Most people can't just go out and run a marathon. There are a select few that are able to do it without training hardly at all, but we all love to hate them for it, don't we? I preach that we need to "respect the distance" whether I'm referring to a marathon or some sort of huge life event. You can't just dive in and spin out like Superman in a telephone booth.
That's how I feel about writing in this blog. So badly, I want to write about what I learned TODAY from the people closest to me. I want to talk about what I'm going through RIGHT NOW. But I can't, because it wouldn't be fair to pillage the privacy of my life and hang it on a line to dry. Yet. I need to keep it safe for a while first. I need to respect the distance.
I can, however, tell all sorts of past stories. I remember when I first smoked a cigarette, I was with Hailey Stewart and I was 13. That same night I also stole lipstick from Shoppers Drug Mart (and, later when I was in my 20's I went back to that very store and upon confessing my crime, paid for the lipstick and then bawled my eyes out all the way home).
I remember when I first said "oh my God." It was at Denise's house and it felt so unnatural, as if I was trying to swallow a ruler sideways. I licked a frozen telephone pole in sixth grade, and my tongue stuck to the frost and I didn't feel the pain because I was too hopped up on all the attention I was getting from my classmates.
I hated my grade five teacher, "Mr. Wood." He once called me a bitch, and then when I kicked Wes deJager in the balls for calling my best friend Jacquie fat, Mr. Wood gave me a lecture on boys' private parts and I hated him for that. So I threw Wes's gym strip into a pile of sawdust-covered hallway vomit. I felt better.
When I was newly married (at the ripe age of 12, it seemed...), I tried to cook pumpkin soup for Jason and I by scooping out the pumpkin guts and seeds and boiling it all in a pot.
I don't like dogs because they're needy and pathetic and smothery. I like cats because they're nasty, and I sometimes quite like nasty things.
Our pasts help mold us into the people we are today, and sometimes our pasts are just moldy. I want to write about a few of each--maybe by day 29 I'll be brave enough!
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Day Nine
As a daily runner, I see a lot of things that most people don't see:
On weekend mornings, more often than not there is a pile of puke at one of the bus stops along the main road. One time last winter there was a macaroni barf that sat for weeks--it just kept freezing and thawing and re-freezing.
I know that every evening at 7pm for the past 5 years, Pat walks her little dog Penny and every evening at 7pm prior to those 5 years, she walked her little dog Mikey.
Ninety-nine percent of drivers don't even glance to their right before turning right onto a main road--they just look left at the oncoming traffic, narrowly missing pedestrians coming from their right. I do it too, and I feel terrible about it.
This morning I saw an older man kick some leaves over top of his dog's pile of fresh steaming poo in a lazy attempt to make it all just "go away."
Other runners blow snot rockets onto the sidewalk. They fart. I blow my nose into my sleeve, especially if it's raining. We talk about diarrhea and sometimes we even throw up (Mark is notorious for stopping mid-stride at the top of a difficult climb and yacking into the bushes).
You know what else I notice? I notice that the more people learn about me and my life story, the more they open up to me about their own. They see my messes and what I've done to clean house, and I think (I hope!) it gives them hope. But what I do know is it gives them validity and then they feel comfortable opening up and talking about their own struggles. I think, anyway. That's what they tell me. Or maybe they just know enough about me to know that I won't judge, because I too blow my nose into my sleeve sometimes.
I think it's important for us to know that we all make mistakes but more importantly, that it's possible to move forward and grow from them. We can read self-help books or pray mightily and fast until our stomachs eat our spines, but there's just something powerful about seeing real people mess up and grow from their mistakes who then live to tell about it and sometimes, if appropriate, who can also have enough grace to laugh about it.
Seeing things that most people don't see isn't always a stomach-turning adventure--it can be a gift! Especially when I happen to know exactly where NOT to step when we're walking through that huge pile of leaves.
On weekend mornings, more often than not there is a pile of puke at one of the bus stops along the main road. One time last winter there was a macaroni barf that sat for weeks--it just kept freezing and thawing and re-freezing.
I know that every evening at 7pm for the past 5 years, Pat walks her little dog Penny and every evening at 7pm prior to those 5 years, she walked her little dog Mikey.
Ninety-nine percent of drivers don't even glance to their right before turning right onto a main road--they just look left at the oncoming traffic, narrowly missing pedestrians coming from their right. I do it too, and I feel terrible about it.
