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 strength beyond the scars

A tension headache sets in as my eyes adjust to glasses with new, stronger lenses. An aspirin will soon relieve my pain. I wish I could offer the same relief to my ophthalmologist. I am his pain. I present an ongoing challenge to this man; I have myopia and astigmatism, combined with a need for bifocals and complicated by the fact that the visual acuity of my right eye is twice that of the left. So, I am a problematic patient. Yet it he takes it all in good stride, because it is a miracle that my right eye affords me any vision at all.

At six years old, I was riding my tricycle in the family drive-way as my younger brother played cowboy nearby. What I didn’t realize in time was that the lasso he wielded was a small, hooked chain that my father used to latch the car trunk down on oversized loads. I still hadn’t quite figured it out as the metal tore at my face.

There was no waiting at the doctor’s office … as if they could have held Dad back as he pulled me forward in a barely controlled panic. But I was fortunate. Perhaps the luckiest little girl ever, the doctor told me. While the metal hook had sliced through my retina, it had stopped just short of the pupil. Barring any infection, my vision would be spared.

The doctor was right. After weeks of healing under a mountain of bandages, my eye was as good as new … or better.

As the years have gone by with my myopia gradually increasing, my injured eye has fared better than the one which was spared. What was wounded became stronger, superior. My optometrist marvels at this each year when I visit. He remains in awe of the power of healing that, not only allows me to see, but which now allows me to see more clearly than through the unscathed eye.

I don’t take this blessing for granted … or its lesson. Through it I’ve learned that wherever there is injury, there also exists a capacity for healing and something greater. And if this is true for the flesh, I’ve reasoned, why not for the wounds to the spirit as well?

If I could erase that drive-way accident from my life -- the blood, the fear and panic -- I would not. It is mine and I would not disown it or any other day from my life, even those which brought pain. I am who I am as the sum of these days. And where I was wounded, I am now stronger.

What events in your life have made you stronger?

Finding my personal power

I’ve been neglecting this blog for the last week ... a fact that brings me to another lesson on my journey of self-discovery: I can’t do it all. Like most of you, I juggle demands of work and home ... and something had to give.

I do have my limits. I can admit that to myself. I don’t, however, want to hear these words uttered aloud. Not even from well-intentioned friends. I cannot have someone else’s barriers capping my potential.

Maybe this resistance is to be expected from one who grew up in an ultra-conservative family during the  60s and 70s. It was an environment with few expectations of the female gender, but countless restrictions. Oh, those rules! I was to act like a little lady at all times (and my long-suffering mother really put her time in on this one to no avail); I was to be cheerful just as often (but not boisterously happy as I was wont to be); and I was to be neat and tidy (for which I was truly a lost cause)!

As a young girl, I didn’t dream of being a fire-fighter. It wasn’t an option. I’m not sure that I had any dreams at all.

I understood my place. And, then again, I didn't understand. Not by a long shot.

The age of eight found me feverishly building a bigger leaf pile than that of my friend Ronald, next door. His brother, Eddie, had offered me help which I emphatically refused. I didn't need any help. I could do it myself! My mother, overhearing my refusal, called me inside. I cannot remember her exact words, although her admonishment had something to do with women being the weaker vessel (as ordained by God). It was, she explained, important for men to be stronger; I needed to let Eddie be the stronger one.

Eddie wasn’t a man, I pointed out. Eddie was a boy and he would only get in my way.

That didn’t matter, Mother countered.

I thought about her words for a moment. And then it hit me: why would God want me to be anything less than how he had created me? Why should I be less than what I was?

Mother sent me to my room to think about it some more. But, by then, my mind was on to other questions. Could I, for instance, clean all the toys off of my bed with one quick yank of the bedspread? In one noisy maneuver I found that I could.

Still, a certain resistance to external limitations had snuck into the behavior center in my brain.

It has been only in the last decade that I have consciously realized how much those early restrictions left me with a point to prove. How I’ve refused to accept help ... to say “No!” ... out of a rebellion that helped me retain my very will when I was younger, but now served no useful purpose.

That point of awareness came during team-building training I attended with co-workers three years ago. In a session on personal motivation, I was asked to describe my perfect Saturday morning. I was happy to oblige: I’d start by wolfing down toast and fruit, then spend 15 minutes in meditation, another half an hour practicing T'ai Chi, an hour working in my yard, an hour with a good book, then take a brisk walk in my neighborhood before making a picnic lunch and heading, with my spouse, to a nearby lake. Ahh! Heaven! But I had no sooner completed my idyllic description than a peer (and friend) laughingly retorted, “Yeah, that sounds like you! Brenda let’s-do-10-impossible-things-before-breakfast Friedrich!”

