enroute365

A preventable injury

Why would a woman who openly strives for mindfulness -- exhorting others to do likewise -- need a cordless phone, technology specifically designed for the multi-tasker?

Perhaps I should have asked myself this question six weeks ago, before I rushed to answer the device.

On that particular evening I slid into my office chair, tucking my leg underneath me, as I reached to pick the phone out of its cradle. It was my nephew Max and -- not for the first time -- he needed money. Max had quite a story to tell and seemed not to hear me interject that I didn't have the funds to loan him. He obviously didn't remember that he hadn't paid dime one since the last time my husband and I bailed him out.

As he words droned on, I marveled at that fact. That he felt no compulsion to ask for another grand when the first thousand had gone unpaid for over a year. I was angry at Max. Angry at myself for holding back those feelings. And, oddly enough, I was even mad at my situation ... that I hadn't the funds to help him. My internal struggle played out for several minutes while Max recited a litany of reasons why he needed the money.

"I'll have Frank call you," I finally interrupted. "I don't know what your uncle can do, but I can't help you," I insisted while rising from my chair. I cannot remember where I was headed in my agitation, but phone still in hand, I took a step toward the office door, then another. Suddenly I was falling! Time slowed as the realization hit that my right foot was asleep ... that it hadn't obeyed my brain's command to take another step ... and that my ankle was now moving in a direction I didn't think was physically possible. That's when I heard it, craack-crack-crack-craack-crack!  And, finally, a wave of great pain.

"Max, I'm sorry. I have to go now," I gasped before clicking the phone off. Marveling at my composure, I pulled myself along the desk back to the safety of my chair.

Soon enough I got the diagnosis I'd been dreading: a broken ankle.

As of Friday, it's been six weeks. Forty-some days of being chauffered around. Of struggling to do the simple tasks around the house that I can ... and of watching those things go untended that I cannot reach. And, yet, I'm lucky. A friend pulled a similar stunt the very next day with worse consequences; her fracture required surgery.

I've pledged that when my leg is unbound once more, I'll never sit on it in such lazy fashion again. I've vowed to close the bank of Brenda and Frank. By most importantly, I've made a promise to handle frustrations in a mindful manner, to actively listen to my body ... and to avoid doing both simultaneously. After all, I reason, I bet old Buddha never cracked his ankle while agonizing over his cordless!

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?

Bloggers who dare to divulge

Who knew that blogging took courage? Well, probably everyone who has overcome self-doubt to the point of publishing a weblog! But within this group are a few who push the envelope on bravery even further. They dare to divulge their imperfections, their fears and struggles with utter honesty.

I admire that. While most blog evangelists advocate using the blogosphere to establish oneself as an expert -- and, to clarify, I'm NOT bashing that use; it's a very smart way for consultants and businesses to go -- some brave souls use their blogs to reveal their deepest humanity. Counter to current trends, these bloggers openly admit that they don't have all the answers, but they are willing to start the discussions about personal challenges that certainly others also struggle with.

By revealing their battles -- and so very publicly -- they show me that it's okay to be less than perfect, physically or mentally. They offer a means in which together we can explore human frailties and coping or success strategies. The gift of these brave bloggers is in opening the dialogue. A dialogue where synergies can be born. And, where I believe, where real solutions are found.

What could be more inspirational?

One of these courageous bloggers is Cheryl Wright. I've been reading Cheryl's Perspectives on Life for several months now. Upon my initial visit to her site -- covering a variety of life topics -- I found that I disagreed with one of the very first posts I read. But, because she is such a thoughtful writer, I kept reading. I appreciated her perspective even when my viewpoint was different and ultimately I was hooked! Still, it's only been in recent days that Cheryl was added to my "brave bloggers" list ... and that's because she had enough inner strength to admit -- without apology or excuse -- that's she's something of a perfectionist. Cheryl was able to honestly, but succinctly, discuss this personal challenge. Realizing she's not alone, Cheryl also invites input which I, for one, am happy to offer as perfectionism is something that's also a stumbling block for me more often than I care to admit. (And, Cheryl, I want you to know that I'm writing this without the use of a spell-checker!)

Hmmm ... someone in a position of adversity finds the courage to undertake a challenge for the common good. It's the definition of a hero ... and it sounds like Cheryl -- and others like her -- to me!