This morning I saw an older man kick some leaves over top of his dog's pile of fresh steaming poo in a lazy attempt to make it all just "go away."
Other runners blow snot rockets onto the sidewalk. They fart. I blow my nose into my sleeve, especially if it's raining. We talk about diarrhea and sometimes we even throw up (Mark is notorious for stopping mid-stride at the top of a difficult climb and yacking into the bushes).
You know what else I notice? I notice that the more people learn about me and my life story, the more they open up to me about their own. They see my messes and what I've done to clean house, and I think (I hope!) it gives them hope. But what I do know is it gives them validity and then they feel comfortable opening up and talking about their own struggles. I think, anyway. That's what they tell me. Or maybe they just know enough about me to know that I won't judge, because I too blow my nose into my sleeve sometimes.
I think it's important for us to know that we all make mistakes but more importantly, that it's possible to move forward and grow from them. We can read self-help books or pray mightily and fast until our stomachs eat our spines, but there's just something powerful about seeing real people mess up and grow from their mistakes who then live to tell about it and sometimes, if appropriate, who can also have enough grace to laugh about it.
Seeing things that most people don't see isn't always a stomach-turning adventure--it can be a gift! Especially when I happen to know exactly where NOT to step when we're walking through that huge pile of leaves.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Day Seven
I feel a little overwhelmed right now. I've been super busy, running around from job to job, school to grocery store to gas station. I don't feel fully plugged into any one particular thing. I feel fragmented, frazzled and frail. Frick.
I feel emotionally overwhelmed as well. I had several friends and family text me today and I just couldn't absorb it all for some reason and no matter how much I wanted to process their words and reply with my heart, my fingers just wouldn't move on the screen.
Like I'm in my spacesuit on the moon and I'm trying so hard to plant my feet firmly down onto the moon's surface but gravity keeps pushing me off. Or like when I try and press the two like-sided ends of the batteries together. Or when I'm playing dodge-ball in sixth grade and I'm on the losing team. Nothing is getting absorbed. It's all bouncing off of me, and it's leaving a bit of a mark.
And that's what I wrote back to Tracey tonight: "my brain is full." And she got it right away.
There's nothing in particular on my mind and yet there's everything all at once. I'm feeling around the bottom of the pool of water and it's dark and quiet, but it's also all-consuming.
Just let me be grumpy today.
I feel emotionally overwhelmed as well. I had several friends and family text me today and I just couldn't absorb it all for some reason and no matter how much I wanted to process their words and reply with my heart, my fingers just wouldn't move on the screen.
Like I'm in my spacesuit on the moon and I'm trying so hard to plant my feet firmly down onto the moon's surface but gravity keeps pushing me off. Or like when I try and press the two like-sided ends of the batteries together. Or when I'm playing dodge-ball in sixth grade and I'm on the losing team. Nothing is getting absorbed. It's all bouncing off of me, and it's leaving a bit of a mark.
And that's what I wrote back to Tracey tonight: "my brain is full." And she got it right away.
There's nothing in particular on my mind and yet there's everything all at once. I'm feeling around the bottom of the pool of water and it's dark and quiet, but it's also all-consuming.
Just let me be grumpy today.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Day Six
Fear.
As a kid, I remember running up the stairs from time to time and getting that holy-shit-something-big-and-hairy-is-chasing me feeling and although I knew on an intellectual level that there really was nothing chasing me, that terrified feeling felt so real! Why did it feel real? Because the feeling WAS real. But just because the feeling was real doesn't mean that there really was something big and hairy chasing me.
Feelings are feelings. Truth is truth. Feelings are real and truth is real, but they're not one and the same.
It seems to me that fear is a powerful one, though. Ghandi wrote: "The enemy is fear. We think it is hate. But, it is fear." That's a pretty ballsy statement seeing as the subject of hate can conjure up some pretty vivid images.
However, I entertained the idea of fear being worse than hate and I came up with a few thoughts. Fear causes that "flight or fight" response which releases epinephrine and nor-epinephrine (adrenalin hormones) into the bloodstream. I remember when Katie had a severe croup attack and when we got to the ER, they injected her with these hormones so that her body would dig deep and fight harder to take in more oxygen. I held her between my legs and with my arms wrapped around her tiny body I felt her heart rate increase seemingly tenfold, and felt her chest heaving while her little blue lips gasped for breath inside of the teensie tiny oxygen mask. She was scared. I was terrified.