I was hurt. The memory still hurts. To her, I was a Don Quixote tilting at windmills. Perhaps worse than a know-it-all, I was a do-it-all ... or die trying.

My outward response to Janet's outburst was indignation. "If I can do it, it's not impossible," I muttered. Yet she had made her point. And it was a point I needed to hear. Maybe my power was wasted by taking on every task imaginable; I've already proven to myself that I'm quite capable. Maybe my real personal power will be found by setting limitations, by saying, "No!" on occasion and accepting help. I need to move past the defiant third-grader that I was in order to become the discerning forty-something that I have become.

Last week this became clear as I struggled to respond to new challenges facing my business. My writing will have to take a back seat as I choose to not do it all. Efforts here will no doubt be sporadic for some time. But my strength and future success depends on admitting my limitations ... and being able to focus accordingly. It's one of the lessons from my life journey thus far, one that says I need to correct my course.

What about you? Do you feel comfortable saying, "No!" or asking for help? What type of restrictions dictate what you achieve?

Learning what I’m made of

As perhaps we all do, within any given day and every turn of events I learn what I am made of. Still, I’m ceaselessly amazed at just what stuff it is … although I’ve been uncovering clues since at least the second grade.

To be specific, I was seven and transitioning from second to third grade. My family had recently moved from a small town in North Dakota to an equally small town in Iowa. But, somehow, during that move, my confidence had been misplaced. As my mother laid out my clothing for the first day of school, I became inconsolable at the thought of leaving second grade behind.

Second grade had been kind to me. It had been filled with reading about Dick and Jane and coloring (mostly) within the lines. Recess had been equally rewarding. On some occasions I’d played with the other girls on the merry-go-round and swing sets. On other days, I’d built roads with the boys in the sandbox. Although I was often teased during the latter activity, as my undies would sometimes show, I’d roll my eyes, tug the hem of my dress to the tops of my knees and indignantly retort, “Next time you don’t have to look!”

After school, I’d climb to the top of the butte behind the playground to dig mica from the soil. According to the older children, this silvery paper-like substance was a precious metal which could be traded for candy at the only store in town. Still, they seemed surprised when I was able to conduct just such a transaction with the proprietor there.

But now we had moved and my mother was explaining that the next day I would start third grade. “I don’t know anybody! I’m not ready for third grade,” I had cried, feeling so alone and realizing that the work would be more difficult, the expectations so much higher. “Of course you’re ready,” Mother responded with the patience of one who had three other children to attend to. How little she understood. But, as anyone who has ever had a mother knows, there is truly no use in arguing with them. So the next day, filled with apprehension, I silently prepared for school.

The white school house was very small. With only two rooms, it wasn’t even one quarter the size of my former consolidated school with its multiple classrooms, a cafeteria and gymnasium. I looked at my mother, who’d walked us up to the building, with questioning eyes. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t a school, this is an outhouse!” The words were never uttered; I’d already learned that it was better to reign in such thoughts as this. But the irony of my earlier fear tugged upwards at the corners of my mouth and inwardly I laughed at my own naivety. What a baby I had been!

Mrs. Nicholson, my new teacher, was nice, grandmotherly. With grades three through five sharing a single classroom, I could spot my older sister from across the room. And I shared first names with one of my classmates; by the end of Day One, Brenda R. had become my new best friend.

The school days rolled by and it wasn’t long before Mrs. Nicholson commended me for my oral reading ability -- for using inflection and looking to my audience as I spoke. I’d been reading to my younger siblings since at least age five and they had never noted my gift for the spoken word, so I was surprised that my teacher could be pleased at something so imperceptible. Still I basked in her praise. Here was something I was good at ... without even trying!

By the school year’s end, the world (and third grade in particular) was my oyster.

So, as you might expect, I was very disappointed to learn that my family now faced another move. We were headed to Texas.

Don’t get me wrong: I put up every argument against moving that a child of eight can think of. I would miss my new-found friends. I wasn’t certain I’d like living in a land with no snow. But as the U-Haul truck pulled up to the house and all our worldly goods disappeared inside, I also understood that I had resilience … even if I didn’t yet know the word for it. I knew I’d make new friends. I understood that I carried with me the capacity to excel in Texas, just as I had in Iowa. More importantly, I realized that I had the stuff that it took to deal with any challenge, once I silenced my fears.

I’d tell you that I’m glad I learned these lessons early on, except that I continue to learn them in every challenge that I face to this day. Perhaps this can be said for most of us: throughout our lives we continue to discover what it is we're made of.

