• Parenting books, some of which I never read. In some cases, the title alone was lesson enough: “How To Behave So Your Children Will Too” by Sal Severe. Well-put Sal.
• Booking appointments back-to-back, especially if any of the timing is contingent on my teenager getting out of bed on time.
• Multi-tasking in the morning – I accidentally sent one daughter to school with a slab of raw bacon this week instead of the intended two slices of pepperoni pizza.
• A pale-pink bra that was the ideal colour and fit, but inexplicably irritated my skin in a place that was exactly impossible to itch. Is it just me, or is the perfect piece of clothing an oxymoron?
• No more super-sized jars of “just peanuts” peanut butter! Have you ever tried to stir a mega-jar of this stuff? It’s a one-way street to peanut-induced carpal tunnel syndrome. I’m sticking to the small jars, with their manageable stirring-quantities.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
From Thermos to Whine
Seriously? The left side of my brain shrieks at the right. Are you seriously debating the merits of four instead of five Thermoses? Man, you need a day job girlfriend.
Yeah, well, says you, the Right retorts.
Lame, says the Left.
I am overwhelmed, I clean out one cupboard and a single drawer, but instead of feeling the usual surge of energy and lightness that comes with completing such tasks, I feel the heavy weight of dread. There is so much more stuff in this house and I feel crushed by the weight of it.
Does anyone else out there feel like they are living in a warehouse? I mean, apart from the folks appearing on – what’s that TLC show? – Hoarding: Buried Alive. I couldn’t watch that show for more than five minutes. I’d suffer nightmares for months.
I need some fresh air here. An intervention. The undoing of retail therapy (and I’m not even a shopper, for pete’s sakes). I need to call John the Junk Guy and make a date. Yes, that’s the ticket. More on that later in the week. For now, I just need a stiff half-glass of red wine and a good book.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Face Cloths & Trash Mountains
My sister and I sit at the dining room table, post-breakfast, half-finished coffee cups between us. We’re in Florida on a short holiday with our parents, a rare treat, since I can’t remember our even taking vacations together when we were kids, let alone at our advanced ages of forty-two and fifty-one.
We’re fixed on our laptop screens, she and I, checking in with business and domestic crises at home. My dad comes downstairs, still in his pajamas, with a beard of white shaving cream. He would looks like Santa Claus, but for his still-dark hair.
“Where’s mom?” he asks. “In the laundry room?”
My sister and I nod. He heads through the kitchen, opens the garage door, peers out to where the washer and dryer are.
“Juney, Is there a face cloth out there or do you want me to get a new one?”
My sister and I look at each other. Dad trundles out to the garage. There is a low exchange of words with my mother, though we can’t hear what is said. Dad returns, no facecloth in hand, makes his way back up the stairs. The door of the linen closet squeaks open, closes again. The bathroom tap is turned on.
Consider this: my dad came all the way downstairs, mid-way through his morning ablutions, to ask if there is a less-than-fresh facecloth he should be using rather than grabbing a clean one from the linen closet that is immediately beside the bathroom. The transaction cost of this decision was - what – five minutes? Is this not highly unusual behaviour in our drive-thru, I-need-it-now world?
This economy-of-use mentality is what I grew up with. A respect for the innate usefulness of just about anything. A suspicion of anything disposable or at least due consideration as to whether said disposable item might in fact be re-used, re-shaped, or otherwise saved for future use. There was no ‘recycling’ when I was a kid, apart from taking glass pop bottles back to the store for return of deposit.
Wonder bags hanging from the clothes line.
Twist ties and bread-bag clips kept in kitchen drawer.
Margarine tubs kept and re-used. This was in the days before the miracle of Ziplock® (and may I point out the re-usability of Ziplock containers, not to get all defensive or anything).
It is easy to write any of these items off as innately trash-able. But to my parents, born in the mid-ninety-thirties, well, they just don’t see it that way.
My world isn’t like that. My kids use towels once then expect them to be washed. My fault, I know. I am a compulsive launderer. The steel pot I ruined? Garbage. Granted, that was only after it was rejected from the metal recycling. Plastic bags? Oh, for pete’s sakes, don’t even ask.
And then there’s electronics.
A month or so ago, I took my daughter’s portable DVD player back to the local Big Box electronics retailer for repair under warranty. She’d had it less than a year before it ceased to play. A week later, I got a call from the store.
“It is not worth repairing,” the caller explained. “If you bring in the accessories, we’ll replace it for you.”
I was pleased, and yet, there was something unsavoury about this transaction. I envisioned a mountain of ‘not worth repairing’ electronics, my daughters red DVD player, its guts hanging out, tossed carelessly on top, by some young guy drinking Red Bull. How much does this cost? What do they do with that stuff? Is it not, somehow, re-usable?
I don’t know. I have an uncomfortable feeling that I should.
And what would my parents have done? I don’t know that either. It is a different world than the one I grew up in the 1970s, even for them. Despite the facecloth.
It’s a good rule to follow, though, don't you think? What my father did out of habit. To at least give something a second look. Not to start something fresh without due consideration as to whether something already in play is just as good. To stop and ask if that not-yet-mildewed facecloth is still available for use rather than automatically reaching for a clean one - the sacred pause, no? A pause to weigh a certain frugality against a trash mountain, and to decide which is really the better place to worship.
We’re fixed on our laptop screens, she and I, checking in with business and domestic crises at home. My dad comes downstairs, still in his pajamas, with a beard of white shaving cream. He would looks like Santa Claus, but for his still-dark hair.