The treatment worked and after being admitted for monitoring, she was okay.
That "fight or flight" response is meaningful. We either get stuck (flight), or we react hastily with arms swinging (fight).
When I learned First Aid and CPR I was taught that the initial reaction of someone drowning is to fight the rescuer. As someone jumping into the water to save the struggling swimmer, we need to keep this in mind. It doesn't make sense, does it? But it happens all. the. time. So much that they teach it when they teach us lifesaving skills.
We're human, and so we fear.
I know someone who is afraid of driving over the Fraser River into Greater Vancouver for fear that the bridge will collapse on him. He doesn't cross the bridge.
I know someone who is so afraid of dogs so much that she doesn't run anymore.
I know someone who is so afraid to love again that he'd rather be alone forever.
I know someone who is so afraid of leaving her abusive husband because she doesn't know what life would be like without him.
Hate might be what we breathe out, but fear limits the oxygen we need to breathe in before we can even think about hating.
It kills us before we even get the chance to live.
As a kid, I remember running up the stairs from time to time and getting that holy-shit-something-big-and-hairy-is-chasing me feeling and although I knew on an intellectual level that there really was nothing chasing me, that terrified feeling felt so real! Why did it feel real? Because the feeling WAS real. But just because the feeling was real doesn't mean that there really was something big and hairy chasing me.
Feelings are feelings. Truth is truth. Feelings are real and truth is real, but they're not one and the same.
It seems to me that fear is a powerful one, though. Ghandi wrote: "The enemy is fear. We think it is hate. But, it is fear." That's a pretty ballsy statement seeing as the subject of hate can conjure up some pretty vivid images.
However, I entertained the idea of fear being worse than hate and I came up with a few thoughts. Fear causes that "flight or fight" response which releases epinephrine and nor-epinephrine (adrenalin hormones) into the bloodstream. I remember when Katie had a severe croup attack and when we got to the ER, they injected her with these hormones so that her body would dig deep and fight harder to take in more oxygen. I held her between my legs and with my arms wrapped around her tiny body I felt her heart rate increase seemingly tenfold, and felt her chest heaving while her little blue lips gasped for breath inside of the teensie tiny oxygen mask. She was scared. I was terrified.
The treatment worked and after being admitted for monitoring, she was okay.
That "fight or flight" response is meaningful. We either get stuck (flight), or we react hastily with arms swinging (fight).
When I learned First Aid and CPR I was taught that the initial reaction of someone drowning is to fight the rescuer. As someone jumping into the water to save the struggling swimmer, we need to keep this in mind. It doesn't make sense, does it? But it happens all. the. time. So much that they teach it when they teach us lifesaving skills.
We're human, and so we fear.
I know someone who is afraid of driving over the Fraser River into Greater Vancouver for fear that the bridge will collapse on him. He doesn't cross the bridge.
I know someone who is so afraid of dogs so much that she doesn't run anymore.
I know someone who is so afraid to love again that he'd rather be alone forever.
I know someone who is so afraid of leaving her abusive husband because she doesn't know what life would be like without him.
Hate might be what we breathe out, but fear limits the oxygen we need to breathe in before we can even think about hating.
It kills us before we even get the chance to live.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Day Five
It's easy to pretend something isn't there if we simply look away.
You know the saying, "the elephant in the room?" It's nothing short of
miraculous how we are able to see past a giant elephant's ass when we are
determined enough to ignore it.
Humans have ignored problems since the beginning of time. Why? Because sometimes we just don't like what we see.
Lawrence Hill wrote in The Book of Negroes: "To gaze into another person's face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity and to assert your own." It's way easier to detach from people when we look away, or by way of technology (through texts, Facebook messages and emails), than if we were standing there with them, face to face, heart to heart. We can unleash the devil in lightening speed if we are merely one step removed.
I heard a story about an obese lady who went to the ER for something and when the doctor walked into the room he could barely breathe for the stench coming from the woman's body. Upon examination he found that maggots had settled in between her moist fat folds. He asked her if she knew about them and she said no, and when he asked her how she could not notice, she replied blankly, "I just had no idea."
She didn't want to know, so she didn't look.
