enroute365

Taking the high road

I have come to understand the need for fiction writing in a whole new way.

When I began blogging over a year ago, my goal was to share slices of life and observations from my own experiences. In essence, to share truth as it presented itself. I fully anticipated that at some point I'd run up against one specific problem with that plan: I am intricately connected to others. When I reveal bits of my journey, very often I'm also exposing the struggles of those whose lives touch mine. In doing so, it's easy to invade others' rights to privacy.

This is one of the reasons I decided to take a break last fall, the need for integrity above all else. The daily dramas I was entering into were not mine to share ... even if they captured many a valuable life lesson.

Now, don't get me wrong! I'm still awash in tales of my own foibles! In the coming days I'll fill you in on my recent lapse in mindfulness and the broken ankle that resulted. But just for today I wanted to acknowledge -- perhaps even celebrate -- the reality of human inter-connectedness and the bonds of trust that need to be protected ... even if a great story is buried in the process!

Some day I will delve into fiction to tell those truths that would somehow be lost in a "tell-all" accounting. The truths that would somehow be rendered sordid or exploitive if I spared no detail. But today's not that day ... and this site is not the right forum.

But, be forewarned! For Enroute 365 to continue as a "life travelogue," I may deliver fewer stories and more brief insights, especially during those times when my days intertwine deeply with those of a family member or friend. It's a conscious decision to take the high road ... on this site and in my life.

My Spring Fiction

 We’ve now entered the season where, as Alexander Pope put it, my own “hope springs eternal.” As the temperatures rise and new life slowly emerges seemingly from death -- from faded lawns, sparse trees and decaying leaf piles -- all becomes possible once again!  At least in my mind.

Even now as I imagine blossoms bursting forth from the malformed pear tree that I would have chopped down years ago but for its cheery springtime color, I know that I can perform miracles in my own life.

Whereas yesterday I fretted over when I would find the time to floss (much less, the time to write), today I know solutions will bloom for me. My optimism is not well founded. I’ve run the numbers and know there are not 28 hours in a day. But, Spring has arrived transmuting all known laws of mathematics.

Over the past few months I’ve been keenly aware that making a living in the real world has gotten harder. Springtime, however, is here and the world is resurrected. Can economic recovery be far behind when the robins have returned?

What is it about Spring that renews my spirit … if not my reality?  How is it that any human being can rise above dismal prospects to hope-filled delusions?  And what can be said for those few who translate their impossible dreams into tangible success stories?

So, for today I’ll live in my magical world, the one that fueled my little girl dreams ... where I’d never heard the words “implausible,” “unlikely” or "impractical." That place where denial is the law of the land. Objectivity can prevail another time.

---

Safe within this wish-based space, I now add, "it's good to be back!" Back to this blog ... without a clue of where I'll find the time to write! Perhaps you know the feeling?

Prying my fingers from possibilities

Have you ever found yourself trying to take more than one path at a time? Maybe you've discovered that you don't get very far when trying to straddle several diverging routes. When writing my last post, The Nature of Life, I knew that I was not making any inroads through recent efforts to simultaneously direct and follow my life -- or, at least, my career. But upon reading your responses, I realized that my challenge was a bit more complicated.

Let me explain. I've come to realize that running my own consulting business on a full-time basis will never meet the goal I'd hoped for: being able to utilize my writing and/or design skill sets to their highest potential. Not when I must also function as the sales person, accountant and IT staff! So, it was time to re-evaluate. Still, I love being the strategist and the worker bee ... and having my own company allows me to test new ideas, something I wouldn't risk in a corporate setting. As a result, I continue to run my small enterprise with the intent of relegating it to a side business or "hobby job," after I find a full-time job that better fits my objectives.

Now, the U.S. economy isn't exactly cooperating with my plan! So, to temporarily supplement my income, I've accepted a temp job assignment. I was over-qualified for the job, but the position appeared just when I needed it. No other doors where opening at the time and, when I walked in for an interview, everyone and everything seemed so familiar, so ... right. "Maybe I'm being lead here," I told myself as I checked my ego at the door. Besides, my new contractor was so incredibly happy to snag me that my sense of self-confidence is still beaming somewhere over on Cloud 9!