“Where’s mom?” he asks. “In the laundry room?”
My sister and I nod. He heads through the kitchen, opens the garage door, peers out to where the washer and dryer are.
“Juney, Is there a face cloth out there or do you want me to get a new one?”
My sister and I look at each other. Dad trundles out to the garage. There is a low exchange of words with my mother, though we can’t hear what is said. Dad returns, no facecloth in hand, makes his way back up the stairs. The door of the linen closet squeaks open, closes again. The bathroom tap is turned on.
Consider this: my dad came all the way downstairs, mid-way through his morning ablutions, to ask if there is a less-than-fresh facecloth he should be using rather than grabbing a clean one from the linen closet that is immediately beside the bathroom. The transaction cost of this decision was - what – five minutes? Is this not highly unusual behaviour in our drive-thru, I-need-it-now world?
This economy-of-use mentality is what I grew up with. A respect for the innate usefulness of just about anything. A suspicion of anything disposable or at least due consideration as to whether said disposable item might in fact be re-used, re-shaped, or otherwise saved for future use. There was no ‘recycling’ when I was a kid, apart from taking glass pop bottles back to the store for return of deposit.
Wonder bags hanging from the clothes line.
Twist ties and bread-bag clips kept in kitchen drawer.
Margarine tubs kept and re-used. This was in the days before the miracle of Ziplock® (and may I point out the re-usability of Ziplock containers, not to get all defensive or anything).
It is easy to write any of these items off as innately trash-able. But to my parents, born in the mid-ninety-thirties, well, they just don’t see it that way.
My world isn’t like that. My kids use towels once then expect them to be washed. My fault, I know. I am a compulsive launderer. The steel pot I ruined? Garbage. Granted, that was only after it was rejected from the metal recycling. Plastic bags? Oh, for pete’s sakes, don’t even ask.
And then there’s electronics.
A month or so ago, I took my daughter’s portable DVD player back to the local Big Box electronics retailer for repair under warranty. She’d had it less than a year before it ceased to play. A week later, I got a call from the store.
“It is not worth repairing,” the caller explained. “If you bring in the accessories, we’ll replace it for you.”
I was pleased, and yet, there was something unsavoury about this transaction. I envisioned a mountain of ‘not worth repairing’ electronics, my daughters red DVD player, its guts hanging out, tossed carelessly on top, by some young guy drinking Red Bull. How much does this cost? What do they do with that stuff? Is it not, somehow, re-usable?
I don’t know. I have an uncomfortable feeling that I should.
And what would my parents have done? I don’t know that either. It is a different world than the one I grew up in the 1970s, even for them. Despite the facecloth.
It’s a good rule to follow, though, don't you think? What my father did out of habit. To at least give something a second look. Not to start something fresh without due consideration as to whether something already in play is just as good. To stop and ask if that not-yet-mildewed facecloth is still available for use rather than automatically reaching for a clean one - the sacred pause, no? A pause to weigh a certain frugality against a trash mountain, and to decide which is really the better place to worship.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Lawyerisms
Lawyerisms: These are silly things that lawyers, including me, sometimes say. Therefore, I hereby undertake to cease and desist from their further use. Well, I'll try:
• “I’ll take that under advisement” (advisement?) when what you really mean is “I need to take some time to think about that” or “I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you”. I looked up “advisement” in an ordinary online dictionary and was advised “no dictionary result”. Shocking. I’ll have to check my big fat lawyer’s dictionary when I get back to the home office. (Wait! I can’t because I gave it away – well, that was probably a step in the right direction)
• “I trust you will govern yourself accordingly” when what you really mean is “back off or I’ll sue you”.
• My formal professional title is “Barrister, Solicitor, Notary Public and Trade-mark Agent”. So here’s a question: Does anybody outside of England know what a “barrister” or “solicitor” is? Is there some reason why I can’t just be a lawyer? Besides, I’ve never been too comfortable with the idea that I’m somehow, you know, soliciting.
• “I’ll take that under advisement” (advisement?) when what you really mean is “I need to take some time to think about that” or “I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you”. I looked up “advisement” in an ordinary online dictionary and was advised “no dictionary result”. Shocking. I’ll have to check my big fat lawyer’s dictionary when I get back to the home office. (Wait! I can’t because I gave it away – well, that was probably a step in the right direction)
• “I trust you will govern yourself accordingly” when what you really mean is “back off or I’ll sue you”.
• My formal professional title is “Barrister, Solicitor, Notary Public and Trade-mark Agent”. So here’s a question: Does anybody outside of England know what a “barrister” or “solicitor” is? Is there some reason why I can’t just be a lawyer? Besides, I’ve never been too comfortable with the idea that I’m somehow, you know, soliciting.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Shelving Self-Help
I was half-napping in the family room today, beaten semi-comatose by the April rain, when a row of books caught my eye. A dozen or so, lined up neatly on the highest shelf of the bookcase. Self-help books. I studied them briefly from my position on the couch until seized, suddenly, by the urge to dump them.
Now, don’t get me wrong. These books are well-written, thought-provoking and were, at a certain stage in my life, helpful, at least insofar as shaping my philosophies, if not in solving any of the immediate issues I faced at the time. Issues like: What is wrong with me? Why haven’t I yet achieved total world domination, or at least stopped feeding my family out of boxes every night of the week? Why do I feel so lost? I tried to remember how old I was when I read those books. My late twenties? Early thirties?
