Horrible Beauty
When I was out driving yesterday, I was suddenly engulfed in a blizzard.
A pollen blizzard.
The sun lit up the millions of pollen bits and dandelion fluffs floating through the air.
It was the Dance of the Allergens.
And I just laughed. Because those awful things reap havoc on me… and yet they were so beautiful.
Which makes me think about other things that are terrible and lovely at the same time.
When I was a kid, I lived near a very big factory, and I used to love the puddles in the parking lots after a summer rain. Not only was there a rainbow in the sky. There were rainbows in the puddles. Oh sure, you may call them oil slicks. But they were so pretty. The blues and purples and golds. Those beat-up cars left these portraits just for me.
photo by Yair Haklai
Then there’s food that I just can’t stand – but I have to admit these comestibles are just lovely. Oysters and mushrooms. And most of all, bleu cheese.
The world is full of scary things that are beautiful too.
Sharks and octopus, lions and crocodiles. They can be awesome as well as frightening.
But even the simplest cobweb can take your breath away.
And then there is the category of things that I used to find ugly… that with time I have found beautiful.
Perhaps not ugly, perhaps only invisible, unnoticed.
The gorgeous way the leather has aged on my thirty-year-old checkbook:
And getting back to Dandelions – why do we not consider them beautiful?
Just think how much easier your gardening would be if we suddenly realized that these persistent and prolific petals were also … perhaps pretty.
And of all the things that I did not appreciate – whether they were scary, or threatening, or invisible – where I now see incredible beauty:
Most especially:
Wrinkles.
Birthdays
A few years ago I wrote a post – Oh, Grow Up! – in which I wrote about the childish things that we need to leave behind.
Don’t get me wrong. I think we should act like children a lot more often than we do – especially because we mostly still feel like children inside. And so we should let our little angels and monsters out to play a lot more often.
As a matter of fact, a friend of mine posted recently on Facebook that she was feeling uninspired. She has recently moved out of state, and she has been very busy. She has been devoting a lot of time to volunteer work – at a hospice, at the local library, as a literacy tutor. But she writes: “Why does it not feel like it’s enough? What am I missing?”
Many of her friends told her she was wonderful, terrific, selfless. “Hang in there,” they said.
But I wrote and said, “FUN. You are missing FUN. Have some.”
And she said. “You are right! Everything feels like work.”
So I believe in Fun. I believe in experiencing childlike joy. And I even wrote a blog a while back – “In Praise of Childish Things” – extolling the virtues of returning to those simple pleasures.
But I also wrote about the annoying immature stuff that adults should leave behind.
And one thing I wrote, in particular, haunts me.
Birthdays.
I wrote:
No one cares that it’s your birthday. Everyone has one. You aren’t special. Don’t expect your co-workers to remember. Consider yourself ahead of the game if your spouse remembers.
Well, I’ve changed my mind.
I was wrong.
Your birthday is important.
You should celebrate the day you were born. Everyone you know should celebrate the day you became our companion in this world.
Your presence should be celebrated every day. But if we have to pick just one day, let it be your birthday.
Years ago, my brother-in-law called me on my birthday to say “Happy Birthday.” He asked what I had done that day.
I said, “I went to work.”
He said, “Why didn’t take the day off?”
“Because I’m not seven,” I answered.
Once again let me say this:
I was wrong.
Not because I didn’t take the day. off.
Because I didn’t think it was big deal.
It’s a big deal.
I have a sweet friend that NEVER forgets a birthday. She keeps a special list and every single one of her friends gets a birthday card. She must buy cards by the hundreds.
And I have another, newer, friend, who has some inside information on people’s birthdays and brings cards to Zumba class for everyone to sign.
And another friend who is the best cake maker in the world. And if you work in her office, there is birthday cake in the conference room almost every week.
Today is my husband’s birthday. He joined the human race today.
And we’ll celebrate his existence.
Celebrate yours.
And share the cake and ice cream, please.
Counting
When I go to the beach, I spend most of my time counting.