As I undertake this job, however, I'm also trying to fill the gaps within my resume by educating myself and taking on specific non-paying projects that will enhance my portfolio. Because a new job or my own business might demand that I understand the new social media, I continue to immerse myself in that exploration, too. And, did I mention that I still envision myself as a freelance writer? So those efforts remain on my plate as well!

But, today as I responded to a recent comment, I realized that all these activities were not the result of a decision on my part ... but from a lack of one. I found myself trying to be a business owner, contract employee, job seeker, student and freelance writer ... all because I'd sure hate to miss out on any opportunity before me! I wasn't making choices, I was hedging my bets! And I've had to admit that I'm so afraid of not fulfilling my purpose or potential here on earth (or even fully comprehending what that is) that I' haven't let go of any path showing promise! And when anyone is so frantically jumping from one road to another, can s/he really be quiet enough to hear that still, small voice? Or proactive enough to intentionally forge a well-conceived future?

While last week I questioned when I should listen and when I should lead, now I'm facing the reality that doing either requires letting go: relinquishing my grip on a fistful of possibilities in order to effectively pursue one. Or two. At most, three. (I think you see my dilemma!)

Just try to pry my fingers off any one of my endeavors and I'm sure to give you a litany of reasons why I must retain it. Yet I'll also tell you, in all sincerity, that I am not a workaholic. Although, now that I think of it, I haven't taken a vacation in over two years.

My salvation lies, I believe, in the fact that I'm not very tolerant of indecision ... in myself or others. So now that I've realized I'm guilty of just this crime, correcting my course -- or, more accurately, settling on a single course of action -- should be easier.

I know I should be grateful. After all, I have a wealth of options to choose from. Many women don't have it this good. On second thought, some men don't either. I am facing the type of abundance that comes from having freedom. And freedom requires that decisions be made. I must choose which path to take at this point in my journey or remain stalled at the intersection. Maybe some of my options will reappear in the future. And that's what I'll remind myself: no true possibilities are ever lost because I am always free to retrace my steps and choose again.

How do you address decision-making? What choices are easy for you? Which are difficult?

The nature of life

Does life unfold for those who are open to embrace what it has to offer? Or should it be up to us take life "by the horns" and steer it in the direction of our dreams?

Is life a stream that takes us to our destinations as it will ... or is it the clay that we shape as we will?

I confess that I don't have the answer, although I suspect it lies somewhere between these two extremes. I just have to find where exactly that is for my own journey. These are the answers I still await as I continue to observe a period of stillness and listening.

I do agree with a recent post at A Day to Share with Tammy, that in many ways I create my life each day, even in the simplest efforts, as she describes:

During the summer months, when flowers are plentiful in my garden, I love to fill the house with these heavenly tokens. I arrange bouquets for my living room, bedroom, dining room, kitchen, and my desk. I know I am arranging them for me. With these flowers I am in good company ...

I may have stress and some complications, but in my heart I know that I can and will smile to myself knowing that I am in charge ... I create the roads that I will follow ...

Why be miserable when you can be happy? I looked at the flower on the table again. I saw a gift the flower was giving me.

But, when it comes to issues of personal achievement, I have on occasion been better served by letting my ambition take the day off! Some days God, fate or coincidence seemingly has other plans. And, from time-to-time, these plans have opened doors I could not have foreseen.

What about you? Do you accept life as it comes, mold it to suit, or adopt a different approach. Let me know! I'm still listening.

Defining middle-age my way

Contemplations on aging.

Last night I woke to a thunderstorm. But it was the storm in my brain that wouldn’t let me return to slumber. Because I desperately need to get a good eight hours tonight, I finally dared ask myself the questions weighing on my mind, “Am I feeling the years … those years that have brought me to midlife? Am I wearing down?” The answer was simply “No.” In many ways, I feel that I'm just now really digging in to life and it's possibilities! I am, right now, my best self!