“Live your questions now,” Rainer-Marie Rilke wrote, in a letter to an earnest young student, “and perhaps even without knowing it, you will live along some distant day into your answers.” I always found that idea intellectually appealing, but of course, I didn’t get it. You can’t get it until you have, well, lived through it. That’s the recompense for getting older: you earn the odd bit of wisdom. You also realize that you don’t know anything. By extrapolation, that means no one else knows much either. I find that realization rather comforting.
I take the books down from the shelf, stack them on the coffee table. Looking at pile, I remember the ambivalence that, by and large, I felt after reading them (or, more often, after abandoning them mid-way through). The exercises, “challenges” and questionnaires left me feeling wanting, empty. Even now, looking at the stack, I feel vaguely – what? Inadequate.
Now understand a few things about me: I have two law degrees. A black-belt. A law practice. A lovely home, a treasure of a husband, two beautiful children, a loving extended family including step-kids and all their attachments. I have a long history of modest athletic achievement. (Do not challenge me to a pull-up contest. I will eat you for breakfast). I juggle a lot and I do it with grace (mostly). I am a lot of things.
Inadequate isn’t one of them.
I carefully bag up the books. I have a niece in her mid-twenties who would very much appreciate them, I am sure. She is exploring life and reads much of this ilk, as she should. It is her time. And, might I add, she should read them without shame. No one should feel like a flake just for hanging around the self-help section. Heck, we should probably stand around and applaud her for trying so darn hard.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Just Stuffing
I haven’t explained my philosophical interest in the physical aspect of this quest, that is, the giving up of material things. That may seem a trivial concern when we are talking about, say, a pink-and-purple beaded skipping rope with one handle missing, but, wait a minute - is that trivial? When we are so quick to throw or give away something less-than-perfect? Is it trivial, that we may soon feel the urge to fill the empty space with something else, a newer toy perhaps? I'm not so sure.
And here is something else: Is it possible to live in a house and not fill it to the brim with stuff? Does nature really abhor a vacuum? Must it – or we, as nature’s creatures - always rush in to fill the void, the vacant shelf, the half-filled cupboard, the empty hanger? Can a wall just be blank? (Note to self: not if my husband has anything to do with it.)
If the answers to those questions are 'no', ‘yes’,‘yes’ 'no', then can we defeat nature? Can we bend the laws of the universe, persuade our innate natures otherwise? Train ourselves out of the hoarding instinct that, once upon a time, ensured our survival, but now is outmoded and may very well lead to our extinction (if you believe Wall-e).
And what of the consequences of re-arranging our physical space? I don’t want to get all feng shui here (out of respect for its practitioners and in an acknowledgement of my own ignorance of the subject), but what happens to the energy in a space when clutter is swept away? When unused objects are put to good use elsewhere? When we are freed from the tyranny of memorabilia and the judgment of projects left undone. What happens when we deal with all those deferred decisions, like “I’ll just put these Thai scarves here on the desk until I figure out what to do with them”. And then two years pass. So what if we decided instead of living in so much limbo?
This is what I’m after here. Part of it anyway. These are the questions that interest me. It is not just stuff. Nothing in this universe is ever just stuff. Don't believe me? Go ask a molecular physicist. Go ask a Tibetan buddhist monk. Go ask, a professional organizer, for pete's sakes. I don't know what they'd tell you, but I'm pretty sure it would be interesting.
And here is something else: Is it possible to live in a house and not fill it to the brim with stuff? Does nature really abhor a vacuum? Must it – or we, as nature’s creatures - always rush in to fill the void, the vacant shelf, the half-filled cupboard, the empty hanger? Can a wall just be blank? (Note to self: not if my husband has anything to do with it.)
If the answers to those questions are 'no', ‘yes’,‘yes’ 'no', then can we defeat nature? Can we bend the laws of the universe, persuade our innate natures otherwise? Train ourselves out of the hoarding instinct that, once upon a time, ensured our survival, but now is outmoded and may very well lead to our extinction (if you believe Wall-e).
And what of the consequences of re-arranging our physical space? I don’t want to get all feng shui here (out of respect for its practitioners and in an acknowledgement of my own ignorance of the subject), but what happens to the energy in a space when clutter is swept away? When unused objects are put to good use elsewhere? When we are freed from the tyranny of memorabilia and the judgment of projects left undone. What happens when we deal with all those deferred decisions, like “I’ll just put these Thai scarves here on the desk until I figure out what to do with them”. And then two years pass. So what if we decided instead of living in so much limbo?
This is what I’m after here. Part of it anyway. These are the questions that interest me. It is not just stuff. Nothing in this universe is ever just stuff. Don't believe me? Go ask a molecular physicist. Go ask a Tibetan buddhist monk. Go ask, a professional organizer, for pete's sakes. I don't know what they'd tell you, but I'm pretty sure it would be interesting.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
How to Burn the Bottom Off a Stainless Steel Pot
Did you know that you can actually burn the bottom right off of a stainless steel pot? Really! It’s pretty amazing! If you, too, would like to try this experiment at home, this article will tell you all you need to know.
First, while in the midst of your office paper-work, realize that it is 3:10 pm (where does the time go?) and dash out the door to pick-up children from school. Never mind that you are leaving off a letter mid-sentence, just go! Once you return home, do not – repeat do not ¬ return to the home office. You must start dinner – roast chicken - immediately upon return from school because it is cheerleading night and that translates into a 5:30 departure for the gym, a forty-five minute drive away (the things we do for our kids, no?)