Counting heads.
I watch everyone. I worry about someone drowning. Someone might not be watching someone they love. Just for a split second. Someone looks away and someone goes under. It won’t happen on my watch.
Because I watch.
My mother watched.
I must have been a lifeguard in a previous life. And my mother was a lifeguard in her previous life. Perhaps we have lifeguards going all the way back… my ancestor counting heads as Moses parted the Red Sea.
I like to read at the beach, but I stop after every two paragraphs and count. Where is the little boy with the striped bathing suit? Where is the girl with the blue bikini? Where is the old woman in the straw hat? The pale man with the hairy back?
Everybody will stay safe under my watch.
I count heads. Twenty-four now. Oh, that family is leaving, but here are two more families. Twenty-nine now. I count.
Okay. The little boy with the sailboats on his shorts has put on a sweatshirt. He’s here.
Ah, there’s Moses, my ancestor said. He’s safe.
When I was nine, my little brother wandered away at a relative’s lakeside cottage. My father thought he was with my mother. My mother thought he was with my father. Then they realized he was gone. And the lake was so big. I think that was the most frightened I ever saw my mother. She was terrified. My brother was found. He was safe. And still my mother cried.
She forgot for a moment to count.
And so I count.
There is the lady with the white sunglasses. If she takes them off, I must remember her hair. She has a braid. I won’t forget her.
There are the teenagers kissing. They will watch each other. But I will make sure. They could go under together.
Not on my watch.
Everyone will stay safe. The children on the shoreline, the brave ones in the water, the elderly under their umbrellas, the readers, the sleepers, the frisbee throwers.
I count.
I count people because people count.
Learning… And Leaving
When I was working on my M.B.A., the most difficult class I took was Investment Finance.
I was an English major (so naturally working as a typist/file clerk), and only had a superficial interest in business, but my employer was paying, and I did really like school. Of any kind.
I seemed to have an aptitude for Accounting. It was just so logical. Which literature and writing are not. I felt somehow neat and clean every time my accounts balanced.
And as for subjects like Marketing – well, no offense to you marketers, I know it is an art and all, but honestly, it is the art of bullshit.
Human Resources is a lot more complicated. But I found that if I just answered any question by asking myself, What is the most pie-in-the-sky, altruistic response? – I’d most likely be right. Sort of like a teenager who tells his parents what they WANT to hear.
But oh my, Investment Finance! Formulas for Returns-On-Investments and stock buybacks and market volatility and stop-loss orders and short sales and derivatives! I was way over my head, considering my focus in college was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
How I struggled. And one day I was speaking to another of my professors, and mentioned my difficulties with Investment Finance. And she said, “Oh, but you have Dr. Smith! If you understand a third of what he is saying, you are learning more than if you learned 100% in someone else’s class.”
The sky brightened a whole lot.
Maybe I wasn’t learning everything. But I was learning a WHOLE LOT.
And that’s one reason I wish folks weren’t so hard on themselves when they are learning something new.
You are a lot more capable than you think you are. Sure, there is a ton of shit you don’t know, but look at all the shit you’ve learned.
First of all, you toilet-trained yourself. Oh sure, your mother took the credit, but you are the one… who at only two years old (or maybe three, but… eventually…) figured out what you needed to do to keep your pants dry.
And not only did you learn to feed yourself with that crazy thing called a fork, but many of you even know which fork to use for which food.
And you learned to read and write your name, and make model airplanes and crochet and swing a golf club and walk in high heels and drive a car and pay your taxes. And how to pick the smarmiest answer on the Human Resources test.
And a jillion other things.
So this next thing…
You can learn that too.
I remember when I first started working in a job that required some business travel. I went out to Omaha, Nebraska for a meeting. When I returned, my mother said, “I don’t even understand how you did that – travel to a strange place all by yourself!”
Well, when I considered it, I could see her point. Just going somewhere new is a test of your learning abilities. Learning is a little scary and traveling can be scary too. I found the best method for me was not to think about the whole of it, but just to worry about the most immediate piece and then go on to the next worry.
