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.

The value of uncertainty

Uncertainty paid me a recent call. A wake-up call.

Over the last eight years, I’ve taken family weekends for granted. During this time my sisters and I have lived within a two-hour drive of each other, yet we’ve typically only found the time to make that drive four times a year. Or less.

But change is on the horizon. Now it appears that one family may have to relocate to a different job market. Another family awaits word of how a down-sizing will affect them.

This isn’t fair or unfair. This is life, I remind myself. Life isn’t predictable and those along for its journey cannot expect to remain complacent for too long. Which is exactly what I had allowed myself to become -- too comfortable – and what I pulled back from during a recent family get-together.

The family surrounding me, I tried to stretch each moment of the weekend as if I could keep it always before me in an elastic eternity. The words of my sisters hung in the air as I listened, not only to their shared stories and concerns, but also the tone and timbre of their voices. Even their arguments. In my nieces’ eyes, I relished the sparks of creativity and laughter … and I see these glints still. I cherished every embrace, however fleeting, and marveled at the caring conveyed by a touch.

For once, I was even content to play the observer as my brothers-in-law traded good-natured jabs. My witty repartee could wait.

I would love to see a bright sun mysteriously burst through the clouds that shroud the family's future and shine the light on answers that would keep my siblings and their families nearby. And that is what I'll pray for. Whether or not this happens, however, I am grateful for even the uncertainty of life which has caught me off-balance … the uncertainty that has made all I value precious again.

We are the bridges

When I look at the continuity of human life, I see every generation as a bridge of sorts. Each generation transitions from one which grows wise but (dare I say it?) set in its ways ... to another that is filled with promise. We are the link between old traditions and new ideas ... and we have great opportunity to bring together the best of both.

I'm reminded of this because my blogging pal over at the Progenitor is going to become a first-time father in a few short days. As such, perhaps you can imagine all the thoughts running through his mind. Like, "has age got anything to do with 'childhood'?" In his post "The Not-So Inner Child," he asks:

"Is it possible for a 35/6/7/8-year old man to ditch self-consciousness in favour of child-like abandon."

The Progenitor promises to report back on that one and I'm rooting for him! Keep in mind this notion is not what my own father had in mind when starting a family 40+ years ago. Like others of his era, Dad believed then -- and still believes -- that parents should be authority figures and children should not be treated as pals.

Yet ... I can see some good in a more laid-back parenting style, for both parent and child. As an involved aunt, I'm a bridge. I know that neither of my parents were close to their fathers. And -- able to observe later generations of my own family -- I've witnessed the trust that develops when fathers take time away from their role as disciplinarians to simply play with their children. When fathers and sons relate -- not as just in teacher-to-student fashion, but instead as boys (big and little) with a love of toy bulldozers and sandboxes -- then, an open dialogue begins which helps sustain them through the child's trying teenage years.

In the meantime others are also grappling with this whole adult/child thing. Like Emily at Be In Wonder. In a slightly different twist, Emily has heard someone else's words coming from her mouth. You probably know who! And in her post "I Sound Just Like Mother," she poses this question:

"... why is it that we STILL do things we said we never do? And have those mouth-grasping lung-gasping moments and exclaim ...

'Oh my goodness! I sound just like my mother!' when we realize that we just said something we thought we had tossed into the 'I'll never say/do that" pile?'"

How many of us can identify with Emily in this? How many of our parents and grandparents have frozen at this same realization?  In similar situations, I have echoed the words of past generations, words that are no longer relevant and maybe never were. After friends have rushed to my side with assurances that I am not my mother -- once my panic has subsided -- I am forced to accept that even subconsciously, we still pass down many of the beliefs and attitudes from the past, even those ideas we don't endorse and some which we heartily renounce!

 So, disregarding our histories is not an option; our pasts have ways of seeping through. Repeating our parents' choices verbatim is, also, not possible; the times have not stood still ... and we're not here to be redundant. This means the answers lie somewhere between these two extremes. Ultimately, we must span the divide; it's what a bridge is called to do.

What is your experience in spanning the gap between generations? What from your past do you willingly carry forward to a new generation? What new traditions have you created?

 

Called to care

I want to begin by begging everyone's indulgence! We've had some great discussion following the last several posts; your comments allow me to consider alternative viewpoints so I appreciate your insights! Unfortunately I'm behind schedule in visiting your blogs and commenting. I will correct that omission this week. For now, however, I want to provide what I hope is a conclusion to my posts regarding the flooding in Iowa.