By the way, choose flattened chicken, it cooks faster, and no, I don’t mean one that has been hit by a car. Go to Wal-mart, you’ll find it.
Once the chicken is in the oven, quick, dash back to your office and try to finish that letter before you start on the potatoes (we have to eat healthy, people!) Now, you’ve only got an hour to get dinner cooked, so be quick about it. When you’re finished drafting the letter – or after 5 minutes, whichever expires first – walk, no, run back to the kitchen and scrub the potoatoes. Now, for pete’s sakes, get your apron on if you haven’t already done so. We don’t need any unnecessary trips to the laundry room in the midst of this operation.
Stop! For heaven’s sakes, do not put the potatoes, or any other vegetable, on any surface touched by – or within a 1 meter radius of – the raw poultry. You risk cross-contamination and certain shame for the rest of your life. You need to immediately sterilize the entire area with the spray bottle of bleach that you stow conveniently under the counter for this very purpose. Put rubber gloves on while your at it.
OK, place the just-scrubbed-and-chopped pototoes into a saucepan of water and turn the burner to high. Put a second saucepan of water on the stove, with a vegetable steamer insert, and turn burner to high as well. There should be just enough water in the bottom to peek out of the steamer insert. Do not overfill the pot with water. We do no want to drown the vegetables and risk having all their nutrients leach out into the steaming water because that would defeat the whole purpose. OK, got that? Two pots with water, two burners on high.
Now leave the room.
Head back to the office. Finish your letter. Take the rubber gloves off first, otherwise you get garble. Attach letter to an email, hit send. Check incoming email. Lose track of time. At this point, you may notice an odd odor coming from the kitchen. Alarmed, you may find yourself sprinting back to the kitchen, where you realize, with horror, that the pot you were preparing to steam vegetables in has now boiled dry. You snap the burner to ‘off’ and remove the pot from the burner. Well, part of the pot. Strangely, there is a larger burner-size steel disk left behind. Don’t believe me? Check out this picture:
Yeah, that is the bottom of the pot on the left. I wish I was kidding.
Lesson? Give up multi-tasking before you burn the whole house down.
First, while in the midst of your office paper-work, realize that it is 3:10 pm (where does the time go?) and dash out the door to pick-up children from school. Never mind that you are leaving off a letter mid-sentence, just go! Once you return home, do not – repeat do not ¬ return to the home office. You must start dinner – roast chicken - immediately upon return from school because it is cheerleading night and that translates into a 5:30 departure for the gym, a forty-five minute drive away (the things we do for our kids, no?)
By the way, choose flattened chicken, it cooks faster, and no, I don’t mean one that has been hit by a car. Go to Wal-mart, you’ll find it.
Once the chicken is in the oven, quick, dash back to your office and try to finish that letter before you start on the potatoes (we have to eat healthy, people!) Now, you’ve only got an hour to get dinner cooked, so be quick about it. When you’re finished drafting the letter – or after 5 minutes, whichever expires first – walk, no, run back to the kitchen and scrub the potoatoes. Now, for pete’s sakes, get your apron on if you haven’t already done so. We don’t need any unnecessary trips to the laundry room in the midst of this operation.
Stop! For heaven’s sakes, do not put the potatoes, or any other vegetable, on any surface touched by – or within a 1 meter radius of – the raw poultry. You risk cross-contamination and certain shame for the rest of your life. You need to immediately sterilize the entire area with the spray bottle of bleach that you stow conveniently under the counter for this very purpose. Put rubber gloves on while your at it.
OK, place the just-scrubbed-and-chopped pototoes into a saucepan of water and turn the burner to high. Put a second saucepan of water on the stove, with a vegetable steamer insert, and turn burner to high as well. There should be just enough water in the bottom to peek out of the steamer insert. Do not overfill the pot with water. We do no want to drown the vegetables and risk having all their nutrients leach out into the steaming water because that would defeat the whole purpose. OK, got that? Two pots with water, two burners on high.
Now leave the room.
Head back to the office. Finish your letter. Take the rubber gloves off first, otherwise you get garble. Attach letter to an email, hit send. Check incoming email. Lose track of time. At this point, you may notice an odd odor coming from the kitchen. Alarmed, you may find yourself sprinting back to the kitchen, where you realize, with horror, that the pot you were preparing to steam vegetables in has now boiled dry. You snap the burner to ‘off’ and remove the pot from the burner. Well, part of the pot. Strangely, there is a larger burner-size steel disk left behind. Don’t believe me? Check out this picture:
Yeah, that is the bottom of the pot on the left. I wish I was kidding.
Lesson? Give up multi-tasking before you burn the whole house down.
Things I Gave Away: Today's Shortlist
- to the Goodwill:
- a bagful of my clothes including some distinctly unsexy flannette pajamas (I think I can hear my husband cheering somewhere off in the background);
- a bagful of kids' clothes, unexamined by myself, chosen and gathered by my older daughter -- thus energized, she then went on to rout out and re-organizer her younger sibling's homework binder (must be genetic...)