Like first I got myself to the airport. Then I parked my car. Then I went to the right gate and got on the right plane. Then there was a big piece that was someone else’s worry – getting me from Connecticut to Nebraska. I arrived at night, so I hailed a cab and got to the hotel. First thing in the morning I asked the concierge about renting a car, and was directed to the right place. The car rental person gave me a street map, and I found my meeting location. Then I sat in that meeting and smiled and let myself be bored out of my mind. Then I drove back to the hotel. I found a place to eat dinner. The next morning I drove the rental car to the airport. I returned the rental. Then got on a plane back. The end.
I only allowed myself to consider one tiny step at a time. I didn’t worry about returning my rental when I was still hailing a cab. And each of those steps – taken individually – are really pretty easy. Oh, except for getting back to the airport when I passed a sign that said, ‘Welcome to Iowa.’ But other than that. Easy. After all, I am not still in Iowa, am I?
So anyway, if you can break it down into the tiniest of pieces, each piece is something you can learn. Something you can handle. Like if you wanted to go skydiving, I would concentrate first on putting on your parachute. You learned to dress yourself when you were four; this is just one more little extension of that skill.
I will admit that learning new things is not always that easy, even when you are breaking down each little step. You have to actually jump out of the airplane.
Last year I tried to learn how to play the ukelele. My sister is a wonderful musician and she lent me a very good ukelele and I took online lessons. I watched those videos over and over again, playing the same beginning tunes. The videos were very good and the teacher was very good, and my playing was very bad.”This is Imagine,” I told my husband. “Really?” he replied.
After three months I gave the ukelele back to my sister.
My seven-year-old grand-nephew learned to play the violin this past summer. His grandmother (my talented sister) taught him – and he has musical genes on his father’s side too. After two months of lessons, this child played unbelievably well. He’s a natural.
So for his eighth birthday, this little boy asked for a ukelele. Not any ukulele. He saw one in a music store that was decorated with Grateful Dead designs. He wrote a fabulous note to his mother – describing this ‘gratfol ded yuculaly’ and that it was cool and smooth and for a yuculaly it was big so he could lean into it.
“Lean into it” – is there a better description for learning?
How could you not give this prodigy such a cool ukulele?
And guess what?
One week later he brought the ukulele to school and he played a Grateful Dead song for his class. And he sang.
And here is the difference between his ability to learn and mine.
Desire.
He wanted to.
I did not.
My passion was superficial. His passion resides in his heart.
I am not saying that he is a good person and I am a bad person. Both our feelings are legitimate. There is no judgment here.
You don’t have to try everything.
But you can if you want to.
And you can stop if you want to.
That is the most important lesson about learning.
You can learn new things.
If you want to.
PS – If you would like to read my new novel, LUCINDA’S SOLUTION, Amazon is offering the Kindle version this week for 99 cents. Just click here.
You’re Fine
Last year I wrote about Being Kind – To That Special Someone.
Meaning YOU.
I think in this difficult time – and in good times too, all time, really – we need to be a lot nicer to ourselves.
Use the good china. Buy yourself flowers. Take a walk and look at the trees instead of your phone.
And please, please, please –
Don’t be so hard on yourself.
I don’t understand where all the self-criticism comes from.
Why, I like myself more than I like just about everyone else. And although I can readily admit my mistakes… (well, maybe not ‘readily’, but ‘eventually’)… I am also extremely forgiving of my mistakes and shortcomings.
After all, I have to be with myself one hundred percent of the time. It’s so much easier if we don’t fight.
I see and hear people fighting with themselves all the time. Self-criticism. Discouragement. You need to get over your disappointment in just how much you let yourself down. Forgive yourself a little. I forgive myself for so much I am constantly surprised by my generosity.
“Don’t worry, you’re fine,” I reassure myself.
“Oh, you are too kind,” I answer.
For example, I just wrote that I will readily (eventually) admit my mistakes. I have found that it is much much easier to admit a mistake, and then get on with your life. At work especially – the sooner you admit to your mistake, the sooner everyone else forgets it too.