Let's talk about those "others." Some blogs are completely built on such bravery. They include:

• Merely Me's Multiple Synchronicities (and sclerosis) about life struggles with illness
• Free to be Me with ADHD, a blog about accepting this attention span disorder
• Storied Mind, a blog relating to depression

Perhaps a tad less courageous (it's anonymous), is a blog that let's us all commiserate with others or laugh at our mutual imperfections: I am Neurotic publishes anonymous postings about neurotic tendencies any one of us might have. As such, it's a means for the rest of us -- those not quite so brave -- to share as well!

Years ago I was asked who my heroes were. I struggled for weeks and finally had to admit that I had none. That has now changed for me. These writers and their blogs are wonderful examples of personal heroism by taking the lead on such inner honesty! And so I salute them ... and encourage you to visit their sites ... if you dare to share!

What issue(s) do you struggle with?  What has your experience with it taught you about yourself? About life and its challenges?

Paper clutter: messages about me

I've come across several random notes -- scribbles really -- while putting my office back together after some re-arranging. These missives to myself are symptomatic of a problem I have with personal organization, that of paper clutter ... mostly Post-It clutter!

I tend to leave myself notes, many barely legible, on small slips of paper. Often I let them accumulate here, there and everywhere. At the time I create them, the notes are incredibly important to write. But, now, as I look them over, I cannot imagine why I kept many of them, much less wrote them. Notes like these:

• A forgotten Post-It Note, in my handwriting, which reads, "I'm okay. Not sure about you."
• On an envelope. Side 1: an old grocery list. Side 2: Memorial Day lists of grave sites to visit and flowers to order plus the highlights from an old phone call to my brother.
• Notes calculating the average time it takes to research and write blog posts (for one of my copywriting gigs).
• A reminder to call my parents (I wonder if I ever did) and assorted math (for what I don't know).
• Barely readable jottings recording the details of a financial transaction -- a mistaken transfer of mutual funds that should have cost me money but, by an incredible fluke, actually benefited me.

Somewhere in these little notes, however, I can clearly see myself. They are, in sum total, messages about me:

• I have a feisty, sarcastic side.
• I work hard to keep my life running efficiently ...
• But I'm very concerned about forgetting details.
• I cannot do math in my head and ...
• On paper, my calculations show that my writing won't make me rich!
• Somebody, or something, is looking out for me.

Are you a list-maker ... or awash in Post-it reminders? Do your scribbles collect and create clutter? What do your notes say about you?

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?

A second glance at bears in Iowa

Don't tell the Immigration authorities, but Postville, Iowa -- the site of a recent raid by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement -- may be hosting a few other undocumented visitors. There is reason to believe that black bears may be in the area ... and they “have no legal status in Iowa" according to the state's Department of Natural Resources (DNR). I assume this is because the governor’s office is hesitant to grant them the full rights of citizenship. After all, they have indicated a reluctance to learn English, the official state language.

According to one news report, Iowa Bear Sightings Begin to Add Up, “There have been 11 reported sightings of a bear along Mudd Creek on the southern edge of North Liberty over the past two days.”

Another account, from the Iowa City Press-Citizen, tells of a single sighting and includes observations from DNR spokesman Joe Wilkinson about it. “If it was wild,” the article noted, “Wilkinson said the bear was likely a black bear, which once were native to Iowa. He said the bear could have wandered down from Wisconsin or Minnesota, adding bears have been spotted in Allamakee, Postville and near Dubuque.”

Bears in Iowa! Could it be true? Iowa ... the state noted more for endless fields of corn and soybeans than it's wilderness areas? But then again, Allamakee County, home to Postville, does boast of it's natural setting. And bears have been here before!

According to a 2007 DNR report, “Most present-day Iowans probably associate black bears with some of our large national parks and do not realize that they once occurred in Iowa.”

How true! Who knew that my dream of sighting a real live bear was so close!

The report continues, “When the settlers reached Iowa, they found [bears] widespread throughout the state ... Bears were killed because they would damage crops, harass and kill livestock, and because they were valuable both as food and for their hides.

“Currently, the nearest established wild populations of black bears are in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and southern Missouri. These populations are expanding their range towards Iowa from both the north and south.”

Hmmm! It seems that yesterday's skepticism was ill-founded. How is it that I so easily dismiss the possibilities in my own backyard while casting my gaze into the distance? Why do I overlook history when accepting status quo? Certainly reality is transitory. So don't let me tell you that I'm a realist: I still see what I expect to see! And now I expect to see bears ... in Iowa!

A will to see (bears)

Awakened by ribbons of bright morning light, I groggily stumble to the kitchen where my husband sits obscured by the newspaper. Hearing me enter the room, Frank glances up over its pages. A wide grin quickly spreads across his face. “Seems there are reports of bears in northeastern Iowa,” he says, chin quivering with suppressed laughter.