- 3 magazines and 2 catalogues that I will never get around to reading, along with a stack of books that I don't value enough to read again (that's the 'keeper' rule)
- a stack of fridge charts reminding me to drink 8 glasses of water and take my vitamins (this would be mothering-thyself-via-checklist)
- a beautifully mounted gymnastics poster, graciously accepted by our local gym club
Monday, April 5, 2010
Prayer Beads & the Pursuit of Happiness
About a year ago, I bought some prayer beads from a little shop downtown. I don’t recall what prompted this acquisition, no doubt it was inspired by some article I’d read, a theory I’d latched onto. The beads are lovely, an irregular rainbow, copper next to coal-black next to mustard, pale mauve, Caribbean green. They have weight, like tiny marbles and they’re cool to the touch. The loop is finished with a tassel of multi-coloured threads.
Once home, I didn’t know what to do with my newly-acquired beads, and so draped them around the neck of a laughing Buddha that sits on a side-table in my bedroom. I see them every morning when I wake.
I was reminded lately that such beads are often used in meditation, or prayer, to assist the meditator in staying on mantra. It struck me then, an image of myself, sitting contentedly, facing east and cross-legged in an easy lotus position, eyes lightly closed (but not to napping), fingering each bead and saying to myself: I am a writer now. A sort of Steven Covey-meets-Elizabeth-Gilbert approach to morning ritual. (To those who I’ve offended by my contemplated use of such beads for, arguably, non-secular, non-spiritual purposes, my apologies).
I should do this, I tell myself. Really, I should. It would, you know, help.
When I opened my eyes this morning, there he stood, the jovial Buddha with the prayer beads round his neck. I sat up, stretched and slipped out of bed, trying not to wake my husband who had slept fitfully, vexed by a sore back and, from the sounds of it, the beginnings of a head cold.
I tip-toe to the table and pull the beads from Buddha’s neck, making a snapping, clattering racket as I do. I hadn’t realized how loud they were. I seat myself in a plum-coloured armchair in the corner of the room, but feel ridiculous. I’ll go downstairs, I think, where there is quiet and privacy. I put the beads around my own neck, feeling sillier still, and slip out the bedroom door, closing it carefully behind me.
Once in the kitchen, I settle in a favourite chair, look out the bay window. I don’t need to close my eyes. I can contemplate the waking world outside instead. I slide the beads from my neck and finger them tentatively, repeat the mantra in my head: I am a writer now.... At bead number six, our grey tabby, Miley, interrupts me. This is her job: should I enter the kitchen, she is obligated to remind me, multiple times, that she enjoys a good brushing and she will meow, repeatedly, to get her point across. I set the beads down on the table and follow her to where the brush sits. Once she is satisfied, I return to my station, sit down and start again. I am a writer now… I am a..
No sooner do I begin then our tortoise shell appears at the back door, an expectant look on her face. I sigh, get up and open the door. I could use a cup of coffee about now, I think, and cross the kitchen to start a pot. And since there is no sense trying again before the coffee’s ready, I head to the powder room, only to notice that the Christmas soap dispenser needs retiring and the towels need to be changed. This, inevitably, leads to contemplation of all things laundry.
I give up on the beads. Well, not exactly, because all this while there has been an idea percolating quietly in back of my mind. A theory. It started last night as I closed the cover of “the Happiness Project”. I abandon all thoughts of laundry, and grab my lap-top instead. I pour a cup of steaming coffee while I wait for it to boot-up.
I picked up Gretchen Rubin’s book, “the Happiness Project” in an airport bookstore about a month ago. I love a good story from the front-lines of working motherhood and was drawn by the concept: can we act ourselves happier? I read the first two chapters with a sense of anticipation, and then something in the tone started to irritate me, a niggling feeling that something was not right in Happy-ville, at least not for me. I took another chapter or two of slugging to identify what was chafing me so.
It was the underlying whisper of “should”.
I should lighten up. Clean my closets. Sing in the morning. She’s right, I don’t deny it. My interior coach weighed in, too: I should home-school my kids, take on that new client, drink eight glasses of water a day. Floss. My shoulders tense just thinking about it. Nope. Nope. Nope.
I should really sit still for five minutes, repeat my mantra and tweedle those beads.
Nope.
By the time I reached “Lighten Up” in April, I started to skip passages because it had begun to take on the cast of yet another self-help book. I skipped parts that sounded screechily like advice or reproach and skittered instead through the anecdotal tales of Gretchen’s life as a wife, mom, friend and writer. Those, I loved.
I grant Gretchen much credit here because she did aptly capture an earlier period in my life, a time when I, too, was mired in home life and young children and somehow felt like I wasn’t doing it all well enough. If I had been, I felt at the time, I would have been happier. I didn’t eat well or exercise regularly. I didn’t work hard enough at new directions in my career (let’s be honest: I couldn’t have cared less about my career). There were so many things that I should have been doing.
That kind of ‘should’ thinking just about sunk me. Several years later – my kids are now 12 and 14 – I understand this. I have quit the Should Brigade. Mostly. But at the time, in my early thirties, I just felt like a big fat failure.
The beads sit on the table as I type this. I like their presence, their reminder. I also like the fact that instead of my sitting, stiff-necked, praying, I knew enough to let it alone. I took up the call, sat down at my computer and eked out this essay. My coffee has gone cold. The cats’ meows have gone unheeded. The laundry is undone. The prayer beads did help, just not in the way I expected.
Once home, I didn’t know what to do with my newly-acquired beads, and so draped them around the neck of a laughing Buddha that sits on a side-table in my bedroom. I see them every morning when I wake.