I know of a more recent story involving someone close to my heart. This time the maggots came in the form of legal papers carrying with them the diseases of hate and selfish gain. Handed over to him in a blow so personal, at the very essence of his person as a man, as a daddy, he sunk to his knees with the force.
I can't talk about it because of the nature of the situation, but I know from being open with others in similar circumstances that the legal system has no mercy, for fathers in particular. Why? There's probably a myriad of reasons. But I highly doubt that this shit would go down if each person stood together, face to face. Instead we are served with legal papers, shipped from one vulturous lawyer to another where they finally land in our hands, merciless eating away our minds and hearts. Maggots. Scarring blows.
Why do we have to hurt each other so much? And shouldn't the "justice" system be able to step into an otherwise emotionally-charged situation and intervene with objective and fair solutions? Or are we still on that boat getting beaten with batons and starving to death while everyone simply looks away?
There will always be a lot of pain in this world because that's really what we do best. But I guarantee we'd do less of it if we lifted our eyes up high enough to get our fat faces out of the trough of selfishness and instead looked into the eyes of the people we are directly affecting with our actions.
And give that elephant's ass a spanking.
Humans have ignored problems since the beginning of time. Why? Because sometimes we just don't like what we see.
Lawrence Hill wrote in The Book of Negroes: "To gaze into another person's face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity and to assert your own." It's way easier to detach from people when we look away, or by way of technology (through texts, Facebook messages and emails), than if we were standing there with them, face to face, heart to heart. We can unleash the devil in lightening speed if we are merely one step removed.
I heard a story about an obese lady who went to the ER for something and when the doctor walked into the room he could barely breathe for the stench coming from the woman's body. Upon examination he found that maggots had settled in between her moist fat folds. He asked her if she knew about them and she said no, and when he asked her how she could not notice, she replied blankly, "I just had no idea."
She didn't want to know, so she didn't look.
I know of a more recent story involving someone close to my heart. This time the maggots came in the form of legal papers carrying with them the diseases of hate and selfish gain. Handed over to him in a blow so personal, at the very essence of his person as a man, as a daddy, he sunk to his knees with the force.
I can't talk about it because of the nature of the situation, but I know from being open with others in similar circumstances that the legal system has no mercy, for fathers in particular. Why? There's probably a myriad of reasons. But I highly doubt that this shit would go down if each person stood together, face to face. Instead we are served with legal papers, shipped from one vulturous lawyer to another where they finally land in our hands, merciless eating away our minds and hearts. Maggots. Scarring blows.
Why do we have to hurt each other so much? And shouldn't the "justice" system be able to step into an otherwise emotionally-charged situation and intervene with objective and fair solutions? Or are we still on that boat getting beaten with batons and starving to death while everyone simply looks away?
There will always be a lot of pain in this world because that's really what we do best. But I guarantee we'd do less of it if we lifted our eyes up high enough to get our fat faces out of the trough of selfishness and instead looked into the eyes of the people we are directly affecting with our actions.
And give that elephant's ass a spanking.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Day Four
I have some seriously huge song association sensory receptors. Same with smell. I'll talk about smell first.
I worked in a factory for 3 days when I was 19. My job was to pound dirt down into a box and staple the four corners with a foot pedal and then pass it along. On my third day of working there, I was sent on my coffee break (where I developed a nearly unshakeable addiction to powdered chemical coffee creamer) and then when I returned, I was sent to a new spot: along the rose bushes belt. My new job was to grab a branch of rose bushes and put it on a different belt behind me. I learned quite quickly that it was necessary to eyeball the branches as early as possible so as to grab the ones with the least amount of thorns.
I was doing quite well at grabbing all the barest of the bare thorn bushes until the lady beside me grabbed the same one as I did, at the same time, and didn't let go. I was like, "whoa lady, that's my branch." And she was like, "LET GO OF MY BUSH, BITCH." For real. But the thing is, is she smelled like this certain kind of perfume, and it's a super popular one and to this day I smell it everywhere.
I'll be walking through some totally random place, like a tire centre, and I'll smell the bush lady.
It sucks.
I quit the factory, and went back to work at Sport Mart. Dream big!
I was totally going to talk about song association sensory receptors, but I'll do that tomorrow because, oh wow, I just wrote a whole lot about nothing.