So, I probed deeper. “Am I feeling the fear … the fear of stereotypes? The fear of being defined, limited by a number.” A pause. Then an admission, “yes." Some people "out there" have lumped me into a category that I don't much care for. One that sees me as past my prime, based on ... what? I do not know.

Finally, unexpectedly, my soul offered this revelation, "... and the fear itself is limiting me, narrowing the opportunities I see.” It's creating boogey-men where there may be none.

At 47, I am young. I’m the “cool” adult with a Playstation game and unconventional ideas. The one who cranks Nickelback while speeding down the road to work. Yet, at the same time, I’m as old as my silvery hair. I always buckle my seat-belt and, if you’re riding with me, you will, too, sonny!

I enjoy the company of peers 20 years younger. And, yes, I consider them my peers, for as much as I teach them, they (in return) instruct me. Through their youthful eyes I see familiar sights in new ways. In me, they gain the perspective that only comes with experience. And together we create synergy.

Time spent with those my own age and older is also relished, however. These folks know what I’m going through and the life passages that lie ahead. I respect their wisdom, their journeys, their stories. Together we explore our purpose.

The young. The old. The in-between. Just who am I afraid can hold me back? Together we all make up society. We create conventional thought! Who is there to limit me to my age or their perceptions of it? Even well-entrenched stereotypes can be shaken. And my generation is quite capable of shaking things up!

Today I ask myself what has changed since I was 27. Is it just that more years have passed by? No, I am different. I’ve gained an inner calm, a deeper honesty and a broader perspective. I’ve learned that I lose nothing by giving; by sharing the credit, offering encouragement or letting someone else have the limelight. I wouldn’t want to turn the pages back, even to once again claim that lanky frame or brunette curls.Of course shedding ten pounds (if not ten years) would be nice! Still, I now have more to give ... and one would be hard-pressed to dismiss that lightly.

I used to imagine that at some point in my life, I’d have more answers. But these days I only have more questions. I don’t even know how to age gracefully. Then again, I’ve never done anything gracefully in my life; I go at it with all thrusters on … or I don’t go at it at all. And perhaps that is exactly how it should be: life is so short that I don’t need time for fear. I’ll simply have to define middle-age my way … making up the rules as I go along. That’s really the only way I’ve ever lived.

Genie stays!

 
Continued from the July 12th post, "Lessons While Waiting."

Genie has decided that she's part of the family. Last night the little miss burst in on me (in the bathroom) to demand her third brushing of the evening. The night before, she marched across my desk to lie against my arm as I read blogs. And I've heard her jump down from the dining room table when she senses that I'm approaching from down the hall. So no doubts remain that Genie has made herself at home ... and that, indeed, this pretty Persian knows she already runs our home!

Genie's previous owner, Marla, has come to the same decision: Genie belongs with Frank and me. Marla stopped by for a final visit with Genie last night (she takes off for Texas today). Marla's been so busy preparing for this move -- selling possessions, finalizing job details and packing -- that she admits it hasn't really hit her yet: that Genie won't be moving with her.

I tell Marla that Frank and I will take good care of Genie ... but, in some ways, Genie is already taking good care of me. I now look forward to returning home after a long day of work. But not because I know Genie will be waiting for me. Some days this sweet cat does just that: waits for me at the top of the stairway. Other days I must rouse Genie from where she lies snoring in my office chair ...  snoozing under the china cabinet ... or curled up on the fireplace mantle! I look forward to seeing Genie because there's a part of me that needs to nurture. And Genie has a corresponding need for gentleness and understanding.

My nephew thinks it's funny that I speak to Genie in a higher pitch ... in something akin to baby-talk. "Ooooh, Geee-neeee, honey! Do we want our leeetle mousey?" he mimics in a falsetto voice. How quickly these children forget: fourteen years ago, that's how I spoke to him!

What can I say? I'm guilty of spoiling pets and children. And I'm quite unrepentant. After all, look at that contented mug (Genie's "happy face")! Mine is a victimless crime!

What pets own you? And why? What need does pet ownership fill for you?