I was reminded lately that such beads are often used in meditation, or prayer, to assist the meditator in staying on mantra. It struck me then, an image of myself, sitting contentedly, facing east and cross-legged in an easy lotus position, eyes lightly closed (but not to napping), fingering each bead and saying to myself: I am a writer now. A sort of Steven Covey-meets-Elizabeth-Gilbert approach to morning ritual. (To those who I’ve offended by my contemplated use of such beads for, arguably, non-secular, non-spiritual purposes, my apologies).
I should do this, I tell myself. Really, I should. It would, you know, help.
When I opened my eyes this morning, there he stood, the jovial Buddha with the prayer beads round his neck. I sat up, stretched and slipped out of bed, trying not to wake my husband who had slept fitfully, vexed by a sore back and, from the sounds of it, the beginnings of a head cold.
I tip-toe to the table and pull the beads from Buddha’s neck, making a snapping, clattering racket as I do. I hadn’t realized how loud they were. I seat myself in a plum-coloured armchair in the corner of the room, but feel ridiculous. I’ll go downstairs, I think, where there is quiet and privacy. I put the beads around my own neck, feeling sillier still, and slip out the bedroom door, closing it carefully behind me.
Once in the kitchen, I settle in a favourite chair, look out the bay window. I don’t need to close my eyes. I can contemplate the waking world outside instead. I slide the beads from my neck and finger them tentatively, repeat the mantra in my head: I am a writer now.... At bead number six, our grey tabby, Miley, interrupts me. This is her job: should I enter the kitchen, she is obligated to remind me, multiple times, that she enjoys a good brushing and she will meow, repeatedly, to get her point across. I set the beads down on the table and follow her to where the brush sits. Once she is satisfied, I return to my station, sit down and start again. I am a writer now… I am a..
No sooner do I begin then our tortoise shell appears at the back door, an expectant look on her face. I sigh, get up and open the door. I could use a cup of coffee about now, I think, and cross the kitchen to start a pot. And since there is no sense trying again before the coffee’s ready, I head to the powder room, only to notice that the Christmas soap dispenser needs retiring and the towels need to be changed. This, inevitably, leads to contemplation of all things laundry.
I give up on the beads. Well, not exactly, because all this while there has been an idea percolating quietly in back of my mind. A theory. It started last night as I closed the cover of “the Happiness Project”. I abandon all thoughts of laundry, and grab my lap-top instead. I pour a cup of steaming coffee while I wait for it to boot-up.
I picked up Gretchen Rubin’s book, “the Happiness Project” in an airport bookstore about a month ago. I love a good story from the front-lines of working motherhood and was drawn by the concept: can we act ourselves happier? I read the first two chapters with a sense of anticipation, and then something in the tone started to irritate me, a niggling feeling that something was not right in Happy-ville, at least not for me. I took another chapter or two of slugging to identify what was chafing me so.
It was the underlying whisper of “should”.
I should lighten up. Clean my closets. Sing in the morning. She’s right, I don’t deny it. My interior coach weighed in, too: I should home-school my kids, take on that new client, drink eight glasses of water a day. Floss. My shoulders tense just thinking about it. Nope. Nope. Nope.
I should really sit still for five minutes, repeat my mantra and tweedle those beads.
Nope.
By the time I reached “Lighten Up” in April, I started to skip passages because it had begun to take on the cast of yet another self-help book. I skipped parts that sounded screechily like advice or reproach and skittered instead through the anecdotal tales of Gretchen’s life as a wife, mom, friend and writer. Those, I loved.
I grant Gretchen much credit here because she did aptly capture an earlier period in my life, a time when I, too, was mired in home life and young children and somehow felt like I wasn’t doing it all well enough. If I had been, I felt at the time, I would have been happier. I didn’t eat well or exercise regularly. I didn’t work hard enough at new directions in my career (let’s be honest: I couldn’t have cared less about my career). There were so many things that I should have been doing.
That kind of ‘should’ thinking just about sunk me. Several years later – my kids are now 12 and 14 – I understand this. I have quit the Should Brigade. Mostly. But at the time, in my early thirties, I just felt like a big fat failure.
The beads sit on the table as I type this. I like their presence, their reminder. I also like the fact that instead of my sitting, stiff-necked, praying, I knew enough to let it alone. I took up the call, sat down at my computer and eked out this essay. My coffee has gone cold. The cats’ meows have gone unheeded. The laundry is undone. The prayer beads did help, just not in the way I expected.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Dumping Superwoman
I am restless, today, irritated, like there’s a sliver in my thumb that I can’t extract. I feel pulled in too many directions, overwhelmed. No matter where I am in the house I see a task that needs attention: a stack of clothes to be mended, memorabilia to be sorted, laundry to be washed, dried, folded and put away.
There are so many ‘little jobs’ that need doing. I don’t know which one to take on first: the legal work I’m behind on? The yard? The house?
I’ve already hosted an Easter Sunday lunch and egg hunt today and - fun though it was - I’m tired. I try to nap, but can’t. Outside, the lawn begs to be raked, the gardens need cleaning up, the garage needs to be swept. Outside, it is also eighty degrees and sunny, miraculous weather for April 4th. Right. I pull on my old work clothes and head out the door.
I start on the side garden, a skinny strip of dirt running the length of the garage. I clear away the dead foliage, see raw hosta shoots poking out of the soil. Iris will soon follow, then bleeding hearts, purple balloon flowers and later, black-eyed susan. It takes no time at all to clear this little patch. I feel better. I dump the dried leavings in the compost pile. My spirits bolstered, I decide to take on the boulevard (that is, the lawn that begs to be raked).
