A few months ago I joined Facebook. I was getting kind of bored, I guess, and my blog muse would disappear for days on end. It didn't take long before I had several friends (mostly relatives) and as time went on, more and more people appeared. Most of them were also new to Facebook, and even now there are new people every day. To say that connecting with old friends--particularly old relatives (not in the age sense), such as a former daughter-in-law, a former daughter-out-law, former step-children I'd not spoken with in years--is a rewarding and touching experience. I don't have to "talk" with these old friends every day; it's enough to know that I can send them a message, that I can drop in on their Facebook page to see what's happening, that they are once again somehow in my life. It warms my heart.
Many of these people--friends and family alike--have not been a part of my life for one reason or another. I moved away. I'm no longer married to their father. They're no longer the significant other of a son. They're children of friends with whom I'm no longer close, but who grew up with my children. There are people from my church that I see on Sundays or on other church functions, but that I really don't know very well, and I find that I am learning about them as they are in their "real" life.
Facebook is about the intricate connections we all have in our lives--those scattered far and wide, those down the street that we don't get to spend time with. I am thrilled to have all these people--past and present--together in one place that I can access almost any time or from almost any place.
I can even learn what my son and daughter-in-law's tavern is serving for lunch every day. How cool is that!
July 23, 2009
July 14, 2009
Losing Ribble
Chances are, if you’ve ever had a pet, you’ve experienced a loss when they’ve died, disappeared, or you've had to leave them behind. It can be a powerful grief.
My really close friend Cabby literally lost her cat Ribble last Sunday morning, and when she told me, I was sad, although nowhere near as sad as she. I’m sad for Cabby who’s feeling guilty and bereft, but also for Ribble, whose actual fate is unknown.
Cabby has two other cats, but Ribble is her most recent acquisition, and she was drawn to him because he is a Manx (tailless) and because he’s an orange cat. She learned that he also doesn’t object to riding in a car, and she thinks he actually likes it. She takes him with her when she goes out to photograph birds, sometimes a day trip, sometimes overnight, and he is an excellent companion for her. And when she’d come over the hill from Reno to San Jose to visit, she’d bring Ribble, along with her two birds. That my cat Sheba would head for the hills whenever Ribble showed up is not at issue, but Cabby decided to keep Ribble pretty much confined to the spare bedroom where she sleeps when she visits.
So I got to know Ribble too, and he is a delightful little guy, and if he and my Riley hissed at each other for a while, that was OK. After three or four visits, they learned to accept one another. And I came to love Ribble too.
So when Cabby called me Sunday from somewhere near Fallon, NV, to tell me that she’d lost Ribble and couldn’t find him, I was distressed. She’d stayed in Winnemucca Saturday night, then planned to stop at the Wetlands near Fallon. She made a couple of stops to photograph the birds, then realized that Ribble wasn’t in the car anymore. She returned to the two places she’d stopped, found nothing, and asked park workers to call her if they saw a tailless orange cat sporting a black harness. Then she realized she left her cell phone (and only phone) in Winnemucca, so drove 2 hours East to retrieve the phone, then 2 hours back. She continued to search for Ribble, and spent last night in Fallon to resume the search on Monday morning.
When she called me Monday morning at work, it wasn’t with the good news I’d hoped for; she couldn’t find him anywhere. She said there were coyotes all over, and hawks, perhaps eagles, and Ribble was certainly no match for a coyote, and even if a raptor couldn’t lift the little guy, he could be badly damaged by talons.
She was crying, and I cried with her. She said she was done looking, had spent three hours in her search and was certain he was dead. We cried harder. She said she would go home, clean up and go to work to take her mind off Ribble.
Cabby is a superb photographer—not a professional, but only because she doesn’t want to bother with selling her art. If someone wants more than one picture, she’ll charge them only for paper and ink. When I received a later email from her saying she was going back to the Wetlands to keep looking, she said “I’ll never pick up a camera again.” Hopefully, that’s a statement spoken out of guilt and grief. It would be an even greater sadness for her to give up her passion for photography and birds.