But – once in a while – I have found myself covering up a mistake. Finding an excuse (the file got corrupted) or just plain lying (I missed the deadline because I was sick). Oh, this is a terrible thing to do. But holy cow, work is hard and getting yelled at is hard and confessing to being stupid is hard. So try not to make sad excuses. But if you do, forgive your excuses as much as your mistakes.
Or sometimes you pay a bill late. Someone I know had just completed a hostile phone call informing the credit card company that the check was sent WEEKS ago, only to discover it was really six weeks ago, and that was last months’ bill. Oops. So: Apologize. Apologize to the billing person you hollered at. And then apologize to yourself. Time flies. It’s trite but it’s true. It’s so easy to think you JUST did something that you didn’t do at all.
Sometimes your standards are just too high. You have not failed as a mother if you give your kids Cheerios for supper. My mother used to say – “I can have a clean house or I can have happy kids. Sometimes I can have both. But not always.”
And it’s not only the kids eating Cheerios. We all intend to eat healthily. And sometimes we do. And sometimes we have chocolate covered caramels for breakfast. In this country, we are bombarded with food. It lures us from the cupboards. It seduces us from the refrigerator. It beckons us from the pantry. It shouts to us from the TV. Shit, even the gas station sells potato chips. Just do your best.
I just read a story a woman wrote that was filled with guilt. She bought something expensive she did not need. And came home to find her husband had lost his job. Crap, that is bad timing. But that is all it is. We all buy unnecessary shit. That’s what seems to keep the country going. You did not cause your husband to lose his job. Your purchase will not directly result in your car being repossessed. But do return it if you can. And if not, try to find real pleasure in what you bought. It may comfort you during difficult times.
My husband worries that our dog Theo is not very well behaved. Well, I suppose he isn’t. Theo’s spoiled and willful and I give in all the time. Discipline is not my forte. But when I think back to the dog I had as a kid… to the dogs we all had as kids, expectations were different. We didn’t expect a dog to spend four hours in a crate. Or stand perfectly still while a squirrel ran by him, or keep quiet when the mailman walked into our yard. (By the way, do you know that my dog can set off the house alarms if the UPS truck comes while we are not home and he barks too near the windows? We know that now. So do the police.)
Anyway, maybe you should think about your crazy dog with a different perspective. You are brave enough to have An ANIMAL living in your house and he doesn’t poop on the furniture and hasn’t eaten you yet. Pretty damn good!
I am appalled and saddened by how hard people are on themselves when they are learning something new. “I suck at this,” I heard someone in my painting class say. Really? Did she never fall down as a toddler or crash her bike? Was she fluent the first day of Spanish I? Why do people expect to be so good at something so quickly? I have been practicing Yoga since 2001. I am still in the beginner class. That’s why they call it “practice.” It’s been many years, and I may still improve, but if I don’t, then I am proud of my patience and perseverance.
To that lady in my painting class – and to everyone learning a language or learning to dance or to play a musical instrument; to teenagers learning to drive or learning a sport; to older people filling in Medicare forms: You don’t suck at it. You just don’t know how to do it. YET. You will. Don’t say “Holy Shit, I suck!” Say “Holy Shit, I have POTENTIAL!”
**
My Yoga practice: Tree.
I drew this several years ago, but I have improved.
My drawing, not my Yoga. But who cares? I have POTENTIAL!
Dear Mom
Back in December, I wrote a post to my mother, apologizing for all the aggravation I caused her. I finally understood how aggravating I actually was, now that I had a dog who was demonstrating to me every possible aggravation a mother can feel.
I never showed that post to Mom, however. Sometimes she’s a little embarrassed that so many people know her through my blogging. I tell her not to worry: I’m not exactly famous, so neither, unfortunately, is she. But she deserves to be in the Mother’s Hall of Fame in about a zillion categories: wisdom, integrity, cheerfulness, patience – to name a couple.