I worked in a factory for 3 days when I was 19. My job was to pound dirt down into a box and staple the four corners with a foot pedal and then pass it along. On my third day of working there, I was sent on my coffee break (where I developed a nearly unshakeable addiction to powdered chemical coffee creamer) and then when I returned, I was sent to a new spot: along the rose bushes belt. My new job was to grab a branch of rose bushes and put it on a different belt behind me. I learned quite quickly that it was necessary to eyeball the branches as early as possible so as to grab the ones with the least amount of thorns.
I was doing quite well at grabbing all the barest of the bare thorn bushes until the lady beside me grabbed the same one as I did, at the same time, and didn't let go. I was like, "whoa lady, that's my branch." And she was like, "LET GO OF MY BUSH, BITCH." For real. But the thing is, is she smelled like this certain kind of perfume, and it's a super popular one and to this day I smell it everywhere.
I'll be walking through some totally random place, like a tire centre, and I'll smell the bush lady.
It sucks.
I quit the factory, and went back to work at Sport Mart. Dream big!
I was totally going to talk about song association sensory receptors, but I'll do that tomorrow because, oh wow, I just wrote a whole lot about nothing.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Day Three
I got an orange cat for my 16th birthday and I named him Harley. He was a purebred (inbred, quite honestly, and more obviously as one would notice given the chance to spend longer than 30 seconds with him) with a flat face and a penchant for acquiring dingleberries.
But we loved him. Oh, we loved him.
My parents, during a particularly trying time in their lives, found that Harley bridged the gap between them when the river of silence was too tumultuous to cross. I remember watching them standing in a room and when they were seemingly a football field apart, Harley would walk in the room and they'd suddenly be side by side.
"Look at him! Oh, Harley... silly cat. Oh dear, where's the brush? Ha ha ha... oh my. What a funny looking thing. Poor Harley." *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
And me? I'd be alone in my room crying my eyes out about some wretched beastly boy who had broken my heart into a million irreparable pieces and Harley would cruise in, jump up into my face and kiss me with his furry and wet little nosey and then all of a sudden I'd smile, or shudder with relief that no, I'm not alone. That yes, even when I think I can't possibly breathe in one more breath to keep me alive, I am suddenly able to sit up and reach out and love. *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
My dad loves to tell this story. A bird flew into our house one day and the usually docile Harley (a borderline medical problem of the lazy sort) became... well... an animal. He was on FIRE. His tail swooshed around, his ears pricked up and his eyes darted to and fro. His mouth, barely seen for the surrounding face wrinkles, twitched with adrenalin. It was time for a feast.
He stood at the foot of our fridge staring up into the corner of the kitchen where he had first detected the scared bird.
Except the bird had flown away, and out the door.
And yet Harley still stood at the foot of the fridge, waiting, tail swooshing, ready to pounce. On nothing. For hours.
Don't we all do that sometimes? I do. I get so pissed off, so caught up in my own indignant anger, justifying it all simply by the intensity of my emotions (SURELY I have been wronged, for how could I feel so angry if I wasn't?!) that I get stuck there. I get that glazed over look in my eyes where all I can see is The Problem and nothing else. Meanwhile, The Problem takes off into the background and perches itself on its fellow meaningless Problems (in the grand scheme of life) while I sit there and stare at the empty space, angrier than ever, and I'm probably drooling. And let's just hope I don't have dingleberries stuck to my fur.
I miss Harley.
But we loved him. Oh, we loved him.
My parents, during a particularly trying time in their lives, found that Harley bridged the gap between them when the river of silence was too tumultuous to cross. I remember watching them standing in a room and when they were seemingly a football field apart, Harley would walk in the room and they'd suddenly be side by side.
"Look at him! Oh, Harley... silly cat. Oh dear, where's the brush? Ha ha ha... oh my. What a funny looking thing. Poor Harley." *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
And me? I'd be alone in my room crying my eyes out about some wretched beastly boy who had broken my heart into a million irreparable pieces and Harley would cruise in, jump up into my face and kiss me with his furry and wet little nosey and then all of a sudden I'd smile, or shudder with relief that no, I'm not alone. That yes, even when I think I can't possibly breathe in one more breath to keep me alive, I am suddenly able to sit up and reach out and love. *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
My dad loves to tell this story. A bird flew into our house one day and the usually docile Harley (a borderline medical problem of the lazy sort) became... well... an animal. He was on FIRE. His tail swooshed around, his ears pricked up and his eyes darted to and fro. His mouth, barely seen for the surrounding face wrinkles, twitched with adrenalin. It was time for a feast.
