day I'll spend the day working like crazy at my desk coming up with all kinds of new writing projects, or chuck it all and lace up the old sneakers for a good, long walk. The next day I ask myself why I want to burden myself with work when I can go out, have fun, read a book, start my indoor seedlings, etc. Who is this lady in the mirror with the grey hair and wrinkles anyway?
Quite simply, I am me. I am just me. I like walks. I like to write. I like to read. I love to garden even on a small scale. I love watching birds and squirrels at the feeders, and my grandchildren grow, and my first great-grandson smile when he sees me, and a really good salad, and really great pasta, and a blessed cup of coffee to greet me after my morning meditations. I don't have to be anyone else (they're all taken anyway, so the saying goes). So what if I want to write a best-seller one day and go play in the dirt the next? That's the great part about being me: every day is a new adventure and even I don't always know what it will be until I wake up and decide.
So go ahead, Mother Nature, you be whoever you want to be today. If you want to snow, I'll put up a pot of soup and cuddle my cats. If you want to play at Spring, my sneakers are right by the door. As long as you're happy, that's all that matters.
And so it is.
I woke up to beautiful sunshine for a change. Although there was some frost on the windows and the rooftops, just seeing the sun after this endless winter was a blessing. It filled me with energy and I popped out of bed determined to get some stuff done that I had been putting off while I tried to shake yet another cold and another bout of "when will winter end" blues.
I fed the cats, parked myself in meditation and morning prayers for about 30 minutes, wrote "Flower Bear's Thought For The Day," (Flower Bear has a Facebook page where she lays down a bit of Bear Wisdom every day), then went into the kitchen to make breakfast and empty the dishwasher.
There are no windows in my apartment kitchen. When I came out with my morning smoothie in one hand and my coffee in the other, I turned the corner to go into the den to write, and ... it was snowing! A full-blown snow squall was blowing past the window over my desk. I could feel my energy meter take a plunge back into the red zone. "Are you kidding me?" I yelled to Mother Nature. "Can't you make up your mind what season you want to be?"
I sometimes wonder if Mother Nature is having an identity crisis. Is it possible that she's been around so long she's going through menopause just like the rest of us? Maybe hot flashes one day and the need to bake in the sun the next? Does she get cravings for ice cream (okay, that's just me, it has nothing to do with menopause)? Does she feel like she's still 40 one day and 90 the next? Has she reached that age where she's just not sure who she's supposed to be?
I think the hardest thing about getting older is trying to decide who we are now, and who we are supposed to be. One day I'll spend the day working like crazy at my desk coming up with all kinds of new writing projects, or chuck it all and lace up the old sneakers for a good, long walk. The next day I ask myself why I want to burden myself with work when I can go out, have fun, read a book, start my indoor seedlings, etc. Who is this lady in the mirror with the grey hair and wrinkles anyway?
Quite simply, I am me. I am just me. I like walks. I like to write. I like to read. I love to garden even on a small scale. I love watching birds and squirrels at the feeders, and my grandchildren grow, and my first great-grandson smile when he sees me, and a really good salad, and really great pasta, and a blessed cup of coffee to greet me after my morning meditations. I don't have to be anyone else (they're all taken anyway, so the saying goes). So what if I want to write a best-seller one day and go play in the dirt the next? That's the great part about being me: every day is a new adventure and even I don't always know what it will be until I wake up and decide.
So go ahead, Mother Nature, you be whoever you want to be today. If you want to snow, I'll put up a pot of soup and cuddle my cats. If you want to play at Spring, my sneakers are right by the door. As long as you're happy, that's all that matters.
And so it is.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Lost: One Warm And Fuzzy Place
Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I am pretty much a happy-go-lucky kind of gal. Sure, I have my down time just like anyone else, but I can usually pull myself out of it with some good old TLC and a walk around the block.