What challenges have you conquered in your early life? What did these years reveal to you about yourself?

7 tips for killer cuisine

You might be surprised to see that I'm dispensing culinary advice. Especially since I admittedly cannot cook (revealed in earlier posts, "Cookbook Clearing" and "Following the Recipe.") Still, I've always been a big fan of Julia Child, the chef who has recently been revealed to have been a spy. (Ooooh! French cuisine AND intrigue! My favorites!) So, in Julia's honor -- and in a departure from my usual fare here -- I'd like to offer up these seven tips for killer cuisine.

1. Don't place Cumin next to Curry in the spice rack. They are too easily confused.
2. Never sample the cooking wine while cooking, especially when cooking with said Cumin or Curry.
3. Adding enough Curry (or Garlic when preparing Italian) should mask any spice-related snafu. Well, almost.
4. Don't drink the table wine before serving.
5. If you've made a mistake during meal preparation, ignore the impulse to admit it. Market the results instead: Mmm! We  have a special ethnic blend for you tonight!
6. What your spouse doesn't know about his supper won't (necessarily) kill him. Let's not analyze the statistics.
7. Just don't let PETA get ahold of the fact that you served the leftovers to the cat. Where IS she anyway?

Disclaimer: There are only two facts embedded in this lesson. Everything else is pure imagination. I have no intenshun of settng th record straaaaight as to whatttttttttt's fiction ... and whatz da truth. Julia knows the truth.

Finding good (a year later)

Once again today, I beg your indulgence as I recycle stories from my archive. For today I chose one that brings me hope whenever I feel the world is out-of-control ... that reminds me to put aside my personal agenda whenever I can contribute to the greater good.

From time to time, I’ve fretted over the degree of hatred being unleashed across continents and peoples. Every day, headlines give evidence to new hostilities. But, I’ve rationalized, the stories of love and humanity don’t always get the best coverage.

Four weeks ago, however, I knew the world was in bad shape. Knew, because I’d caught one too many commentaries on TV. I didn't have to ponder; the talking heads spelled it out. Said we all knew the mess the world was in.

Maybe the moderator and panel experts were right. That’s what I believed one Saturday morning in March. And why I’m glad for the perspective of that same afternoon.

3:00 p.m. I was in a hurry. I’m always in a hurry. I had just left one event and was busily checking items off my To Do list before heading home. One last stop to pick up craft supplies.

I entered the art store with a sense of purpose and moved directly to the specialty paper section. There, I found myself stymied by choices. In the background I heard the cashier greet a customer at the counter. I held a paper up to the light, faintly aware that a monologue had begun.

“If you take the time, you'll find a silent bond that unites us.”

Sharing a bath (revisited)

As I noted Sunday, I'm taking a blogging break to focus on work demands. So, this week, I am re-publishing some archived posts. This one, "Sharing a bath" was written a year ago and the story within it proved to me that nature has many stories to tell and many lessons to share ... if I will only pay attention!

Only days ago I was trying to make peace with the interruptions that take me away from planned activities. Trying to schedule time for spontaneity (impossible) and friends (essential). Then, as it often does, I found my dilemma parodied in nature, just outside my back door.

I was hard at work in my home-office when I heard a minor ruckus at the birdbath. I looked out the window and saw a plump robin enthusiastically cleaning himself. I grabbed my camera and headed for a better view.

Seemingly oblivious to all around him, the bird dunked his head in the water, then rose up, feathers puffed out and wings fluttering eradically. Water spattered about as he shook himself dry, only to submerge himself and flap about again and again.

This robin was committed to his cleanliness and even as I chuckled at the sight of his water-logged noggin, (click on photo at left to enlarge), I marveled at his dedication to the task at hand.

Suddenly, without warning, a sparrow flew down, entering the scene. For a few seconds all grew quiet as each bird seemed to size-up the other. I could imagine the robin's reaction. “Who are you to intrude on my bath? Can't you see I'm busy here? You'll have to wait your turn.” But, after a few brief moments, he hopped to the side of the basin, making room for the smaller bird.

I pulled my face away from the camera and watched as two sets of flapping wings sent water spraying. Like synchronized swimmers, their feathers flew in water, then air, water, air. The robin's movements were less vigorous than before, perhaps in deference to his little companion.

Within the space of a minute, the show was over and the birds flew off in different directions. I walked away convinced that we all must make room for connections. Such is the nature of life. I can move to the side and flutter at a slower pace in order to share a small courtesy. Or, maybe, make a new friend.