This year, for Mother’s Day, I have turned that blog into a little book.
I had it printed up, and I am delighted with the results.
So this time, I will show it to her.
Here it is:
Happy Mother’s Day to all the aggravated Mothers everywhere in the world!
**
(PS – I would love to know if you think there might be a market for this little book. I am considering offering it for sale on this website.)
Not Going First
Here’s a story:
When my nephew was a little boy, he had a friend that he often played with.
Every time they played a game, his small friend always started the game by saying, “I’ll go first!”
I remember wanting my nephew to SAY something about this – to stand up for himself and say, “You went first last time. This is MY turn to be first.”
And I wanted to step in and say that myself. But I don’t like to interfere in children’s dynamics – if it works for them, it works for them, fair or not. So I bit my tongue and never said what I was so tempted to say.
My nephew was a good-natured kid. Still is. So he always let that little girl go first. Always.
**
Here’s another story:
When we vacationed in Jamaica three years ago, we went zip-lining. This is not my usual occupation. This is not my crazy vacation self. My crazy vacation self is to have a pina colada on the beach as I read my book.
I was pretty frightened. And my husband was scared shitless. Not only for himself, since his vacation past-times include martinis and naps. But also for me. He checked my safety harness over and over again. Which is why I wasn’t scared shitless but only pretty frightened. I knew I would not plunge to my death. Only perhaps smack face first into a large tree.
Several people went off before we did. They stepped off the platform and they flew through the air. It was breathtaking. But I didn’t think I could do it – take that first step.
The person who went just before me was a young boy of maybe eleven. His mother was very nervous, but he was happy and laughing and he jumped off as soon as he got the go-ahead. You could hear him screaming, “YYAAAAYYY!!” all the way across.
That boy made me brave. I stepped off the ledge. I soared.
**
And another story:
Years ago, I was working as a financial executive in a male-dominated industry. On business trips, I was often the only woman.
On one occasion, several business associates and I went out to eat at a very nice seafood restaurant. There were five men and me. Since I was the only woman, when the waiter came to take our orders, he naturally turned to me first and asked what I wanted.
Well, we had all been talking about business and sports and the usual small talk, and no one had discussed the menu. So I took a quick glance and said, “I will have the filet of sole.”
And then around the table. Each man put in his order.
“I’ll have the double lobster.”
“I’ll have the double lobster.”
“I’ll have the double lobster.”
“I’ll have the double lobster.”
“I’ll have the double lobster.”
This was not good. I was about to sit around the table with my measly paper-thin slice of flavorless fish – surrounded by TEN lobsters.
“Excuse me,” I said politely to the waiter. “I need to change my order.”
And they brought twelve lobsters to the table.
**
So there is a moral here.
It is not always so bad letting someone else go first.
For my little nephew, he had a friendly happy playmate, and he always got his turn eventually. He never seemed to mind.
In Jamaica, seeing how much fun other people were having, especially that little boy… well, it reassured me, and gave me the courage to experience a delight I may never have otherwise known.
And during that business dinner… Well, I did go first. It didn’t serve me well. It was not an advantage. Better to see what everyone else is having.
I’m not saying you should always be last.
But there are often definite advantages to not being first.
I had a boss once who was rather forbidding and often moody. I learned to hold back in a meeting until a few other people spoke first – to get the lay of the land, so to speak. There was no use making a suggestion or proposal if the boss was not in a receptive mood. I let my coworkers step into the quicksand first. Not brave, I admit. But practical. And survivable.
When cross-country skiing, it is so nice not to have to push my way through heavy, virgin snow. I love skiing in someone else’s smooth, clear path.
My husband was involved for years with drag racing. Watching a few other cars go down the track was extremely beneficial in tuning his own vehicle.
You learn from watching others. And you can’t watch if you’re up first.
Of course, there are occasions when you really need to be first. First off the blocks in the 100-yard dash. First to hit the buzzer in Jeopardy. First in line to get the best seats in the house.
But most of Life is not a competition.
You win just by getting to play.