This winter has been a real challenge for me with its grey, cold, snowy days that were strung together day after day like an endless string of pearls. Still, on days when even a peek of sunshine popped out, I was able to smile and make the best of it. Today, however, I'm stuck. The sun is shinning, the sky is crystal blue, and although it is still cold out, it is a crisp cold, the kind of day that usually sparks my energy and releases my warm and fuzzy place inside. Nope, it's just not there today, all because of something that happened yesterday.
After our Unity group met yesterday, the lady we rent our space from was downright rude, unprofessional and insulting because we ran over time. In short, she really pushed my buttons. I wasn't even upset that she was speaking that way to me as much as I was that she then aimed her vile energy at someone who is one of the kindest, gentlest, most loving people I know - my minister. At that point it was taking all that I had not turn it into a major ugly incident. Unfortunately, what I didn't vent yesterday has overflowed into today and locked the door to my warm and fuzzy place.
I sat here for a while and, after looking at the incident in the light of a new day, I know that whatever prompted her to act like that came from her own life experience of which I have no knowledge. I'm not condoning her behavior, I'm just accepting it for what it was ... her behavior. It's not what she says that counts, it's how I chose to respond. Then I thought about what Rev. Diane spoke about that morning. She said, "you have to love people where they are, not where you want them to be." So I'm giving it my best shot, and then I'm going to put the episode where it belongs, into the Over-And-Done-Pile.
But I still have to find my way back to my warm and fuzzy place. So I am chucking the desk work for today and taking myself out for a walk in the brisk, cold sunshine. First a stop at the health food store for one of my very favorite, organic, WFGF, giant chocolate chip cookies and a package of chicory coffee. Then I will stroll along the river path and share my cookie with the squirrels and birds who are celebrating the sunshine as much as I am. Finally, I will take myself home, make a cup of that yummy coffee, and kick back with the new Wayne Dyer book I just bought. Now that's some big time TLC.
Gee, just thinking about it has cracked open the door to my warm and fuzzy place. By loving myself where I am, I find my way back. Here's hoping that today you'll be able to find your warm and fuzzy place, too.
And so it is.
This winter has been a real challenge for me with its grey, cold, snowy days that were strung together day after day like an endless string of pearls. Still, on days when even a peek of sunshine popped out, I was able to smile and make the best of it. Today, however, I'm stuck. The sun is shinning, the sky is crystal blue, and although it is still cold out, it is a crisp cold, the kind of day that usually sparks my energy and releases my warm and fuzzy place inside. Nope, it's just not there today, all because of something that happened yesterday.
After our Unity group met yesterday, the lady we rent our space from was downright rude, unprofessional and insulting because we ran over time. In short, she really pushed my buttons. I wasn't even upset that she was speaking that way to me as much as I was that she then aimed her vile energy at someone who is one of the kindest, gentlest, most loving people I know - my minister. At that point it was taking all that I had not turn it into a major ugly incident. Unfortunately, what I didn't vent yesterday has overflowed into today and locked the door to my warm and fuzzy place.
I sat here for a while and, after looking at the incident in the light of a new day, I know that whatever prompted her to act like that came from her own life experience of which I have no knowledge. I'm not condoning her behavior, I'm just accepting it for what it was ... her behavior. It's not what she says that counts, it's how I chose to respond. Then I thought about what Rev. Diane spoke about that morning. She said, "you have to love people where they are, not where you want them to be." So I'm giving it my best shot, and then I'm going to put the episode where it belongs, into the Over-And-Done-Pile.
But I still have to find my way back to my warm and fuzzy place. So I am chucking the desk work for today and taking myself out for a walk in the brisk, cold sunshine. First a stop at the health food store for one of my very favorite, organic, WFGF, giant chocolate chip cookies and a package of chicory coffee. Then I will stroll along the river path and share my cookie with the squirrels and birds who are celebrating the sunshine as much as I am. Finally, I will take myself home, make a cup of that yummy coffee, and kick back with the new Wayne Dyer book I just bought. Now that's some big time TLC.
Gee, just thinking about it has cracked open the door to my warm and fuzzy place. By loving myself where I am, I find my way back. Here's hoping that today you'll be able to find your warm and fuzzy place, too.
And so it is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)