Earlier posts:

• July 6th, "Of a Pet Lost and a Pet being Found"
• July 9th, "Meeting Genie"
• July 12th, "Lessons While Waiting"

Lessons while waiting

Continued from the July 9th post, "Meeting Genie."

Doing what's best for someone else doesn't always come easily. And that was the choice Marla was desperately trying to make. She had gone to great lengths to find new people for her pet as she prepared to start a new life in a new location. But now, when an expected job clearance had not yet come through, Marla struggled over Genie's future.

I saw the signs of an inner battle on her face as Marla fought back emotion. "I don't know what to do if the job doesn't pan out," she admitted. Then, as if correcting herself, she added, "but it isn't really about me, it's about her. It's about what's best for Genie."

Marla is still in her twenties and isn't yet settled. Her life has been in transition for some time now, during which time Genie has been housed by friends and, most recently, boarded at a local vet's. Even earlier, Marla didn't quite have the time she'd first thought she would to care for a cat ... and she feels that Genie has suffered because of this. I appreciate Marla's honesty. It helps me understand why, when Genie first came to our home, she didn't know how to play.

I've walked in Marla's shoes before. I remember how, fresh out of college, I longed for the companionship of a cat ... even when my work hours and social life really didn't make me the best pet owner.

Seeing Marla's dilemma, I realize that I must be as selfless as she is trying to be. So, after meeting my husband's eyes from across the living room, I offer a proposal. "Frank and I have found that when something is right ... when it's meant to be ... circumstances fall into place of their own accord. We don't need to force it. Maybe adopting Genie is right for us ... maybe it isn't," I begin. The next words are more difficult to utter, but somehow I get them out. "Why don't we proceed this way," I continue. "Why don't Frank and I continue to keep Genie in our home until mid-July when you'll have an answer about the job." "That way, you don't have to pay boarding fees, Genie continues to enjoy a home-atmosphere and you can visit her whenever you'd like." If the job doesn't pan out and you decide to keep Genie, Frank and I will consider this time our kitty 'fix' ... a time to reintroduce us to cat ownership ... or cat servitude, as the case may be! No hard feelings. But if you decide, for whatever reasons, that we can adopt her, we'd like that very much. She's a very special kitty so this can't be easy, but know you'd be welcome to visit her whenever you're in town to visit your mom."

As I speak these words, I think back to some nine months ago when I found a stray kitten dashing around in a busy parking lot on a rainy night. To keep her safe, I'd taken her home and spent the next week alerting various rescue agencies, the area's postal carriers and every vet in the city. I blanketed that suburb with bright yellow flyers. After seven weeks I was ready to claim her as my own ... just as her owners finally spotted one of my flyers in a grocery store. Relinquishing that adorable bundle of fur was difficult ... and made all the more so because it seemed that her owners had put forth very little effort toward finding her. Even upon her return, they had few questions and not a single word of thanks. Yet, Jazz (as they'd fittingly name her) wasn't mine, so I tearfully handed her over.

This, I reminded myself, was a very different situation. Genie was very much loved by Marla. Still the prospect of losing her -- even after so short a time together -- tugged at my heart.

Marla agreed to my proposal. She recently stopped by to see how things are going. Since our first visit, Genie has discovered how to play. She loves chasing a felt streamer that we dangle enticingly before her ... and already has a favorite toy, a catnip mouse.Genie has also become a bird lover, strategically placing her twitching body behind a large potted plant beside the sliding glass doors.

I'm not a patient person by nature, but as these last two weeks have passed, I've learned a thing or two about patience as a virtue. I've seen that I can conquer my impatient tendencies by accepting not only the realities before me, but by accepting the other people who share that reality ... by respecting them, respecting their journeys. But mostly, I think I've learned about love ... and how intricately those virtues are tied together: I'm beginning to love this cat and therefore I can be patient and will be accepting of the outcome.

Marla continues to prepare for her big move to Texas. She's impressed with how Genie has progressed and seems content with allowing us to keep her. But her decision is, no doubt, bittersweet. Per our agreement, Marla still has several days to change her mind. While I feel confident that the adoption will proceed, I continue to reign that feeling in; I need to delay it for just a few more days. After July 15th we'll have our final answer.