Now understand something: my lawn is huge. Huge. The boulevard alone is probably 1800 square feet. Undeterred, I set to work with a fan rake, thinking that I can defeat this if I go at in sessions. The grass is dry and densely thatched. I cover a twelve by twelve patch before I come to my senses and give up.
Usually I know better. I enjoy working in the yard because it gives me a reason to be outside, to listen to the birds (none of whom I can identify), to breathe deeply of fresh air. The minute it becomes a goal-oriented activity, I am done for. I know this.
Sometimes I forget.
What I need to remember is this: We live in the country. Sort-of. The yard doesn’t have to be perfect. It is fine as it is. So either I need to accept that or I need to hire some help. I am not Superwoman, for heaven’s sakes. The thought stops me in my tracks: I am not Superwoman. And no one is asking me to be. The thousand other jobs awaiting me suddenly seem doable. Share-able. Delegatable. This is something I need to learn, no, to actually do: To Give Away a Job. I put down my rake. I remember a hand-made sign posted at the mail-box – “Spring Yard Clean-up” with little tear-away phone numbers. Right.
There are so many ‘little jobs’ that need doing. I don’t know which one to take on first: the legal work I’m behind on? The yard? The house?
I’ve already hosted an Easter Sunday lunch and egg hunt today and - fun though it was - I’m tired. I try to nap, but can’t. Outside, the lawn begs to be raked, the gardens need cleaning up, the garage needs to be swept. Outside, it is also eighty degrees and sunny, miraculous weather for April 4th. Right. I pull on my old work clothes and head out the door.
I start on the side garden, a skinny strip of dirt running the length of the garage. I clear away the dead foliage, see raw hosta shoots poking out of the soil. Iris will soon follow, then bleeding hearts, purple balloon flowers and later, black-eyed susan. It takes no time at all to clear this little patch. I feel better. I dump the dried leavings in the compost pile. My spirits bolstered, I decide to take on the boulevard (that is, the lawn that begs to be raked).
Now understand something: my lawn is huge. Huge. The boulevard alone is probably 1800 square feet. Undeterred, I set to work with a fan rake, thinking that I can defeat this if I go at in sessions. The grass is dry and densely thatched. I cover a twelve by twelve patch before I come to my senses and give up.
Usually I know better. I enjoy working in the yard because it gives me a reason to be outside, to listen to the birds (none of whom I can identify), to breathe deeply of fresh air. The minute it becomes a goal-oriented activity, I am done for. I know this.
Sometimes I forget.
What I need to remember is this: We live in the country. Sort-of. The yard doesn’t have to be perfect. It is fine as it is. So either I need to accept that or I need to hire some help. I am not Superwoman, for heaven’s sakes. The thought stops me in my tracks: I am not Superwoman. And no one is asking me to be. The thousand other jobs awaiting me suddenly seem doable. Share-able. Delegatable. This is something I need to learn, no, to actually do: To Give Away a Job. I put down my rake. I remember a hand-made sign posted at the mail-box – “Spring Yard Clean-up” with little tear-away phone numbers. Right.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Trophies to Give Away, Memories to Keep
It’s funny how memory works.
Last fall, in a fit of de-cluttering, I came across a storage bin full of old trophies: awards from various run/bike/swim events I’d competed in, cross-country ski loppets, mountain bike races. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, endurance sports were a big part of my life. There were academic awards, too, my Ontario scholar plaque, a couple of prizes from the short time I spent as a Toastmaster.
I had to ask myself what I was keeping all this stuff for. In comparison to the richness of my memories, this ‘hardware’ looked cheap and ridiculous. Knick-knacks. They weren’t even on display, they were sitting out here in the damp.
I picked up a trophy and read the plaque: Scanlon Creek Mountain Bike Race 1995, 1st place. The plastic cyclist perched on top was now riding a little askew. 1995. That would have been the summer we bought our first house, this house, the summer when I became pregnant with my first child. I remember one particular day during that time with absolute clarity. I was pedaling my road bike up a steep hill on a back-country road, something I was very good at. I was inexplicably short of breath, not able to get enough air in, and suddenly it occurred to me: “Could I be.. is it possible... am I pregnant?” This epiphany, this life-altering moment, came while I was on a bike, doing something I did well, powering a bike straight uphill. I put the trophy back down.
My husband helped me take photos of my collection – and his, too. We chose a handful of trophies to keep and trashed the rest. There is more work to do here, more paring down perhaps, and still the question of what to do with this stuff. But there is also this: the power of tangible reminders. What happens when you pick up an object from another time in your life and hold it in your hand.
Last fall, in a fit of de-cluttering, I came across a storage bin full of old trophies: awards from various run/bike/swim events I’d competed in, cross-country ski loppets, mountain bike races. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, endurance sports were a big part of my life. There were academic awards, too, my Ontario scholar plaque, a couple of prizes from the short time I spent as a Toastmaster.
I had to ask myself what I was keeping all this stuff for. In comparison to the richness of my memories, this ‘hardware’ looked cheap and ridiculous. Knick-knacks. They weren’t even on display, they were sitting out here in the damp.