I’ve had my own share of pet catastrophes, and with one of them I spent a lot of time with the woulda, coulda, shouldas, as I’m sure Cabby is doing. She doesn’t remember, but she may have left the car door open for a few seconds. Maybe the kitty jumped out an open window when she stopped. If only! If only she’d rolled up the window high enough to keep him in and let air in. If only she’d checked when she left the first place to make sure he was in the car. If only!
My heart goes out to her, and I prayed Sunday night about as hard as I’ve ever prayed for anything, that she and Ribble would be reunited. But she can’t take back whatever she did or didn’t do that could have led to his escape from the car.
To deny herself her passion—her photography—will not return Ribble to her, if he is indeed dead. I can see that it might be a painful reminder for a while, but my hope is that she will revoke her “never” statement and sadly but proudly return to her camera. It it’s anthropomorphizing to say this, then so be it, but I think Ribble would want her to do just that.
I’m still hoping that Ribble is out there somewhere, laying low, rolling in whatever’s necessary to cover his scent, and will survive his ordeal.
He’s not used up all nine lives yet.
More to come...
My really close friend Cabby literally lost her cat Ribble last Sunday morning, and when she told me, I was sad, although nowhere near as sad as she. I’m sad for Cabby who’s feeling guilty and bereft, but also for Ribble, whose actual fate is unknown.
Cabby has two other cats, but Ribble is her most recent acquisition, and she was drawn to him because he is a Manx (tailless) and because he’s an orange cat. She learned that he also doesn’t object to riding in a car, and she thinks he actually likes it. She takes him with her when she goes out to photograph birds, sometimes a day trip, sometimes overnight, and he is an excellent companion for her. And when she’d come over the hill from Reno to San Jose to visit, she’d bring Ribble, along with her two birds. That my cat Sheba would head for the hills whenever Ribble showed up is not at issue, but Cabby decided to keep Ribble pretty much confined to the spare bedroom where she sleeps when she visits.
So I got to know Ribble too, and he is a delightful little guy, and if he and my Riley hissed at each other for a while, that was OK. After three or four visits, they learned to accept one another. And I came to love Ribble too.
So when Cabby called me Sunday from somewhere near Fallon, NV, to tell me that she’d lost Ribble and couldn’t find him, I was distressed. She’d stayed in Winnemucca Saturday night, then planned to stop at the Wetlands near Fallon. She made a couple of stops to photograph the birds, then realized that Ribble wasn’t in the car anymore. She returned to the two places she’d stopped, found nothing, and asked park workers to call her if they saw a tailless orange cat sporting a black harness. Then she realized she left her cell phone (and only phone) in Winnemucca, so drove 2 hours East to retrieve the phone, then 2 hours back. She continued to search for Ribble, and spent last night in Fallon to resume the search on Monday morning.
When she called me Monday morning at work, it wasn’t with the good news I’d hoped for; she couldn’t find him anywhere. She said there were coyotes all over, and hawks, perhaps eagles, and Ribble was certainly no match for a coyote, and even if a raptor couldn’t lift the little guy, he could be badly damaged by talons.
She was crying, and I cried with her. She said she was done looking, had spent three hours in her search and was certain he was dead. We cried harder. She said she would go home, clean up and go to work to take her mind off Ribble.
Cabby is a superb photographer—not a professional, but only because she doesn’t want to bother with selling her art. If someone wants more than one picture, she’ll charge them only for paper and ink. When I received a later email from her saying she was going back to the Wetlands to keep looking, she said “I’ll never pick up a camera again.” Hopefully, that’s a statement spoken out of guilt and grief. It would be an even greater sadness for her to give up her passion for photography and birds.
I’ve had my own share of pet catastrophes, and with one of them I spent a lot of time with the woulda, coulda, shouldas, as I’m sure Cabby is doing. She doesn’t remember, but she may have left the car door open for a few seconds. Maybe the kitty jumped out an open window when she stopped. If only! If only she’d rolled up the window high enough to keep him in and let air in. If only she’d checked when she left the first place to make sure he was in the car. If only!
My heart goes out to her, and I prayed Sunday night about as hard as I’ve ever prayed for anything, that she and Ribble would be reunited. But she can’t take back whatever she did or didn’t do that could have led to his escape from the car.