To be concluded with PART 4 in this continuing series on July 16th.

Earlier posts:

• July 6th, "Of a Pet Lost and a Pet being Found"
• July 9th, "Meeting Genie"

Voice of the next generation

For the better part of two weeks, I've been telling stories of family growth through the generations. Coverage on this topic would not be complete without a foray into the latest generation of my own family, so I asked my eldest nephew Jesse if I could speak with him as a representative of this generation and share some of his music with you (click links below to hear music clips.)

Jesse represents progress in my family. He's thoughtful, respectful and pretty focused for a 19-year old. He is a college sophomore majoring in aerospace engineering and performance music ... and he's gaining increasing attention as a powerful, young baritone with enormous potential.

Several aunts often kid Jesse that he got his vocal quality from his mother and his sheer volume from his dad. After all, my sister is a wonderful, albeit-non-professional alto and my brother-in-law is loud but tone-deaf! (And, indeed, Jesse's voice can fill good-sized college auditoriums in tune and without electronic assistance.) Yet, it's Jesse himself who has willingly -- no, eagerly -- maintained a steadfast dedication to music throughout his young life. While aided by parents who have encouraged him every step of the way.

Jesse exhibits a quiet self-confidence that was rather lacking in my generation. And it comes through as Jesse discusses his love for music.

"My interest in music stems back further than I can recount," Jesse says. But singing beside his mother in church made an early impression. And, not just his mother. "Everyone around was participating" and Jesse came to view music as a form of prayer. He recalls his music teacher Sister Vicky quoting Saint Augustine's words, "singing is praying twice." And he relates how, when he sings Ave Maria (as in his 2006 recording), people "become more in touch with how they feel when listening to the music." That's important to him, because it's a connection he can help people make.

While Jesse noted that there is a difference between religious music and performance music, he stated that "music is a way I express and pull out emotion that would be extremely difficult with only [spoken] words." A classical song Jesse recently recorded, Lung dal caro bene, offers him ample opportunity to share the fullness of an emotional story.

"It's an Italian song about love," Jesse offers, "roughly translating to 'far from my love I languish.'" When performing the piece, Jesse takes on a character, much like an actor does. He also interprets the song, imagining and conveying the emotional darkness the forlorn lover feels in low, dark passages and the happiness evident in the upbeat conclusion.

As with all of my nieces and nephews, I can only beam with pride (or ball like a baby) as I watch Jesse grow and discover his talents and passions. But I'm also proud of his parents who provided him with the environment and support with which he might flourish! With these efforts of both generations, I have no doubt that Jesse will become a success, in whatever way he chooses to define that.

If you'd like to hear more of Jesse's songs, feel free to visit his website here. (And, yes, I've set it up in Typepad in anticipation of that day when Jesse wants to blog! That's one way I can provide support as well!)

What success stories can you see emerging within your family?  How do other family members contribute to the success of another?

The beauty behind her bruises

Penny has ample reason to dread family get-togethers, and -- with a holiday creeping closer – her fears again rise to the surface. Seated with me, Penny hikes her trouser legs up, exposing her milky calves; I have never seen a whiter woman. “These legs haven't seen the sun in years,” Penny laughs. But she wonders what extra dots of color she'll see in the coming weeks. "By next week these will be covered in shades of purple and blue, in assorted sizes of toe tips," she assures me.

You see, Penny has a slight problem with impulse control and, on occasion, she'll call someone out for comments made under the pretext of polite dinner conversation; comments born more from prejudice than facts, for instance. When others are in attendance, Penny's challenges often make for a good show. I, for one, am never adverse to seeing someone squirm ... someone else, not me, that is! But, as a result of her outspokenness, Penny often gets kicked under the table by well-meaning family and friends who would rather leave well-enough alone.

Penny's tone suddenly changes. “Maybe the bruises are worth it,” she says.