I picked up a trophy and read the plaque: Scanlon Creek Mountain Bike Race 1995, 1st place. The plastic cyclist perched on top was now riding a little askew. 1995. That would have been the summer we bought our first house, this house, the summer when I became pregnant with my first child. I remember one particular day during that time with absolute clarity. I was pedaling my road bike up a steep hill on a back-country road, something I was very good at. I was inexplicably short of breath, not able to get enough air in, and suddenly it occurred to me: “Could I be.. is it possible... am I pregnant?” This epiphany, this life-altering moment, came while I was on a bike, doing something I did well, powering a bike straight uphill. I put the trophy back down.
My husband helped me take photos of my collection – and his, too. We chose a handful of trophies to keep and trashed the rest. There is more work to do here, more paring down perhaps, and still the question of what to do with this stuff. But there is also this: the power of tangible reminders. What happens when you pick up an object from another time in your life and hold it in your hand.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Stuff I Gave Away – Today’s Shortlist
• sandbox toys that were sun-faded and cracked;
• perfectly good weather-stripping that we don’t need;
• tennis balls faded to grey;
• decorative Christmas twigs spray-painted a garish gold that have left sparkly droppings everywhere they’ve been for the last five years; and
• my e-subscription to the World Intellectual Property Organizations’s SME Newsletter. Every month when this periodical arrives in my in-box, I file it under “To Read” and feel a pang of failure for never, ever actually reading it. (SME = Small & Medium Enterprise). To heck with it.
• perfectly good weather-stripping that we don’t need;
• tennis balls faded to grey;
• decorative Christmas twigs spray-painted a garish gold that have left sparkly droppings everywhere they’ve been for the last five years; and
• my e-subscription to the World Intellectual Property Organizations’s SME Newsletter. Every month when this periodical arrives in my in-box, I file it under “To Read” and feel a pang of failure for never, ever actually reading it. (SME = Small & Medium Enterprise). To heck with it.
De-Cluttering my Daughter's Desk
I am sitting at my daughter's desk, attempting to cure her computer of a nasty virus. There is a lot of waiting involved in this task, as the computer chugs through virus scans and multiples re-boots. My daughter is much like her father, filing things by the 'pile' method. Her desk is littered with a diverse collection of objects: fish food, eyeglass cleaner, three vampire books, lip gloss, homework that was due three months ago, a card from a board game, a scattering of markers, some of which actually have lids. It is next too impossible for me to sit here and not do something about this. My mind automatically sorts and categorizes: recycle, garbage, belongs elsewhere, needs repair. Perhaps I have read one too many books about de-cluttering. I begin to make piles. I throw out the gum wrappers, take the empty milk glass to the kitchen. By the time I have fixed her computer, I will have cleared her desk, too. "Thanks, mom!" she'll say and give me a hug. She'll have a fresh glass of milk in her hand that she'll set down on the freshly cleaned surface. She'll grab a scrap of paper for making notes. She may even pull a half-dead marker out of the trash. And so it goes. A symbiotic relationship, no?
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Missing the School Bus
This morning my daughter missed the school bus. It used to be that driving her to school wouldn’t have been a big deal because we lived only eight minutes away. Now, though, my daughters attend a French-language high school in another city, a forty minute drive south.
I had already planned to drive to the school at twelve-fifteen, having promised my older daughter that I would deliver her Geography project at precisely one o’clock. Her geography project is an ice cream shop business and the prop in question is enough milkshake to serve her entire class. Wise business-woman that she is, she enlisted my help to minimize the risk of a catastrophic melt.
Two trips to school adds up to three hours of driving in the middle of a weekday. For a mom, that is time that might be spent doing errands, neating up, putting away breakfast dishes, mending. For a lawyer that time is potentially worth hundreds of dollars in billable time. But neither of these really matter today. The truth is this time is precious and not because I could use it to do three more loads of laundry or churn out a contract.
In fact what my younger daughter gave me was a gift: time spent sitting quietly beside her in the van as we drove to school, a chance to reach over and stroke her hair and trade a few thoughts. And on the way home, on a day with sunshine and clear skies, the chance to listen to a book-on-CD, to sit with my own thoughts in a place where neither the laundry not the todo list on my computer could pull me away.
And what did I give away? My time. Understanding, I suppose, for my daughter’s sleeping in. Acceptance. My control over my daughter’s management of her morning. Also, the tension that would have seized up my shoulders, and tied knots in my gut had I reacted differently. A good trade? I think so.
I had already planned to drive to the school at twelve-fifteen, having promised my older daughter that I would deliver her Geography project at precisely one o’clock. Her geography project is an ice cream shop business and the prop in question is enough milkshake to serve her entire class. Wise business-woman that she is, she enlisted my help to minimize the risk of a catastrophic melt.
Two trips to school adds up to three hours of driving in the middle of a weekday. For a mom, that is time that might be spent doing errands, neating up, putting away breakfast dishes, mending. For a lawyer that time is potentially worth hundreds of dollars in billable time. But neither of these really matter today. The truth is this time is precious and not because I could use it to do three more loads of laundry or churn out a contract.
In fact what my younger daughter gave me was a gift: time spent sitting quietly beside her in the van as we drove to school, a chance to reach over and stroke her hair and trade a few thoughts. And on the way home, on a day with sunshine and clear skies, the chance to listen to a book-on-CD, to sit with my own thoughts in a place where neither the laundry not the todo list on my computer could pull me away.
And what did I give away? My time. Understanding, I suppose, for my daughter’s sleeping in. Acceptance. My control over my daughter’s management of her morning. Also, the tension that would have seized up my shoulders, and tied knots in my gut had I reacted differently. A good trade? I think so.
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