enroute365

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?

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.

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.

Innocent or evil?

Man is inherently evil I'm told. I keep the news from my atheist friend who's spending his retirement in service to others. I won't tell him because I understand the power of perspective. It's a lesson I learned quite young.

By the time I was six, I had decided not to leave childhood. I took this stance with the fierce determination of one who had seen the future and didn't like it ... and with the naivete associated with children and other idealists.

I had reached this pivotal point in my young life not by accident but by observation. By sneaking suspicions that materialized into full blown conclusions the day the missionary came to our home.

Before his appearance, I had already suspected that growing older meant growing unhappy. I saw adults as joyless. They were the spoilers who told me to be a little lady when I wanted to run; the ones with never-ending reasons why I shouldn't pick the flowers, touch the knick-knacks or put my hands on the glass. Before the missionary came, I had also begun to fear that my sister, some two years older, was falling prey to this brand of misery. She began citing their rules. She was becoming one of them.

You might suspect that I was demon spawn. Yet, doing bad was never my intention ... despite evidence that suggests otherwise.

On the morning that the missionary arrived, however, none of this was on my mind. Our home was brimming with excitement and I was caught up in it. Not only was a visitor coming, but one unlike anyone I'd ever known; one who had lived in Africa! My siblings and I were already gathered in the family room as he entered through the side door with my father.

This was to be an important meeting. With Father in his first year of seminary, it would help my parents decide whether or not to enter the mission field. I'd already been instructed not to badger our guest with too many queries, but upon seeing a small bundle tucked under the missionary's arm, my curiosity got the better of me and soon questions were pouring forth.

“What is that? Is that from Africa? Are the people there naked all the time or just sometimes like in National Geographic? Do you speak African?”

Undaunted by the onslaught of questions, our guest -- a kindly, pale man -- soon took center stage. With all eyes fixed upon him, he revealed the contents of his bag -- a carved wooden object -- and asked if we knew what it was. I was quick to respond. “A doll,” I said. I loved dolls, but a cold fear had already struck my heart that this man, before he left Africa, had stolen some poor little girl's plaything.

“No,” he replied. “This is an idol. This is what the African people worship. They think it's a god.”
With all the worldly wisdom of a six-year old, I was skeptical. “It doesn't look like an idol,” I said. “It looks like a doll.”

There was a sense of unease in the room as my mother arrived to usher us to the table for lunch. I know this because I was getting the look. I saw it on my sister's face. And my father wore the look so sternly his two eyebrows had scrunched into one. “Children are to be seen and not heard,” my mother reminded me.

As we began the procession into the kitchen, the missionary placed his African momento on our television set and, turning back to us, announced, “this TV, it's an idol, too.” To which my father said, “Amen.”

I don't know what Mother served for lunch. I don't know what passed for conversation. I don't know because, throughout the meal, my mind never left the wooden carving on the TV.

It wasn't long before I asked to be excused from the table. With a feigned nonchalance that should have aroused suspicion, I meandered back into the family room to re-examine the figurine. I studied the object from all angles. I admired its worn, round face and dark painted eyes before finally daring to pick it up. Seeing wooden pins at the shoulders, I carefully I rotated its stiff arms until the doll seemed to reach forward toward an embrace.

Maybe the missionary didn't have a daughter of his own. Or perhaps she didn't play with dolls like I did. I gingerly cradled this one in my arms and carried her to the sofa, wondering what her life had been like in Africa and what little girl must have loved her.

I was lost in those thoughts when my father returned with the missionary from their meal. The men froze together in silence as they spotted me on the couch with their idol tight against my chest. I wasn't innocent; this they knew for I was embracing what was forbidden. But was mine the face of evil? Certainly they must have wondered.

I still can feel the sting of the spanking I received that afternoon. But stronger yet was the angst that came with the full understanding that my own observations would always be discounted when up against the beliefs of those who make the rules.

In some ways I did grow up that very day, despite my best intentions. Although I had to keep the lesson hidden, I learned that what we see is colored by what we expect to see ... what we want to see. Perhaps even by what we fear.

Was the carving an idol? Or was it a toy? It depends. How do you see it?

Sisters: unlikely friends

I've logged hundreds of miles over the last few weeks attending to family matters. Yesterday the round trip took the better part of a day, but I didn't mind. I was traveling with a sister. We filled the hours discussing matters of great consequence (primarily my father's health) and matters of no consequence at all (like hair color). It wasn't until we delved into memories from our childhood, however, that I saw our close relationship as an unlikely blessing.