If you liked this story (or just like birds!) check out my other bird-related posts:

• "The Eagle had Landed"
• "Dirty Bird"

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"

How to weather a storm

I had hoped I was done writing flooding posts, but news coverage now informs me that, counter to expectations, levees are being breached in downtown Des Moines as swollen rivers channel through the city. So, before my spouse and I head out the door to lend a hand, I've decided to reach back into the archives to this wonderful legacy from my maternal grandmother ... one that reminds me I know how to weather a storm ...

I was five. My father had just called my siblings and me in from the lake which our backyard abutted.  I struggled to bring in an air mattress twice my size. Impatient, Dad barked, “Leave it. Come now!”  This wasn’t the usual advice from my parents when it came to my playthings, but I could tell from the tone of his voice that Dad wasn’t kidding. Something was wrong.

As I ran toward my father, I became aware of the wind tugging my cargo from my grip. My air mattress! I turned to see it bounding over what were now waves on the lake. “Forget it! Come now,” my father demanded.

My sisters and I were quickly routed through the back door and into the basement. We huddled inside against a cinder block wall as the storm broke loose outside. The light from the casement window dimmed and my parents spoke in hushed voices as my older sister tried to explain what a tornado was.

Grandma called to us. Over in the corner she had set up a card table and candle and was now busily setting out our crayons. “Here, girls,” she beckoned.

My parents remained by the window as my older sister Lynette and I began drawing. The rain stopped. At first I thought the storm was over. Then, our ears began to pop. My mother gasped as a thin stream of light appeared through a crack all along the top of the basement wall. “Get back in the corner,” mother ordered.

Grandma quickly parceled out gum and gently pulled my hand back to the paper. “Why don’t you draw the sun,” she suggested. “And, keep chewing your gum.”

At first I wasn’t sure how to draw a sun. But Grandma guided me. “First draw a circle,” she said. “Then, draw lines. Like this,” she advised, using a small corner of the paper. My drawing was no sooner complete than Lynette held it in comparison to her own. “You draw like a baby,” my older sister teased. My grandmother thought my sun was just fine. But I could see the difference: Lynette’s sun rays did not touch the orb of the sun. I drew several more in practice ... with Grandma guarding my crayons.

My parents soon said the storm was over. I could feel their relief. Dad went outside first. My raft was long gone and my favorite tree littered the yard.

Later I heard how the storm, a tornado, passed directly over the lake. How our home was pulled askew on its foundation. And how fortunate we had been. But what I really learned on this day was how to weather a storm. How when you create your own sunshine, fears are forgotten. And how wonderful it is to have Grandmother in your corner.

So, now it's time to go and see if I can create sunshine -- or at least bring a ray of light -- for someone else as, together, we weather this storm, this flood.

Awaiting the flood

I'm waiting. Waiting for the flood water to inundate my town. The last time this happened in Des Moines was 15 years ago.

At the time I was weeks into a relationship with the man who would become my husband. Back then, Frank knew how to show a girl a good time: five days after the flood had closed down the city's water system, Frank drove me to the home of relatives outside of town so I could enjoy a shower. Being clean had never felt so good! And I told myself that I'd never take water for granted again.

The flood of '93 had come unannounced. But this time it's different. Now the flooding is inevitable and experts are busy making predictions. Some say that the water will overflow the reservoir dam yet today. Others predict tomorrow. Other than the simplest of precautions, however -- like closing low-lying roads and bridges -- life and work proceed as normal.  Living high on a hillside, I have the luxury of not becoming too worried ... and the staff where I'm officing remains unconcerned despite having flooded in the past. How perplexing! How complacent! How surreal!

I recall the gorge which the floodwaters carved into the rock beneath the spillway in 1993. What power lies unseen in still water! How marvelous yet fearful is this element that daily I've discounted as a commodity of nature!

Water has quenched my thirst, cleansed my body and cooled my brow. Its delicate raindrops bring my hillside home to life each spring and its frozen flakes blanket the evergreens every winter. In jets of pressure, water has soothed my aching muscles. And gurgling in creek beds it has refreshed my very spirit. But today I await water's destructive side.

I am humbled. Humankind has yet to master to such a basic element as water. Oh, we've come a long way in harnessing its value for our own good, but we cannot match the power of its unique strength: fluidity. With no will to guide it, water will aways seek out new paths from the smallest fissures and lowest elevations. It will do so in droplets, streams and in torrents for it cannot be contained for long.

By the week's end I will have fully regained my respect for nature's power ... and for water in particular. I won't be the only one. Still, I hope it will be gentle with us: the collective memory is so fleeting.