My Inner Deck

Pure Luck

2007-11-02T16:36:00.000-07:00

I'm aggravated with my oldest daughter right now. She is generally doing well on her own: managing her time handling a full class load, keeping her grades up; living in an apartment that she has to keep clean and safe, cooking for herself. But she still has a lot to learn about managing money. The child runs through money like water; she always has. And this week, yet again, she incurred overdraft fees in her account because she simply didn't keep track of what was coming in and what was going out. Those fees sure make her trips to Target much more expensive than they need to be.

Her inattention to this kind of thing irritates me no end. And yet...

She came home a few weeks ago to visit a girlfriend she's known since middle school. Maggie has been fighting various forms of cancer for the past five years and has shown remarkable spirit and strength. Mags got through her first year of college while living at home, undergoing chemotherapy for several months to eradicate cancerous lesions in her brain. In August, a scan showed everything was clear and Maggie flew to Portland, Oregon, to go to school in the same city as her older brother and to have a "real" college experience for the first time.

In September, another scan revealed that the cancer had staged a dramatic return: seven tumors in her brain.

Hannah called me, sobbing, with the news, and said, "Mom, I have to see her." I agreed, and bit the financial bullet to fly her home on short notice for a long weekend. She drove four hours with her other close high school girlfriends to see Maggie and offer what feeble support anyone can in such a circumstance.

I think Hannah was heartened by Maggie's strength, her optimism, her total lack of self-pity. But that doesn't change the fact that the likelihood of Maggie's survival isn't good. By the time Hannah comes home for Christmas break, who knows what condition Maggie will be in? The tumors were beginning to put pressure on the areas of Maggie's brain that support short-term memory. What happens if a tumor grows just so and affects Maggie's ability to see or speak? To breathe? The ability to make her heart beat? Who can say what will happen next in a situation like this?

And so I look at Hannah's bank account balance (currently in the minus $100 range) and feel irritation at her lack of money management skills. What a gift! My God, my daughter is healthy and well enough to go into small-time debt! Her father is anxious about it, calling her (and me) several times a day to find out if she's spent any more or called to bank to try to reverse any fees....and I'm finding I simply cannot share his angst. It just doesn't feel like an issue that needs to eat up my time and energy.

It's not that I have extra money to burn -- I don't. After all, I'm still paying off that airline ticket from last month. And it's not that I don't think about all the adolescent and teenage crap I've dealt with over the past five years -- out later than agreed, partying in ways and with people I frowned upon, depression and its accompanying issues, too-full schedules to juggle, disagreements and fights and irritations and tears.

But when I think about what Maggie's parents are facing, what I've been through is child's play compared to the weight of their trials. How can I get worked up about a piddling amount of money when I have so many gifts to celebrate in both of my daughters? No, they're not perfect -- neither am I. But even having the opportunity to make mistakes is a gift. (When is the last time I thought of a screw-up from that perspective?)

It is only pure luck that has allowed us to avoid (escape?) the weight of what Maggie and her family are facing right now. It could just as easily be me or one of my daughters facing a cancerous tumor or crippling accident or some other crisis. It could happen as soon as tomorrow. No guarantees. We say that again and again; we know it in our heads but not in our guts. We don't allow that knowledge to change us or the way we live.

All I can say is I'm trying. I'm trying to maintain an awareness, an appreciation for the fragility of our everyday lives. If that's what it takes to preserve our luck, it seems a small price to pay. I wish I could say this was the answer to avoiding life's tragedies. I wish I knew how to do that so I could pass the answer along to everyone else I love.

A flying leap

2007-04-01T11:54:00.000-07:00

I've been remiss: three months since I've posted a word. But it's been an interesting three months, and I want to document some of this so I can look back (in another three months?) and see if the momentum I've sensed is continuing to move me toward the goals I've defined.

So I'll start back at the second week of January, when my employer announced that significant layoffs would take place in mid-February. I wasn't shocked; layoff rumors had been circulating for months. When they then announced that my work group would be affected, I could genuinely say I knew that was coming. I was surprised -- pleasantly! -- when information about the severance package began to circulate. (It was more generous than any package I've ever heard of.) I was convinced, based on several comments, circumstances and incidents, that I would be laid off.