On Friday, after my last entry, I headed with my husband Frank to help with the sandbagging effort in Des Moines. This activity was important to me for a few reasons. First, my community was in need. Second, I was able. And third, acts of service give me a feeling of purpose. You see, I'm not one of those lucky few with a conscious knowledge of where my life's purpose lies. I don't even know if I'm on the planet for a single specific reason, so I'm forced to create purpose in little ways where opportunity presents itself.

Still, I sometimes fall short of my mark. Like Friday, when I wanted to focus my hands and my mind in a prayerful attitude to the task of building sandbags. My hands cooperated but my mind did not. While Frank's thoughts (as he revealed to me later) primarily centered on whether our efforts would make a real difference, I was obsessed with the realization that I had not shaved my legs! Really! I don't believe Mother Theresa would have faced this same dilemma, but then again, I tried to remind myself, I wasn't trying to be Mother Theresa, just a better Brenda.

After sandbagging Frank and I began the journey home. I had brought my camera along, hoping to take pictures for a local news blog, Around Des Moines, and I found several chances to document the flood's impact on the city. At one stop near my home, I was able to direct a displaced homeless man to a make-shift shelter nearby. The police had issued a mandatory evacuation for his home (which I believe was actually a park by the river). At any rate, he needed just a bit more guidance to reach his destination. Since my camera later malfunctioned, destroying the photos of street flooding at that particular location, I'd like to think that my true purpose there was in assisting this lost soul.

By Saturday it had become apparent that Cedar Rapids, a city approximately 100 miles to the northeast, was suffering far greater flooding than Des Moines. In a telephone conversation with my younger sister, a Cedar Rapids resident, I learned that the city's ability to provide water to its population was still in jeopardy and citizens had to get by with minimal water usage. Bottled water was also proving difficult to come by. My sister has four girls in her household. Two of them are teenagers. Perhaps that's all I need to say! So, during the night, my husband and I hatched a plan for hauling a pick-up load of water up to Cedar Rapids. Early this morning (Sunday), we set about making the calls to make our plans become reality. By 11 am, due to a heart-warming degree of help and cooperation, we were ready to head out of town with two 50 gallon drums of water, perhaps a dozen individual gallon containers of water provided by my older sister, a camping shower kit, clean dishcloths, a package of baby wipes and more. Due to all the road closures resulting from flooding, charting a course between the two cities had been our greatest challenge, but by 2:30 pm, our cargo had been delivered.

We're now back home and I'm trying to overlook a less-than-tidy home as my husband asks me, “do you think it was worthwhile ... our activities this weekend?” Good question! I didn't get to the work I'd brought home from the office and Frank still needs to study for his organic chemistry test. Dishes sit dirty, stacked by the sink; the weeds in the yard didn't leave of their own accord; and our refrigerator is looking pretty bare. But yes, it was all worthwhile. This was a weekend with a purpose, and that purpose was putting caring into action. Maybe my highest calling is to care ... and, if so, I'm content. After all, sometimes caring is the best deed anyone can do.

Memorial Day: coalescence and connection

My car serves as a roaming flower dispenser again this year. As we do most Memorial Day weekends, my husband and I have filled an over-sized bucket with brightly colored flowers, manuevered the unwieldy pail into the back seat, tossed in assorted pruning tools and water jugs, and have began our trek to area cemeteries. I used to consider this the journey of a day simply because it took a good six hours to pack up the car and travel around the metro area to make each of nine graveside visits. Now, however, I realize this is the journey of lifetimes; each stop reflects a life -- and the stories of a lifetime -- all of which have coalesced to shape the man I love.

Our first destination is the grave site of Frank's parents. There, as is our tradition, I gather together a pleasing array of flowers -- combining shades of yellow, rose and lavender -- while Frank trims invasive grasses and cleans the plaques on the site. Together we wash the granite and set the tethered brass vases upright to receive their cheery nosegays. Some day we will bring bleeding hearts; they were his mother's favorite. I'm not sure if Frank's father had a preference for flowers of any kind. Although he loved to garden, my father-in-law was fond of vegetables. On one occasion, after bragging up a prize bell pepper, Bud marched his brother to the backyard only to find his veggie-loving granddaughter in the garden with a salt shaker. Only the pepper's stem and seeds remained.

Thirty minutes later that memory has faded. Now at a different cemetery, Frank and I work together to recognize two family members who died as infants plus two who died during war time. The difference between this stop and our first is that neither Frank nor I ever met any of the lads we now honor. One, a half-brother to my spouse, had been born some 12 years before Frank's own birth. At the time of the boy's death, Frank's father and his first wife had been unable to afford a proper headstone. Frank's mother (wife #2 and a woman who dearly loved children) rectified this situation soon after joining the family. I think she would be pleased to know that her son still acknowledges the life one taken so young.