He stood at the foot of our fridge staring up into the corner of the kitchen where he had first detected the scared bird.
Except the bird had flown away, and out the door.
And yet Harley still stood at the foot of the fridge, waiting, tail swooshing, ready to pounce. On nothing. For hours.
Don't we all do that sometimes? I do. I get so pissed off, so caught up in my own indignant anger, justifying it all simply by the intensity of my emotions (SURELY I have been wronged, for how could I feel so angry if I wasn't?!) that I get stuck there. I get that glazed over look in my eyes where all I can see is The Problem and nothing else. Meanwhile, The Problem takes off into the background and perches itself on its fellow meaningless Problems (in the grand scheme of life) while I sit there and stare at the empty space, angrier than ever, and I'm probably drooling. And let's just hope I don't have dingleberries stuck to my fur.
I miss Harley.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Day Two
The total cost of my University degree was approximately $32,000. When I was 18, my first priority was to have as much fun as possible. I played for the varsity soccer team (we sucked) while I took dumbass "gym" classes with my friends (who I don't even see anymore). I had no career goals in mind; I saw only the bright lights of a future filled with possibilities, and I was convinced that my degree would catapult me straight into the pools of opportunity like a leggy 40-something walking into a seedy suburban pub.
All I got was a minimum wage job and a hangover.
I have to say though, that I believe that everyone should spend some time in the service industry because it helps us treat our fellow humanity with respect; if we know what it's like to work on the other side of the counter than we will be quicker to respond with grace and mercy. Not just when we get our coffees extra sweet when we asked for extra hot, but when we walk through our child's seemingly un-chewed Kraft Dinner vomit in the middle of the night, or when our nephew is born with a brain injury. Life-alteringly huge or embarrassingly small, we need the tools to deal with life when it (and the people in it) hand us adversity because we all know it's going to happen.
People teach me things all the time, and it almost always happens when I least expect it. I started my job at Starbucks in June and one summer night I worked with a girl named Trish. Quite honestly, I didn't like her straight off the get-go and in fact, I came home and told Andrew that I hated her. I thought she was bossy and rude and condescending. But the second time I worked with her I learned that she also went to the same University that I attended and she too, has a degree. I asked her over my nerdy drive-through headset how she felt about working at Starbucks when she has a degree, for goodnesssake, and she replied with, "I'm using my degree. I don't get paid much, but that's not what is important to me. I got my degree in "people" and this is where I belong."
I exhaled and humbly looked down at my vanilla syrup-splattered shoes and realized that Trish had it right all along.
A few months later she was outside in the drive-through changing garbages and I, at the drive through window, poked my head out and whistled at her. While I watched her, I noticed a lady drive through and, because Trish was in the middle of changing the trash bags, the woman impatiently threw her garbage at Trish. It bounced off her shoulder and fell to the ground.
What did Trish do? Get angry? Resent the amount of money she spent on her degree? No. She laughed. Because she knew that SHE had it going on, and that lady didn't have a fucking clue.
Life isn't about degrees, or education, or salaries. It's about people. Community. Kids throwing up macaroni, and nephews in wheelchairs and high school and Lego and letting mistakes go, giving and receiving grace. It's about not being alone. It's about togetherness.
And although now that I have a new job related to my degree, I'm not just walking away from minimum wage; I am walking away from some of the coolest people I've ever known. Because they know how to stand strong in who they are, strong enough to take the garbage in the face from a person who has far greater debt than they do. And that's a life lesson that I never want to forget.
All I got was a minimum wage job and a hangover.
I have to say though, that I believe that everyone should spend some time in the service industry because it helps us treat our fellow humanity with respect; if we know what it's like to work on the other side of the counter than we will be quicker to respond with grace and mercy. Not just when we get our coffees extra sweet when we asked for extra hot, but when we walk through our child's seemingly un-chewed Kraft Dinner vomit in the middle of the night, or when our nephew is born with a brain injury. Life-alteringly huge or embarrassingly small, we need the tools to deal with life when it (and the people in it) hand us adversity because we all know it's going to happen.