Like my nephew happy to go last.
Like a dozen lobsters.
Like swinging through trees.
Bird Droppings
When I was a freshman in high school, I had a pretty long walk to school. And I added to my long walk by meeting up with some friends who did not live near me. I had to walk several blocks in the opposite direction of the school in order to join them. I could have met them closer to the school and saved myself the time and extra steps. But I really liked these friends – and I wanted the full distance of their company.
One day on this long walk, as we were walking under some trees near St. Anthony’s Church, a bird shit on my head.
This was not a slight speck of shit. No. This was a ponderous plop of poop.
I was horrified.
So were my friends. All three girls dove into their handbags to come up with as much Kleenex as possible. And they pointed me the right directions to clean it off. They did not touch it themselves, it was too disgusting.
At fifteen, I was not yet as prolific at swearing as I am today, but this occasion called for something extra, so I said, “Holy Shit – that was truly some holy shit coming right from the church and all.”
We all laughed.
We went on to school where I immediately went to the lavatory and stuck my head under the sink, drying my hair with paper towels and knowing that I looked horrible but at least I was clean.
And then I worried.
– I worried that the girls would be laughing at me forever.
– I worried that they would tell everyone and I would be ridiculed by the whole school.
– I worried that all the boys would find out and think I was creepy (I’d seen “The Birds”) and no one would ever ask me out.
– I worried that I would get some terrible disease that is carried by birdshit, and all my hair would fall out.
– I worried that the girls would think it was a bad omen and that I was unlucky and wouldn’t want me to walk with them anymore.
– I worried that if it ever happened again, the girls would be right.
– I worried that my mortification would be so permanent, I would never be able to face my girlfriends again.
– And I worried that the stupid bird KNEW something, That is was a SIGN. That I had deserved to be pooped upon. It was my fault because I was an idiot.
Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?
But we do this every day.
We worry about every dumb mistake, every stupid fluke accident. We worry about what people will think of us. Whether our friends really like us. How anyone could like us when we are so stupid.
So what is worse – having the bird shit in your hair or having your hair look lousy because you washed the shit out?
Just fix the birdbrained, birdshit mistakes and don’t worry about it.
Because here is what happened after my birdshit incident:
– My girlfriends only laughed that one time, and maybe once or twice more. After all, a bird shit on my head.
– My friends did not tell the whole school – because although friends might laugh at you, they don’t want anyone else laughing at you.
– Boys found me shy and gawky, but not creepy. And the boys who were shy and gawky themselves dated me once in while.
– I didn’t contract any bird disease and my hair was the same catastrophe after the birdshit catastrophe that it had always been.
– The girls may have thought I was unlucky, but they still walked to school with me, and we walked AROUND that fucking tree.
– It never happened again.
– I stayed friends with those girls. They even thought I was sort of stylish and pretty, especially without birdshit on my head.
AND
– That bird DID know something. It WAS a SIGN.
It was a sign that when shit happens to you, just clean yourself up and get on with the day.
Measuring Refuge
A wise friend commiserated with me about the frustration and anger that engulfs me in dealing with some of the awfulness in the world.
I remember an old “Far Side” cartoon. I will not repost it here, because Gary Larson has asked that people not do that, and I respect him too much to go against his wishes. But in this cartoon, the dinosaurs are having a meeting, and the dinosaur keynote speaker says something like,
“The news is bad: The climate is changing, the humans are taking over the world, and we all have brains the size of a walnut.”
That’s often how I feel. The news is bad. It seems unrelentingly bad. And I have a brain the size of a walnut.
I can’t handle the bad news anymore. My walnut brain can’t cope.
But this smart and thoughtful friend gave me some loving, practical advice.
“Take Refuge.”
She didn’t recommend sticking my head in the sand.
“You are a citizen of this world,” she said, “and you have a duty to live in the world and understand what is happening. And deal with it. Participate.
“But you also have a duty to be kind to yourself. Your health – both mental and physical – requires you to protect yourself so that you will be strong enough to participate.