To deny herself her passion—her photography—will not return Ribble to her, if he is indeed dead. I can see that it might be a painful reminder for a while, but my hope is that she will revoke her “never” statement and sadly but proudly return to her camera. It it’s anthropomorphizing to say this, then so be it, but I think Ribble would want her to do just that.
I’m still hoping that Ribble is out there somewhere, laying low, rolling in whatever’s necessary to cover his scent, and will survive his ordeal.
He’s not used up all nine lives yet.
More to come...
June 23, 2009
Guilt and Yearning
Once again, a blog from son Brian and back-and-forth responses to same has triggered thoughts of my own on a couple of words he used together in one of the emails: Guilt and Yearning.
It’s a pretty sad thing to realize, especially to publicly admit, that much of my inner life has been fueled by and evinced by guilt and yearning.
I find myself meditating on the relationship between the two, if indeed there is a link. I’m going to ramble here as the thoughts try to find a place to light. How does a child learn to feel guilt? When does a child begin to feel yearning, if ever they do? We know about guilt in a legalistic way, but that’s a whole different topic. Everyday guilt is, according to The American Heritage Dictionary Third Edition, “Remorseful awareness of having done something wrong” and “Self-reproach for supposed inadequacy or wrongdoing”. Remorseful awareness is when we realize we have a conscience. The awareness of wrongdoing is important to live in a ‘civilized’ world. We stop at the stoplight. Most people are not criminals, yet some of those may not be criminals only because they don’t want to get caught.
But wrongdoing encompasses a wide range of actions. Barking at a store clerk when I’m tired and frustrated can induce guilt. Not calling someone when I promised. Talking behind someone’s back about him/her. The examples are numerous, and I believe that most of us know where we’ve missed the mark enough to feel some degree of guilt.
It’s the “self-reproach for supposed inadequacy…” that is my bête noire. It’s so easy for me to feel guilt about things I have no control over, or feel so totally inadequate that it’s no wonder something went wrong. I deal with this at some level virtually every day.
These feelings are usually accompanied by yearning. Yearning to be better, smarter, quicker, faster. Yearning to have someone in my life with whom to share the burden of guilt. Yearning for unconditional love. I’m not sure that guilt leads to yearning, or that yearning leads to guilt. But I know they are linked for me; when I feel capable and strong and good about myself, I don’t yearn for anything, because I know I have all that I need.
Brian’s father told me when I was very young (I was nothing but very young when he and I were together) that I was ‘other directed’. It sounded like a bad thing, being ‘other directed’. He said the alternative was ‘inner directed’, and it didn’t take me long to understand the difference between the two. I know many people who are ‘inner directed’ and they are confident, do not appear to be in thrall to guilt and yearning, and are unacquainted with the grief of self-doubt and regular mea culpas.
When someone says to me, “don’t take it personally", I understand what they mean, but to an ‘other directed’ person, it’s all personal. Inner strength is not an endless commodity for us ‘other directeds’; sometimes we fight our own demons for it, we pray for it. And we look to others for it.
David Reisman, a sociologist, wrote in his 1950 book The Lonely Crowd, "The other-directed person wants to be loved rather than esteemed", not necessarily to control others but to relate to them. Those who are other-directed need assurance that they are emotionally in tune with others.
This is difficult to write, but it’s important that I have some idea of my own psychology and behaviors. If I understand who I am, I can then begin to tackle the goals of the famous Serenity prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Peace.
It’s a pretty sad thing to realize, especially to publicly admit, that much of my inner life has been fueled by and evinced by guilt and yearning.
I find myself meditating on the relationship between the two, if indeed there is a link. I’m going to ramble here as the thoughts try to find a place to light. How does a child learn to feel guilt? When does a child begin to feel yearning, if ever they do? We know about guilt in a legalistic way, but that’s a whole different topic. Everyday guilt is, according to The American Heritage Dictionary Third Edition, “Remorseful awareness of having done something wrong” and “Self-reproach for supposed inadequacy or wrongdoing”. Remorseful awareness is when we realize we have a conscience. The awareness of wrongdoing is important to live in a ‘civilized’ world. We stop at the stoplight. Most people are not criminals, yet some of those may not be criminals only because they don’t want to get caught.