I'm now fully awake and not amused. I have, you see, a desperate desire to spot a real live bear and Frank knows it. Keep in mind that I have no need to spot a bear: the bragging rights would quickly fade, it's not the type of thing that would enhance my resume, and it's not even on my “To Do” list. Moreover, I don't have the slightest idea where the desire came from. And it might be dangerous. Still ... the thought holds an unshakable appeal for me. So perhaps I'm fortunate to live in Iowa where bear spotting is not likely to happen.

In baiting me, Frank is obviously recalling earlier vacation trips to national parks. Trips where I was so determined to see a bear that I spotted dozens as we drove through miles of woodland. Those dozens turned out to be three Newfoundlands, at least five full-grown black Labrador Retrievers, several Rottweilers, two black German Shepards, a Beauceron, what I now suspect was a Black Russian Terrier and -- as I neared desperation -- an obese black Poodle. Yes, in my enthusiasm, large dogs had been misinterpreted as bears.

Bears in Iowa? Not likely. I scowl at Frank. “I'm not biting,” I reply.

“No, seriously,” he continues. “Numerous witnesses have reported black bear sightings,” he insists. A pause fills the space between us.

“But... ?” I finally prompt. “But they're only finding dog tracks!” Frank howls.

I have to laugh. Not at the witnesses, but at human nature. I find it amazing how we tend to see what we want to see. Myself included. I am fully capable of deluding myself ... at least for a moment. So today, as a public service, I would like to illustrate the difference between the American Black Bear and a number of dog breeds. When you see the obvious similarities you might forgive me. Then again, you might not!

The last laugh, however, might still be on me! Find out how tomorrow when I probe a little deeper!

   

All photographs have been provided courtesy of a GNU Free Documentation License and/or under Creative Commons licensing.

Click on images to view enlargements.

Messages we send to children

In my last story, "Innocent or evil?" I wrote about an important lesson gleaned as a child. It wasn't the type of message my parents intended to send. But mothers and fathers aren't perfect. And children are learning even when class isn't in session.

The question underlying my story, however, still needs to be asked: what lessons should we teach children?

Some of the comments received on that post begin to ask just that question. Like Pepsoid, a soon-to-be-dad who points out that the young should be seen, heard, listened to, respected." (By the way, be sure to check out the letter to his unborn child, here.)

Mitch Matthews also raises the question on his Do You Q? blog. There Mitch asks visitors to finish this statement: Every child should be taught __________. Among Mitch's personal answers:

• To dream big.
• That they are here for a reason.
• That they are loved and lovable.

What great messages to send to the young! (Join in that conversation, "What Every Child Should be Taught," here.)

Let's face it! We all send messages to the young, not just parents but all of us who play roles in the lives of children. These lessons aren't always delivered through our words, but with our behavior as well. By our actions and over-reactions! Perhaps the best we can do in conveying the messages that will enhance the lives of these youth is to recall those lessons for ourselves ... and live by them. Lessons of respect (as noted by Pepsoid) and lessons of love (expressed by Matthews). After all, there's a little bit of child left in each of us, too!

Snow day flashback

Yesterday at the sandwich shop, the nice young man taking my order gave me a heads up. I'd just asked him to toast my sub; I needed something warm on such a cold, miserable day. "It's going to snow tomorrow," he cautioned. After expressing my displeasure at the news, I moaned, "that's exactly why I don't watch the weather reports!" Laughing at myself, I explained, "if I know about bad news a day in advance, I'm only miserable that much sooner!"

My husband repeated the dismal weather report this morning: a chance of snow today, continuing through tonight. I still wasn't ready to hear the news. "Why is winter so persistent this year?" I thought. Then, confident that this chilly weather was an anomaly, I turned back a year in my blog to see what colorful springtime words I'd written during those warm, sunny days of yore.

To my surprise, my post from a year ago (exact, to the day) was titled, "April Snows." What's more, I was bemoaning the same emotional battle I now found myself in: fighting to accept the world (and the weather) the way it really is, instead of the way I want it to be.

While I'm dismayed to find that I still wage war against the same foe -- my expectations -- at least I'm still in the fight. And maybe this is all I should ask of myself: vigilance in the effort ... persistence. Yet, I cannot help but hope that come next springtime, I might be found writing in this space about newly budding trees and plump, chirping robins. Or, at least, about how I adore the prospect of a new-fallen spring snow.

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?