Frank never knew his veteran uncle and cousin either, but he knows of them and that is enough. Both died during wartime service with the National Guard. One, Uncle Wish (short for Aloysius) was killed in a plane accident at Pike's Peak, dying just days before his own scheduled wedding. He  might have avoided this ill-fated Guard assignment, but he had won the deciding coin toss with his nephew Skippy, the other contender for this particular adventure. Just a few years younger than his beloved uncle, Skippy's own luck ran out a short time later in a fatal auto accident while returning from a Guard training practice. But each year they live on as their intertwined life stories are retold.

We travel to yet another cemetery today. There we unexpectedly meet Maxine, a hitherto unknown third-cousin of Frank's. After introducing themselves, Maxine and Frank share personal remembrances of uncles long gone and swap stories told by parents. Then his new-found cousin guides us to the final resting place of Frank's maternal great-grandparents. The headstones of these ancestors are just yards away from the relative we'd come to honor, yet we'd never discovered the connection!

As the day draws to a close, Frank feels good ... satisfied after our Memorial Day trek.  He has rekindled his connection to those who have gone before and has found someone new with whom he shares common ground. We will visit the grave sites of my grandparents and great-grandparents on Monday, but for now I'm happy to have once again spent time getting to know my husband from the context of his family history. And I can't help but wonder how much this very history has shaped him.

How about you?  Can you recall stories of ancestors? How much influence has family history had on your life?   

My need to weed (2008)

[This post was first published on Enroute365 in April 2007, but after a weekend of yard work -- my way of reconnecting to Mother Earth -- I've decided to republish a slightly modified version at this time.]

A number of years ago, my husband and I bought a house surrounded with sumptuous landscaping. Out of necessity, I took-up weeding. Oh, we could have hired a service, but Frank and I are chronic do-it-yourselfers, the types that would rather spend hundreds of dollars on lawn and garden equipment than ask for help.

And this is a good thing. Because it gave me the chance to rediscover dirt.

As a child, I’d always been fond of dirt and digging and mud-pie making. But over time I’d forgotten. Forgotten how good the earth smelled after a rain and how it easily could be moved and shaped. So now reminded of this pleasure as an adult, it wasn't long before I'd abandoned my garden gloves, preferring to work with my bare hands.

To Frank’s amazement, I soon announced that I’d take over the weeding; I wanted the excuse to play in the dirt. But there was more to it than that. As much as I enjoyed the feel of connecting to the ground itself, I grew to love working with plants, plucking out the undesired encroachers and adding in those we saw as beautiful: hen and chicks, vinca, hostas, phlox.

As my confidence grew, I started creating new, blooming spaces where none existed before. A late-riser by habit, I began to rise early in the morning eager to begin my work outdoors. Neighbors would warn me, “it’s too hot today,” and I’d promise to finish early. “That’s quite an ambitious project,” they’d say. And I’d agree, but it was too late. I was already halfway done.

As time wore on, I came to realize that it wasn’t the dirt that drew me to yard work. Not even the plants. Rather it was -- and is -- my way of making an inner connection. I came to understand that in the wee hours, I can still see the traces of my dreams. In the morning's stillness, I can hear the messages of my soul. And with my hands busy in labor, my mind is free to explore the thoughts that reveal themselves to me.

I began weeding to keep the yard neat, tame. But I continue weeding to discover myself, my hidden voice unrestrained.

Do you have moments or activities in which you can hear your still small voice?  How do you experience this personal phenomenon?  What has it taught you about yourself?

A number of years ago, my husband and I bought a house surrounded with sumptuous landscaping. Out of necessity, I took-up weeding. Oh, we could have hired a service, but Frank and I are chronic do-it-yourselfers, the types that would rather spend hundreds of dollars on lawn and garden equipment than ask for help.

And this is a good thing. Because it gave me the chance to rediscover dirt.

As a child, I’d always been fond of dirt and digging and mud-pie making. But over time I’d forgotten. Forgotten how good the earth smelled after a rain and how it easily could be moved and shaped. So now reminded of this pleasure as an adult, it wasn't long before I'd abandoned my garden gloves, preferring to work with my bare hands.

To Frank’s amazement, I soon announced that I’d take over the weeding; I wanted the excuse to play in the dirt. But there was more to it than that. As much as I enjoyed the feel of connecting to the ground itself, I grew to love working with plants, plucking out the undesired encroachers and adding in those we saw as beautiful: hen and chicks, vinca, hostas, phlox.