But wrongdoing encompasses a wide range of actions. Barking at a store clerk when I’m tired and frustrated can induce guilt. Not calling someone when I promised. Talking behind someone’s back about him/her. The examples are numerous, and I believe that most of us know where we’ve missed the mark enough to feel some degree of guilt.
It’s the “self-reproach for supposed inadequacy…” that is my bête noire. It’s so easy for me to feel guilt about things I have no control over, or feel so totally inadequate that it’s no wonder something went wrong. I deal with this at some level virtually every day.
These feelings are usually accompanied by yearning. Yearning to be better, smarter, quicker, faster. Yearning to have someone in my life with whom to share the burden of guilt. Yearning for unconditional love. I’m not sure that guilt leads to yearning, or that yearning leads to guilt. But I know they are linked for me; when I feel capable and strong and good about myself, I don’t yearn for anything, because I know I have all that I need.
Brian’s father told me when I was very young (I was nothing but very young when he and I were together) that I was ‘other directed’. It sounded like a bad thing, being ‘other directed’. He said the alternative was ‘inner directed’, and it didn’t take me long to understand the difference between the two. I know many people who are ‘inner directed’ and they are confident, do not appear to be in thrall to guilt and yearning, and are unacquainted with the grief of self-doubt and regular mea culpas.
When someone says to me, “don’t take it personally", I understand what they mean, but to an ‘other directed’ person, it’s all personal. Inner strength is not an endless commodity for us ‘other directeds’; sometimes we fight our own demons for it, we pray for it. And we look to others for it.
David Reisman, a sociologist, wrote in his 1950 book The Lonely Crowd, "The other-directed person wants to be loved rather than esteemed", not necessarily to control others but to relate to them. Those who are other-directed need assurance that they are emotionally in tune with others.
This is difficult to write, but it’s important that I have some idea of my own psychology and behaviors. If I understand who I am, I can then begin to tackle the goals of the famous Serenity prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Peace.
June 17, 2009
Reunions
This year commemorates my 50th anniversary of graduation from Kenmore High School. [Ours was the last class to graduate from the school with that name. Future classes would graduate from Kenmore West (the same building) or Kenmore East. But our class was all together. All 791 of us (my memory could be off by some, but definitely at least the mid-700’s). No longer would cheerleaders shout “Let’s go, KHS! Let’s go, KHS!” at football and basketball games.]
Reunions offer an opportunity to reacquaint oneself with old friends and people who weren’t necessarily your friends way back when but turn out to be delightful people now and you want to know them better. It’s also a time for remembering those who didn’t live long enough to celebrate their 50th or maybe even their 25th, or in a few cases, their 10th reunions. It’s a time for memories, and for thanksgivings, and yes, even some “what if’s".
I’ve been registered on Classmates.com for several years, and it’s amazing to watch the increasing number of familiar names appearing on the list. People I hadn’t thought about in years, and I remember them now with fondness. I’m looking forward to see them all again. The six years of junior and senior high school—ages ~12-18—are arguably the most crucial years in our lives. The teen years are full of all manner of angst, wonder, fears, joys, emotional swings, and of course, bursts of hormones that seem uncontrollable. We put aside the ways of elementary school—we are “big kids” now that we change classrooms in junior high. We carry books home, we form our “packs” complete with the alphas, betas, and omegas of every pack. Until the time we graduate, our world is lived with this large group of people who matter to us. We make choices—who our friends are, who we shun (unfortunately), who we eat lunch with, who we choose for our teams. We begin in earnest to figure out who we are and where we fit in and where we think we want to be. And overall, to quote Mr. Dickens, “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
The actual reunion events are in August, and I shall be there. But during the last month or so, I have already experienced three reunions with former classmates.
I have a friend in Buffalo with whom there has been an estrangement for almost 20 years. I can’t remember why; I remember disagreements, but there had to have been more. I love this former friend no matter what, and perhaps she feels the same about me. I phoned her over a month ago and we spoke a bit, but I haven’t phoned her back. Do I fear rejection? I wasn’t rejected when I phoned before, so why would she reject me now? I need to call her again.