People teach me things all the time, and it almost always happens when I least expect it. I started my job at Starbucks in June and one summer night I worked with a girl named Trish. Quite honestly, I didn't like her straight off the get-go and in fact, I came home and told Andrew that I hated her. I thought she was bossy and rude and condescending. But the second time I worked with her I learned that she also went to the same University that I attended and she too, has a degree. I asked her over my nerdy drive-through headset how she felt about working at Starbucks when she has a degree, for goodnesssake, and she replied with, "I'm using my degree. I don't get paid much, but that's not what is important to me. I got my degree in "people" and this is where I belong."
I exhaled and humbly looked down at my vanilla syrup-splattered shoes and realized that Trish had it right all along.
A few months later she was outside in the drive-through changing garbages and I, at the drive through window, poked my head out and whistled at her. While I watched her, I noticed a lady drive through and, because Trish was in the middle of changing the trash bags, the woman impatiently threw her garbage at Trish. It bounced off her shoulder and fell to the ground.
What did Trish do? Get angry? Resent the amount of money she spent on her degree? No. She laughed. Because she knew that SHE had it going on, and that lady didn't have a fucking clue.
Life isn't about degrees, or education, or salaries. It's about people. Community. Kids throwing up macaroni, and nephews in wheelchairs and high school and Lego and letting mistakes go, giving and receiving grace. It's about not being alone. It's about togetherness.
And although now that I have a new job related to my degree, I'm not just walking away from minimum wage; I am walking away from some of the coolest people I've ever known. Because they know how to stand strong in who they are, strong enough to take the garbage in the face from a person who has far greater debt than they do. And that's a life lesson that I never want to forget.
Monday, October 22, 2012
30 Days
When I am 90 years old with saggy tattooed skin and missing teeth and I'm hunched over in my bright green pleather armchair, I want to be able to look back onto my life and have peace.
There are a lot of elements that play together to create peace in my life, but there is one specific thing that birthed this post today: I would be filled with regret if I got to the age of ninety and hadn't even attempted to write and publish something. Maybe I'm dreaming, and really?...this is what makes this quest all the more urgent. A "to do" list is watered-down with practicality while a dream has fertile potency. Let's get knocked up, shall we?
I decided that I would spend the next 30 days writing something every single day. I've had lofty plans of doing this before but without the accountability of others, my writing slips down the ladder of priorities, doing the backstroke in the puddle of practical to-do lists.
I'm also afraid of being transparent on here. I'm scared of offending people with my language and ideas. I worry about judgement. I fuss about saying too much, of hurting people. But I know that when I question my motives for my writing, I always conclude that I want to do it to create community, not discord.
I want, in my fantasmical Land of Nauseatingly Optimistic Suzy, to be able to share my heart and help people in some form, in some capacity. That by sharing my stories, my life, my heart, that I could bring people together. That our bellies would be full, our cheeks would be warm, and that at the end of the day we would remember that we aren't alone.
If 30 days is the gestational period of something bigger, then bring it on. And if all this quest produces is a small form of entertainment layered in shy transparency and topped off with a sprinkle of foul language, then at least I know that I stepped out. Because there's nothing comfier than sinking into a bright green pleather armchair, free from the nagging discomfort of regret.
There are a lot of elements that play together to create peace in my life, but there is one specific thing that birthed this post today: I would be filled with regret if I got to the age of ninety and hadn't even attempted to write and publish something. Maybe I'm dreaming, and really?...this is what makes this quest all the more urgent. A "to do" list is watered-down with practicality while a dream has fertile potency. Let's get knocked up, shall we?
I decided that I would spend the next 30 days writing something every single day. I've had lofty plans of doing this before but without the accountability of others, my writing slips down the ladder of priorities, doing the backstroke in the puddle of practical to-do lists.
I'm also afraid of being transparent on here. I'm scared of offending people with my language and ideas. I worry about judgement. I fuss about saying too much, of hurting people. But I know that when I question my motives for my writing, I always conclude that I want to do it to create community, not discord.
I want, in my fantasmical Land of Nauseatingly Optimistic Suzy, to be able to share my heart and help people in some form, in some capacity. That by sharing my stories, my life, my heart, that I could bring people together. That our bellies would be full, our cheeks would be warm, and that at the end of the day we would remember that we aren't alone.
If 30 days is the gestational period of something bigger, then bring it on. And if all this quest produces is a small form of entertainment layered in shy transparency and topped off with a sprinkle of foul language, then at least I know that I stepped out. Because there's nothing comfier than sinking into a bright green pleather armchair, free from the nagging discomfort of regret.
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