As my confidence grew, I started creating new, blooming spaces where none existed before. A late-riser by habit, I began to rise early in the morning eager to begin my work outdoors. Neighbors would warn me, “it’s too hot today,” and I’d promise to finish early. “That’s quite an ambitious project,” they’d say. And I’d agree, but it was too late. I was already halfway done.

As time wore on, I came to realize that it wasn’t the dirt that drew me to yard work. Not even the plants. Rather it was -- and is -- my way of making an inner connection. I came to understand that in the wee hours, I can still see the traces of my dreams. In the morning's stillness, I can hear the messages of my soul. And with my hands busy in labor, my mind is free to explore the thoughts that reveal themselves to me.

I began weeding to keep the yard neat, tame. But I continue weeding to discover myself, my hidden voice unrestrained.

Do you have moments or activities in which you can hear your still small voice?  How do you experience this personal phenomenon?  What has it taught you about yourself?

Life: we're in this together

I am not alone. I know this because so many of the stories I read across the blogosphere have parallels in my own life. The Idea Dude blog explains this phenomenon best in a post titled  “Chicken Soup at Your Doorstep.”

“... this is what the blogosphere is about,” the post asserts. “The digital chicken soup. Real people telling real stories that let everyone else know, we're all more alike than we realize. That we all have tough times and we can inspire each other. Not with fancy words or political rhetoric. Just a simple story about us.”

I first read these words a week ago and I find merit in them every time I find a site filled with the personal stories of someone I've never met ... but yet, somehow, I know. People like Paul Bartoswicz who publishes the Reflections of a Common Man blog. In “Dangerous Journey,” Paul uses a seafaring illustration from his own life to discuss man's need to take risks. Then, within the story, Paul makes the following observation:

“The person who is afraid to enter the dark dank woods, misses the chance to see the wonderful mossy glade with the sunlight filtering down through the trees.

“Man is designed to face the dangers and to thrive on the exhilaration that ensues. For it is through these dangers that we succeed and move on to new levels in our lives.”

I've never experienced adventures at sea like Paul or embarked on my own within a forest, but two years ago I opted for another type of daring-do. I made a career change that reinvigorated my work life. Because of this, I know Paul speaks the truth.

More recently I found common ground in Idadi's blog, Journey Back to Me. Her honest post, “Society Beauty Stigmas: How I Overcame Them” mirrored one of my own concerns, why modern women conform to a single ideal of beauty, one that's unnatural. While Idadi battles the stereotypes surrounding what constitutes beauty in black hair, I confront similar attitudes surrounding hair that's fading to gray. Both of us have gone natural and Idadi is somehow speaking for me with these eloquent words:

“What matters is who I know I AM, and who I AM is a woman who’s learning to love herself from the inside out. Nothing shows that more than accepting myself from the soles of my feet, to the tips of my natural hair.”

Not all stories I read in online are original. Some are re-tellings, but still deliver powerful messages. My favorite this past week has to be “Ice cream for the Soul” as told on the blog, How to Live a More Fulfilling Life. It's the tale of a young girl and the lesson she learns about prayer. The little girl might have been me, oh so many years ago, trying to understand the grown-ups' rules and so willing to share what she'd learned ... with humorous results.

What stories have you to tell this week? Let me know what true life tales you're posting and I'll stop by for a read!

Why share the burden?

If you were fighting a life-threatening illness, would you tell those you loved? Why or why not? I raise the questions because I'm still trying to figure out why I would, days after the subject first came up in conversation.

I'd been dining with a friend who had just completed her cancer treatment. Jazee was preparing to share the good news with a dear sister who lives in another state. This is the first inkling her sibling would have of Jazee's struggle with cancer. “You're just telling her now?” I asked in disbelief.

Before you get the wrong impression, let me tell you a bit about my friend. First, Jazee is a warm, caring woman; the kind who would give you the shirt off her back whether you were a friend or foe. Second, Jazee has never had an easy life, but she doesn't speak of her problems much. She doesn't want others to worry.

I understand. Rather, I'm trying to. I don't want others to worry about me either. Yet I often share my problems with close friends and family. What's more, I want them to share their burdens with me. I just don't know why.

“There's nothing Carly could have done,” Jazee continued as she explained her decision. My friend is right. Her sister couldn't wave a magic wand and make Jazee's cancer disappear. Relating her experiences with me didn't diminish Jazee's pain one iota, even with two to share the burden. Still ... I wanted the chance to ask, “How are you doing today.” I wanted the opportunity to listen.