There’s another woman I knew peripherally in high school, and when we met again at our informal 20th reunion in 1979, she and I found each other to be kindred spirits in several ways. Over the following decade, we saw each other briefly and infrequently, as we lived in different cities. But we maintained irregular contact over the years—a Christmas card here, the rare phone call there. She lives now in Southern California and I’m in San Jose. She called me when she had to put down her beloved horse—perhaps her best friend over those 19 years of his life. The weekend before last I went to visit her, our first encounter in well over 20 years. I’m embarrassed to count up the hours we talked and talked and talked—we told our stories that began in high school and continued until the present, and we even tiptoed into discussing our future as single and aging women. She has struggled with breast cancer, this dear friend, and is as upbeat and cheerful as ever; her smile alone would convert a curmudgeon.
In high school, our homerooms were assigned alphabetically. Having the last name Woodward, I was in the last group, and the only room available was the wood shop. Boy, did we luck out! We had the smallest homeroom (and the wonderful scent of wood), full of W’s, Y’s, Z’s, and a few stragglers who must have been new to the school. One of the boys, “Z”, was the shyest boy, but he was cute and something attracted me. For some reason I don’t remember, I was pretty sure he sorta liked me, too, but, as I said, he was shy. One time, perhaps from a basketball game, or dance (would he have even gone to a dance?), he walked me home, and we stood for a long time on the sidewalk in front of my house. Who knows what those two 15-16 year olds talked about? School? Dreams? Future? I saw him briefly at the 25th reunion, and he called me after that. But only once, and I didn’t see him again. A month or so ago, one of the reunion organizers emailed me and said that “Z” had asked her if she knew how to contact me. She wrote me with his contact information and asked if she had my permission to give him mine. Yes! Of course, my answer was yes. “Z” and I have twice had fairly lengthy phone conversations, and I’ve enjoyed them both. We have led very different adult lives, he and I, and our world views are quite different. But I still look forward to seeing him in August. We never forgot about each other. We still care.
More to come.
Reunions offer an opportunity to reacquaint oneself with old friends and people who weren’t necessarily your friends way back when but turn out to be delightful people now and you want to know them better. It’s also a time for remembering those who didn’t live long enough to celebrate their 50th or maybe even their 25th, or in a few cases, their 10th reunions. It’s a time for memories, and for thanksgivings, and yes, even some “what if’s".
I’ve been registered on Classmates.com for several years, and it’s amazing to watch the increasing number of familiar names appearing on the list. People I hadn’t thought about in years, and I remember them now with fondness. I’m looking forward to see them all again. The six years of junior and senior high school—ages ~12-18—are arguably the most crucial years in our lives. The teen years are full of all manner of angst, wonder, fears, joys, emotional swings, and of course, bursts of hormones that seem uncontrollable. We put aside the ways of elementary school—we are “big kids” now that we change classrooms in junior high. We carry books home, we form our “packs” complete with the alphas, betas, and omegas of every pack. Until the time we graduate, our world is lived with this large group of people who matter to us. We make choices—who our friends are, who we shun (unfortunately), who we eat lunch with, who we choose for our teams. We begin in earnest to figure out who we are and where we fit in and where we think we want to be. And overall, to quote Mr. Dickens, “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
The actual reunion events are in August, and I shall be there. But during the last month or so, I have already experienced three reunions with former classmates.
I have a friend in Buffalo with whom there has been an estrangement for almost 20 years. I can’t remember why; I remember disagreements, but there had to have been more. I love this former friend no matter what, and perhaps she feels the same about me. I phoned her over a month ago and we spoke a bit, but I haven’t phoned her back. Do I fear rejection? I wasn’t rejected when I phoned before, so why would she reject me now? I need to call her again.
There’s another woman I knew peripherally in high school, and when we met again at our informal 20th reunion in 1979, she and I found each other to be kindred spirits in several ways. Over the following decade, we saw each other briefly and infrequently, as we lived in different cities. But we maintained irregular contact over the years—a Christmas card here, the rare phone call there. She lives now in Southern California and I’m in San Jose. She called me when she had to put down her beloved horse—perhaps her best friend over those 19 years of his life. The weekend before last I went to visit her, our first encounter in well over 20 years. I’m embarrassed to count up the hours we talked and talked and talked—we told our stories that began in high school and continued until the present, and we even tiptoed into discussing our future as single and aging women. She has struggled with breast cancer, this dear friend, and is as upbeat and cheerful as ever; her smile alone would convert a curmudgeon.