When I fail to understand her shift in thought, Penny explains. “It used to be that my parents would bring their bigotry to the family table at get-togethers and I alone would counter it. I don't want my kids exposed to that. So I'd say, 'Mom, I don't know where you get your info, but the Hispanics I work with are hard-working. The African-Americans next door make for the best neighbors. My Muslim friends aren't terrorists.' You know ...”

I do know. I know that a huge gulf separates prejudice from reality. “Go on,” I encourage.

“Well, as soon as I open my mouth, my brothers and sisters start directing little kicks my way.”

“Under the table?” I question.

“Precisely,” she responds.

Lately, however, a subtle change has taken place at Penny's family table. Different feet have taken aim at her legs. And for different reasons.

“Last Easter I let my parents voice their prejudice without interruption,” Penny said. “Maybe I was tired. After all, they always offer up the same arguments; we never cover new ground.”

“So ...” I prompt.

“So the children started tapping me under the table with their feet,” Penny said.

“Your kids?” I ask.

“Well, my oldest and my brother's. So I turn to them and ask if there was a reason for the fancy footwork. They look at me like I'm crazy and ask, 'Are you going to just let that go? Aren't you going to say something?'”

“I'm tired, so I ask, 'What do you think I should say?' Avery chimes in right away, 'you should say that sounds like gossip and we don't gossip.' Then Annie says I should question the motives of their sources. Back and forth they go, spouting every argument I've put up against my folks' discriminatory statements for the past five years  ... and I think they added in a few new ones: let's not give in to paranoia; don't buy-in to anonymous hearsay; avoid blanket judgments.'”

“'Good points,' I say to the children. 'Consider them spoken,'” Penny concluded.

“Well, friend,” I finally say, “maybe you could view those bruises differently ... from here they might very well be badges of honor. And you're my favorite hero!”

“Well ... it's a war worth winning," she smiles.

“Still, you might consider sitting at the kiddie table,” I advise. “Smaller feet, smaller bruises.”

Building a better family

My paternal grandfather was an ox of a man. Even in his 80s, as his shoulders stooped, he stood over six feet tall. Family lore has it that, back in the days of the Model T, he once returned a ditched car to the roadway, first hoisting its front end, then the rear section, up and over the embankment. This is the same strength that stopped a period of physical abuse in the family. After my granddad had reached adulthood -- and a size that outmatched that of his father -- Granddad intervened as a younger brother was being beaten. Relying on every ounce of strength he had, Grandpa grabbed his father's flying fists, pulled them down to his sides, then in his booming voice announced, “there will be no more of this.” And, the violence ended.

When my grandfather began rearing a family of his own, he meted out discipline with greater restraint that his own father had, but he still relied on the solid values he had been brought up with. Hard work. Thrift. Patriotism. Faith. He and my grandmother had what it took to survive the Depression with three young boys. Life was rough and, in response, these people could not be soft. There were no beatings in this household, but no outward displays of affection either. And might was still the yardstick by which my grandfather measured his sons.

In a home that valued the physical strength needed to meet the demands of farm labor, Dad was at a disadvantage. He was a late-bloomer and as the smallest boy felt the sting of his father's disappointment. It was years before my father was allowed to take the reins of the horses and plow the fields. In the meantime, he served as his mother's helper in and around the home, a severe blow to his sense of pride. And Dad could only watch as an older brother received all of his father's acceptance.

Feeling slighted, my father vowed that he would do better by his children than his parents had done by him. When he had children, they would be treated fairly. There would be no favoritism.

My father was true to his word. Yet he was not a perfect parent either ... and, in their turn, my siblings resolved to do better -- to be better -- with their offspring.

In this way my family has slowly improved, each generation feeling compelled to give to the next what we ourselves needed but never received. And, all the while, passing down the best of what we've been given. Perhaps this is nature's way of insuring progress in the human race: by instilling in us an assurance that we can overcome the faults of the past.

The next generation of my family will, no doubt, determine what mistakes have been made this last time around. I hope they will forgive us, just as we forgive our parents. But, more importantly, I pray that, when these children begin their family lives, they will continue the tradition and feel that they can do better. Who knows ... maybe the next generation will finally get it right.

What practices should end in your family?  What improvements can be made? Which traditions should endure?