What does anyone gain by sharing their pain? How does it benefit us to listen? Do the blessings come from knowing that we are not alone? Is there something more? Or is that enough?

Let me know your thoughts. Please feel free to respond in the form of a comment.

Yesterday's little miracle

Although I still have a number of stories from childhood to tell, I've decided to put those posts on hold for now to write on more recent events and perhaps tackle a meme or two in the coming days. Today, my mind is on what I call one of “the miracles my life,” and I've decided to put this out there for all the world to see. I'd like to know if anyone else can relate.

One of the more enjoyable aspects of growing older, for me, is discovering hidden skill sets. These strengths seem all the sweeter if they emerge from what I'd previously considered a fault. Like my lifelong struggle to understand.

As an example, in group conversations, I've often felt that plenty of people were talking, but I wasn't comprehending. Many past discussions left me frustrated when I couldn't quite put the big picture together; pieces of the puzzle were missing or misshapen. When I was younger I thought this meant something was wrong with me. As I've matured, however, I come to realize that I'm not the only one who has failed to make important connections: sometimes we're all so busy trying to be heard that few are really listening. Few are connecting the puzzle pieces. What seems to set me apart, however, is that I'm one of these few who feel compelled to gain clarity where I find none. And my peace of mind depends upon doing just that. Once I made that realization, it became easier for me to drill through the questions that plagued me:

Can you give an example?
Do I understand you correctly?
So in other words ... ?

Some years ago, I gained greater confidence in my ability to turn my angst into an asset while working for a small company. A senior officer began bringing me into executive level meetings with the specific duty of bringing clarity to the proceedings through my questions. I began to ask VPs the very questions I'd first thought gave evidence to my utter stupidity. At this point in my career, I was delighted that I had unmasked a new ability. I liked knowing that my personal issues could serve a useful role. But it wasn't until yesterday that I began to consider my quest for answers a miracle of sorts.

Over the past several weeks, I've struggled to gain better health care for an elderly relative. I had re-entered a familiar state of angst as I found myself in a situation I couldn't understand or control. I knew I needed answers because I didn't understand the specific doctor-patient relationship, the diagnosis or the delays. I couldn't make sense of the medication mix. So I began doing what, by now, I knew I could do. I asked my questions often and persistently. I asked them of the patient and his spouse. I asked them of the medical staff. I asked, listened, repeated and probed some more. Gradually a frightening truth emerged: the lack of communication between doctor and patient had become a matter of life and death. The patient was literally poisoning himself with medications.

The situation is now being remedied, although my emotions are still raw over the thought of what might have been. I find myself wondering how often in life we'll discover that we've got just the right stuff to be of true service to another in their time of need. This is a first for me. Or at least it seems to be. I don't know how many more times I can expect to feel that my past has brought me to a certain moment for a purpose. But I'm so grateful I had this opportunity. I didn't save the world or move a mountain. No supernatural feat was performed. Still, I count it as nothing short of a miracle that what I first saw as a personal failing could be remade into such a blessing. And I can't help but feel I'm not alone in this. 

Have you a similar experience? Have you had moments when you found that personal flaws had a redemptive value you could not see at first? 

On Storytelling

I've loved telling stories ever since my nieces and nephews were tadpoles. Those were days of wild imagination and sharing! On one occasion Leah asked for a story about a fairy princess, as five-year old  girls are wont to do. I began the story then paused, as was my custom, to let my niece choose the color of her damsel's gown and tresses. And paused again as others in a growing audience chimed in with their ideas.

At irregular intervals each child would contribute to our story. Jordan, then four, wanted to add a train to the tale. Of course! To a young boy, every good story must have a train! And so our heroine rode the rails as she traveled her vast kingdom, rounding high-peaked mountains and covering a spring green countryside as she toured her domain.

Jesse, age eight, thought to stump me and suggested a terradactyl was needed. This was, as it happened, exceedingly lucky for me as our royal miss had just reached a bottomless crevasse, nearly as wide as it was deep. It was only by befriending the ancient bird that the princess was able to take flight and continue on a journey that, somehow, allowed her to save her realm and make it back to the castle by bedtime.

There were some stories my sisters, the children's mothers, didn't especially appreciate. Like the bird who flew around the world so fast that  it caught up with itself and, in so doing, “beaked itself in the butt.” (It seems like the story's ending precipitated a fondness for the word, “butt,” which one nephew chose thereafter to exercise often and at inopportune times.)

"This was all brought to mind by an public radio show on storytelling "