In high school, our homerooms were assigned alphabetically. Having the last name Woodward, I was in the last group, and the only room available was the wood shop. Boy, did we luck out! We had the smallest homeroom (and the wonderful scent of wood), full of W’s, Y’s, Z’s, and a few stragglers who must have been new to the school. One of the boys, “Z”, was the shyest boy, but he was cute and something attracted me. For some reason I don’t remember, I was pretty sure he sorta liked me, too, but, as I said, he was shy. One time, perhaps from a basketball game, or dance (would he have even gone to a dance?), he walked me home, and we stood for a long time on the sidewalk in front of my house. Who knows what those two 15-16 year olds talked about? School? Dreams? Future? I saw him briefly at the 25th reunion, and he called me after that. But only once, and I didn’t see him again. A month or so ago, one of the reunion organizers emailed me and said that “Z” had asked her if she knew how to contact me. She wrote me with his contact information and asked if she had my permission to give him mine. Yes! Of course, my answer was yes. “Z” and I have twice had fairly lengthy phone conversations, and I’ve enjoyed them both. We have led very different adult lives, he and I, and our world views are quite different. But I still look forward to seeing him in August. We never forgot about each other. We still care.
More to come.
June 3, 2009
Seven Words That Changed My Life
I was married to a man who, I’ve concluded, was probably the most insecure man I’ve ever known. I’ve told him that in recent years, but I doubt that he truly heard it. I was very young, early 20’s, when we met, was uneducated past high school (save three agonizing months at my local university), and about as down as one could be. He rescued me from myself, and gave me some tools with which I could deal with my demons. We married a few years later, despite my own misgivings. How I loved him! My heart took full control over my head and my better sense, and besides that I was afraid to be alone, on my own, with my two little boys.
My husband used to tell me that my impressions of something—often his behavior—were “only my perception”. I heard that so many times, during infidelities, during times when I commented on his differential treatment of his children and my children. There were to be no “our” children, but I had agreed to that before we married, so I couldn’t push the issue. Over the months and years of psychological put-downs, referring to the way I looked at things to be “just my perception”, I began to doubt my judgment, felt inadequate, and wondered how he could love such a person who continued to have erroneous perceptions.
I started working for a friend of my husband who was conducting a research study and he needed some help with handling the data. I had no experience, so he (my new boss) suggested I take a class in Fortran. That was fun, let me tell you! NOT! Since I was taking one class in the morning, I decided to take another one on the alternate afternoons. Sociology 101 seemed like just the ticket, and it was reinforced by the fact that my husband knew the woman professor and liked her.
I remember that it was the first day of class, and when the students were coming into the class, the professor was writing in large letters across the entire width of the blackboard this sentence: Anything perceived is real in its consequence. ANYTHING PERCEIVED IS REAL IN ITS CONSEQUENCE. My heart beat harder, my breath quickened, and at that moment, I began to grow. Why had I never known this? Why didn’t I realize that on my own, without being told? But most of all—thank God I just learned this!
It took just a few years after that and some intensive sessions with a psychotherapist, but that sentence started me on a journey to selfhood, a sense of freedom and autonomy that I’d never had. Anything perceived is real in its consequence. Wow! OK, tell me that the fact that you’re staying out later and later and that a woman keeps calling you is just my perception and that she’s just a client. Yeah, my perception. Not only was the perception my own reality, it was reality. I learned to trust my gut, now that I disallowed the psychological abuse of “it’s only your perception”.
I went back to school full time after a bit, graduated Summa Cum Laude from SUNY Buffalo, and after our divorce, I received an M.A. from the same university.
I trust my perceptions. They are my reality, and what I perceive leads to what I do, how I behave, and whom I trust. Yeah, the consequences. Seven words, one short sentence, writ large on a blackboard and on my heart and soul. I am free.