“So, yes, pay attention to the world – but not EVERY MINUTE.
“Take refuge.”
Her advice is transcendent.
I was reminded – and told her this story – of the time I was a teenager and was anguished over some environmental disaster, and my father said to me that I needed to find my composure. “You can’t change anything if everything makes you cry.”
My friend suggested I give myself a break every day – more than once a day – to unplug. (I dislike that word ‘unplug’ by the way, but it is literally the correct word here.)
I need, as my father advised fifty years ago, to find my composure.
So I am seeking refuge.
It’s so hard.
I admit that I am addicted to the news in general, and to Twitter in particular.
I heard someone say that the reason why social media is so addictive is the same reason why gambling is addictive. It is the quest for instant gratification. Your phone chirps and you say, “What did I get?” As if the notification were some kind of prize.
And on top of that, there is the satisfaction of just being “in the know.” I can see every moment what has just happened. I can be the most informed person in the room. And I love that. But of course, it means that I am not noticing anyone else in the room.
It also means that – much of the time – I am the angriest person in the room. Because I am addicted to the news. And I hate the news.
And I need to stop being angry.
So I need to shut off the news.
I need to seek refuge. I’m trying.
I am seeking refuge in books and music.
In writing – my blog, my next novel.
In nature.
In spending time with my family.
In seeing old friends and making new ones.
In Yoga.
In painting.
In enjoying a nice meal, a glass of wine, a cup of good coffee.
But I’m worried about how much refuge will be enough. I still feel such an urgent need to know what is happening. I just popped over to Twitter just now. I fell off the wagon that quickly.
Will a small bit of unplugging be enough? Can I do it?
Today, instead of checking my phone as soon as I got to my car after Yoga class, I did not look. I made it for forty minutes.
And I did not look at my phone during lunch.
And I read a few chapters of a book at the hairdresser.
I feel anxious and unsettled. I NEED to know.
But here is what I am hoping.
I am hoping that those few moments of refuge will eventually calm me, not agitate me.
I am hoping that it will add up.
I am hoping that refuge is cumulative.
Dog kisses. Better than Twitter.
When Reality Disappoints
There is an author I greatly admire.
She is a novelist and essayist, a columnist and, well, I guess although the word is out of fashion, you could also call her an orator.
She is profound and brilliant.
She is also on Twitter.
And so I am following her on Twitter.
I am a fan.
But something confounds me. I think something has changed with the terrific writer. Or perhaps, it has just taken me a while to notice. Perhaps my admiration got in the way of my perception. (which, in today’s world, is probably often true)
Her tweets are not exactly profound.
As a matter of fact, they consist mainly of the same thing:
Complaints.
Oh dear, how she complains. Nothing makes her happy. Everything displeases her. And there seems to be no tiny incident not worth her scorn. There is no sense of proportion. She is as upset that her hairdresser kept her waiting as she is outraged about sexual harassment. She doesn’t like the temperature in her hotel room. She’s angry at restaurants and hotels and cars and clothing. And she can be ruthless and sometimes embarrassingly petty to anyone commenting on her posts.
How disappointed I am that she is not happy.
After all, she is a successful and renowned author. Shouldn’t that make her unceasingly happy?
How dare she be unhappy??
If she is unhappy, does that mean that if I become a successful and renowned author, I may also not be unceasingly happy?
I think I would be unceasingly happy.
It confuses me.
So I go back and reread her tweets. I reread hundreds of them.
I look for happy ones.
And I find some.
Actually, I find quite a few.
So I am confused again.
Why did I think ALL her posts were so angry and unpleasant?
I suppose it is because the angry ones stand out – not because she was disappointed, but because she disappointed ME.
How dare she be human?
From now on I am going to concentrate on the tweets that express her pure joy – and there are many – because they will bring joy to me.
And the petty, sad, irritated, angry tweets?
For those, I will comment once in a while, and risk her withering wrath.
What I will say:
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That must feel so bad!”
Come to think of it, I think I will say that to everyone feeling sad.
notquiteold 