Let me back up. I've always seen my older sister as a blessing in my life. This sis is the one took me to the public library and helped me check out my first book, “Alice in Wonderland.” She's shown limitless patience and forgiveness over the years ... although she does keep reminding me of the time I dismantled her toy drum. But I say our relationship is unlikely because we are so incredibly different.

As the miles passed under our wheels the other day, my sister described how from a very young age she knew she would become a professional woman, a lawyer or doctor. (This in a home where “women's lib” was derided.) In contrast, I was the child who was determined, by age five, to never grow up. “They can't make me,” I reasoned.

My eldest sibling was serious and studious, while I might best be described as ... well ... not. Where she was thoughtful, I was a goofball. Where I was flighty, she was unshakeable.

These days we're moving somewhat closer in disposition and ideology. I've discovered that she has a creative side and I have a practical side. She has the capacity for whimsy and I, self-discipline. Still, our personalities are polar opposites.

In spite of our differences, though, (or is it because of them?) we are not only sisters, but good friends. Who else could understand my affinity for retro? And comprehend why, now in my forties, I'm still really a kid.

How do you relate to your siblings? Are you more alike or different? In what ways do your differences impact your relationship?

Revisiting childhood, Part 2

Part 1: Series Introduction
Part 2: The Forced Smile

There is a subtle but distinct difference between making someone smile and creating happiness. I should have learned this early in life, but the lesson, somehow, didn't sink in until I was much older. The first clue came when I was three or four.

Extended family had come to my home for a visit. Living lakeside made our place a popular draw and I watched, fascinated, as uncles streamed between the picnic table and pontoon, prepared for a day of fishing. Aunts hovered nearby with kisses, Kleenex and combs while older cousins crowded onto swing sets or dangled their legs from the dock.

It was against this backdrop that the younger children played with buckets and shovels in the sand ... and here that I was first introduced to my third cousin, Mary Kay. The girl, as I remember, was younger than I and an only child. Shy by nature, the commotion around her must have been daunting. At the time, however, I only knew my new cousin was unhappy ... and this was a thought I could not bear.

According to family lore, it was at this meeting, that I walked up to Mary Kay, stuck my fingers into the corners of her mouth and tugged upwards in an attempt to force a smile upon her face. “You need to be happy,” I urged.

As one might expect, my efforts to create happiness failed. Miserably. Mary Kay burst into tears and I could only watch in defeat as her mother rushed to comfort her.

What I did not understand then -- and what I still struggle to truly comprehend -- is that happiness is not something that one person can force upon another.

As a social courtesy, I no longer poke my fingers into the mouths of others, but on occasion I still find myself trying to mask the signs of someone's sadness with a joke or other distraction. These rescue and diversionary tactics are two of the patterns of behavior I've uncovered by looking back through my life (and where a later post will take up the conversation). But I'd like to stop here for now and ask, what about you?

What do your memories, or family stories, say about what was important to you as a child? What made you happy? Unhappy? Is this still true for you today? Let me know in the form of a comment. Or feel free to submit your story to me for anonymous publication at enroute365@mchsi.com.

Revisiting childhood, Part 1

I thought I'd had an ideal early childhood ... until a therapist friend told me otherwise. “None of us do,” Phyllis pointed out.

“It's an illusion,” she stated with the full authority of one who knew and who had credentials to prove it. At the time -- as scenes from my family's lake-front Minnesota home played out in my mind -- I held firm to my picture-perfect memories.

My earliest days were filled with sunshine and rainbows! I had an older sister to tag after and a younger one to torment! The former would rescue me from dead crabs and other fearful lake creatures which appeared between my raft and the shore. The latter helped me dismantle found objects, like toys that were not my own. I was four when my little brother was born and, always wanting my own cherub (just like in the bible story picture book), my world was complete!

Today, sorting through some of the old black and white photographs, I have to admit that Phyllis' words must hold some truth: in most of the pictures I am wearing a frown. Perhaps I hadn't realized that these were days to be cherished. Or, maybe, memories of each day's indignities -- the spankings that I'm sure were frequent (and deserved), the squabbles and the scrapes -- maybe those realities had not yet faded and were in the forefront of my young mind.

No childhood is perfect ... or could never be. But I continue to find lessons and inspiration in my early years. And, from time to time, when I choose to remember even the unpleasant moments, I uncover keys that unlock the mysteries of me. And that is why, I've introduced the topic of revisiting childhood as my theme for the next few weeks.

How about you? When you think back to your early childhood, do you focus on the happy times? Do you discover more about yourself?

Stay tuned for more posts on this subject, read my earlier account of a life lesson gleaned from my grandmother in  “Weathering the Storm,” or get a peek into my story-telling dilemmas in “Telling Tales.”