My husband used to tell me that my impressions of something—often his behavior—were “only my perception”. I heard that so many times, during infidelities, during times when I commented on his differential treatment of his children and my children. There were to be no “our” children, but I had agreed to that before we married, so I couldn’t push the issue. Over the months and years of psychological put-downs, referring to the way I looked at things to be “just my perception”, I began to doubt my judgment, felt inadequate, and wondered how he could love such a person who continued to have erroneous perceptions.
I started working for a friend of my husband who was conducting a research study and he needed some help with handling the data. I had no experience, so he (my new boss) suggested I take a class in Fortran. That was fun, let me tell you! NOT! Since I was taking one class in the morning, I decided to take another one on the alternate afternoons. Sociology 101 seemed like just the ticket, and it was reinforced by the fact that my husband knew the woman professor and liked her.
I remember that it was the first day of class, and when the students were coming into the class, the professor was writing in large letters across the entire width of the blackboard this sentence: Anything perceived is real in its consequence. ANYTHING PERCEIVED IS REAL IN ITS CONSEQUENCE. My heart beat harder, my breath quickened, and at that moment, I began to grow. Why had I never known this? Why didn’t I realize that on my own, without being told? But most of all—thank God I just learned this!
It took just a few years after that and some intensive sessions with a psychotherapist, but that sentence started me on a journey to selfhood, a sense of freedom and autonomy that I’d never had. Anything perceived is real in its consequence. Wow! OK, tell me that the fact that you’re staying out later and later and that a woman keeps calling you is just my perception and that she’s just a client. Yeah, my perception. Not only was the perception my own reality, it was reality. I learned to trust my gut, now that I disallowed the psychological abuse of “it’s only your perception”.
I went back to school full time after a bit, graduated Summa Cum Laude from SUNY Buffalo, and after our divorce, I received an M.A. from the same university.
I trust my perceptions. They are my reality, and what I perceive leads to what I do, how I behave, and whom I trust. Yeah, the consequences. Seven words, one short sentence, writ large on a blackboard and on my heart and soul. I am free.
May 13, 2009
Pen and Pencil OCD
This morning on NPR, on “Talk of the Nation”, there was a segment on OCD—Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder—that got me thinking about some of my own proclivities and habits. God knows I’m not cleaning anything all of the time, and I don’t worry about leaving the iron or the stove on once I leave the house. I rarely iron, and cook slightly more often. If I’ve forgotten to leave food for the cats, they can live off their fat for a few hours.
But should you visit me and need a pen or pencil to jot something down, I can ask: do you want a pen or a pencil? OK, a pen. What color ink do you want? Gel or ball point? Thick or thin? Click or cap? Would a marker be better? What color? Thick or thin? Oh, you’d rather have a pencil? Mechanical or regular? Number 2 or 3? .5mm or .7mm? Do you need a separate eraser? No as many choices, but I’ve got a few.
How on earth did I get this way? I went all through school with a few pencils and maybe one pen, which was probably a fountain pen in those dark ages. In my 20’s I never had any money, so probably would have had one or two pens of the BIC ilk, and maybe a pencil.
Then I got married to husband #2, and we moved to Grand Island to a fairly big house. There was room for me to have a desk, a real luxury. I kept all kinds of things in that lovely teak rolltop desk—pictures, decks of cards, odds and ends that can’t find another place, and oh yes, a few pens and pencils. There were three boys living in the house for the next year, and four boys for a few more years after that. Two were my stepsons, both of them considerably older than my “innocent” little boys. OK, that’s the background.
We’d leave a pen near the phone, which was just a few steps from my desk. The phone pen wasn’t tied down, as in a bank, so it always disappeared. Not sometimes. Always. The go to place for a pen was my desk. When I was growing up, my mother’s desk was off limits to us kids. Just as her purse was. I think I managed to maintain the sanctity of my purse with the four boys (and if I’m wrong, I don’t want to know!), but I could get nowhere insisting that my desk was not open to all.
