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.

Defining middle-age my way

Contemplations on aging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wedding anniversary: the ties that bind

I suppose I should have the seven year itch -- times two -- but I don’t. Perhaps I ought to be glad that today isn’t my 16th wedding anniversary which is traditionally celebrated, not with ivory, but with tungsten. (Yes, the same stuff used in light bulbs). But today Frank and I commemorate our 14th anniversary as an old married couple.

We’ll mark the occasion with Indian cuisine prepared at home, a nice California Chardonnay and a dessert of raspberry chocolates. The menu represents us as a couple in a quirky sort of way. Since this is our first time preparing Indian food together, it symbolizes our sense of adventure. The wine is representative of deepening appreciation as we've continually learned more about the beverage and our taste preferences, beginning during our honeymoon and a visit to the Sonoma Valley of California. And the raspberry chocolates? We’re just head-over-heels crazy for the stuff!

Raspberry chocolates, impressionist art, blues music, nature-filled weekends and simple living; these are some of the joys that we have in common … and sharing them has enhanced our 14 years together.

14 years! Can it really be? Despite our common interests, I can't say that we have always been the picture of wedded bliss –- we’ve had our share of spats. Yet love has been present in each moment. Our friendship has survived every disagreement. Mutual respect has prevailed. And I cannot imagine being married to a better person!

"Ditto," he says about me!

What interests do you and your significant other have in common? What qualities keep you together? What are the ties that bind you?

Voice of the next generation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family snapshots

I originally had another post about family planned for today ... until I discovered several other bloggers posting on the subject that I thought deserved the spotlight. Their writing gave me an extra measure of perspective (and a smile or two)! So if you liked "Building a Better Family" or any of my previous articles on the subject you will LOVE these:

• "Older Brother and His Kids," from Town & Country Life, a snippet of family life and responsibility from sixty years ago, told with candor and a touch of humor.
• "Crazy Aunts and Other Mad Relatives," (a short limerick that I, for one, can really identify with) from Mad Kane’s Humor Blog.
• "Dinner with Granddaddy," as told by Sam Davidson, is a series of short anecdotes about his grandfather ... and a certain habit that Sam and his granddad share.

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?

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?

 

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?   

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.