Two years after we moved there, one of my stepsons decided to live with his mother in another city, so he stayed there after his summer visit instead of coming back. We realized we could have a bedroom for each of the “little” boys instead of them having to share a room. Cleaning up my stepson’s room was a nightmare. I won’t go into all the gory details; suffice it to say that in that ~10’ x 10’ room I unearthed 84 (that’s eighty four) pens and pencils! Yes, I counted them. They were under the rug, under the bed, in underwear drawers, in the closet; indeed, there wasn’t a place that I didn’t find a writing implement.
Now I’m the one with 84 pens and pencils, and perhaps more. I must add that I go with my company to trade shows a couple of times a year, and pens are one of the tchotchkes that companies give away. But still. I have a lot of pens. I do crossword puzzles and Sudoku, and I might do them upstairs or downstairs, so I have to have pencils upstairs and downstairs. I have three handsets for my phone, so I need pens where there are phones. Fine. You can probably understand that. But why do I need so many pens and pencils?! It’s nuts! It’s crazy! It’s…it’s…well, it’s obsessive/compulsive, isn’t it?
In my defense, I don’t spend much money on pencils or pens. Most pens come from trade shows, even a very few mechanical pencils. I don’t use regular wooden pencils—I’d have to keep sharpening them. I’m not hurting anyone, it doesn’t take me extra time to nourish my obsession.
Confession is so good for the soul! Just don’t deprive me of my pens and pencils, and I’ll be good. I promise.
But should you visit me and need a pen or pencil to jot something down, I can ask: do you want a pen or a pencil? OK, a pen. What color ink do you want? Gel or ball point? Thick or thin? Click or cap? Would a marker be better? What color? Thick or thin? Oh, you’d rather have a pencil? Mechanical or regular? Number 2 or 3? .5mm or .7mm? Do you need a separate eraser? No as many choices, but I’ve got a few.
How on earth did I get this way? I went all through school with a few pencils and maybe one pen, which was probably a fountain pen in those dark ages. In my 20’s I never had any money, so probably would have had one or two pens of the BIC ilk, and maybe a pencil.
Then I got married to husband #2, and we moved to Grand Island to a fairly big house. There was room for me to have a desk, a real luxury. I kept all kinds of things in that lovely teak rolltop desk—pictures, decks of cards, odds and ends that can’t find another place, and oh yes, a few pens and pencils. There were three boys living in the house for the next year, and four boys for a few more years after that. Two were my stepsons, both of them considerably older than my “innocent” little boys. OK, that’s the background.
We’d leave a pen near the phone, which was just a few steps from my desk. The phone pen wasn’t tied down, as in a bank, so it always disappeared. Not sometimes. Always. The go to place for a pen was my desk. When I was growing up, my mother’s desk was off limits to us kids. Just as her purse was. I think I managed to maintain the sanctity of my purse with the four boys (and if I’m wrong, I don’t want to know!), but I could get nowhere insisting that my desk was not open to all.
Two years after we moved there, one of my stepsons decided to live with his mother in another city, so he stayed there after his summer visit instead of coming back. We realized we could have a bedroom for each of the “little” boys instead of them having to share a room. Cleaning up my stepson’s room was a nightmare. I won’t go into all the gory details; suffice it to say that in that ~10’ x 10’ room I unearthed 84 (that’s eighty four) pens and pencils! Yes, I counted them. They were under the rug, under the bed, in underwear drawers, in the closet; indeed, there wasn’t a place that I didn’t find a writing implement.
Now I’m the one with 84 pens and pencils, and perhaps more. I must add that I go with my company to trade shows a couple of times a year, and pens are one of the tchotchkes that companies give away. But still. I have a lot of pens. I do crossword puzzles and Sudoku, and I might do them upstairs or downstairs, so I have to have pencils upstairs and downstairs. I have three handsets for my phone, so I need pens where there are phones. Fine. You can probably understand that. But why do I need so many pens and pencils?! It’s nuts! It’s crazy! It’s…it’s…well, it’s obsessive/compulsive, isn’t it?
In my defense, I don’t spend much money on pencils or pens. Most pens come from trade shows, even a very few mechanical pencils. I don’t use regular wooden pencils—I’d have to keep sharpening them. I’m not hurting anyone, it doesn’t take me extra time to nourish my obsession.
Confession is so good for the soul! Just don’t deprive me of my pens and pencils, and I’ll be good. I promise.
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