I was more than just prepared: I was positively thrilled at the prospect of walking out the door with months and months of pay and benefits handed to me. I had visions of how I would spend my time and energy: spruce up and clean out the house; work in the yard once spring arrived; write; cook; exercise; learn a new instrument; dig up some freelance work... The prospect of having control over the way I spend my time and energy, of following my own schedule instead of some corporate 8 - 5 mandate, of taking an afternoon off to take care of myself or my daughter -- or the dog, if need be -- was deeply appealing.

So when the day arrived and I found out that I wasn't laid off, I took it hard -- not as hard as one person I work with who went into her cube and literally wailed -- but it was a shock, a disappointment. I did cry after I got home. It felt like mourning: I had summoned this beautiful vision of what I wanted my life to look like and then had it snatched away.

At least that was how it felt those first few days of disappointment. But it finally occurred to me that the time spent re-visioning my life wasn't wasted. In the process of daydreaming about my life after layoff, I actually had laid out a good path for myself, a pretty solid identification of the parts of my life that I feel aren't working and the changes I need to make. The difference is that these changes will have to happen in small, gradual steps instead of one big, sweeping change.

Many of those small steps are defined, and a few are even accomplished or scheduled: invest in a new computer so I have a key tool necessary to pursue freelance work; take a cooking class; schedule writing time -- and honor that commitment. I've set some deadlines for myself that aren't harsh but will help keep me accountable and moving in the right direction. I still have some big steps to take, but I feel like I'm gathering momentum, like a long-jumper who starts out one stride at a time and gradually gains speed before taking the giant leap. I'm only just beginning the run-up to the big leap -- and I don't know how long that run-up may take -- but I do feel that I'm finally on my way to something that feels more authentic, more balanced and more satisfying than the corporate grind.

Bookends

2006-12-28T15:28:00.000-08:00

"Time it was and what a time it was
it was a time of innocence
a time of confidences."

I 'd been having trouble sleeping earlier this week and went to bed relatively early Tuesday night. My almost-15-year-old daughter had her best friend over to spend the night, to patch up a quarrel and just be girls together, with no boys or siblings around for a change.

I slept fitfully and had to get up to let the dog out around 1 am. While waiting for the dog, I discovered the girls asleep in the living room: one stretched out on the couch, and one in the big reading chair with the ottoman pushed against it for the extra length, curled up with comforters, pillows -- and stuffed animals.

Now, I knew my daughter still slept with her bear -- Fuzzy has been part of her bedtime ritual for at least a decade. I thought Hillary's attachment to a "cuddle object" was rooted in the divorce and in missing her dad, looking for some source of comfort. And maybe that's true, despite the disconnect I've sensed for a while now: the "I'm old enough to make my own decisions" but "I need comfort and security to fall asleep" dichotomy.

So I was surprised to see Kayla with a stuffed animal clutched close, too: a fluffy, soft puppy.

Kayla seems to have it all: Her parents are together, she's beautiful (you should see this girl's eyes), smart, popular -- maybe not rich, but certainly not poor, either. Why would she, this girl who seems so "together," need a cuddle object?

In retrospect, I think I may have found the answer before the question.

The fight the girls needed to patch up hinged on taking a stand about what they each believe, what they were ready to stand up for instead of just "going with it." Hillary decided to draw the line in this instance; Kayla went with the group.

What makes me angry is that these girls -- these kids! -- were forced to make a very hard decision. I don't blame Kayla. I understand that she wanted to take the path of least resistance, to not rock the boat. I don't agree with her decision, but I understand it: that was me, at her age. Although I didn't face a decision to hang out with kids getting high, God knows I didn't want to stand out in any way or cause any problems.

I know our kids are supposed to be educated to be "strong," to "just say no" and all the other platitudes that have been peddled by people who are disconnected from the reality that is teenagerhood in this day and age. I know parents are supposed to "keep the lines of communication open," a line that makes me want to scream. (What -- do the "experts" think we tell our kids to only talk about their great grades and nothing else? Do they have a freaking CLUE how secretive these teenagers are, despite our best efforts?)

I didn't sleep with a teddy bear when I was 15, ready to start drivers' ed... but I didn't have to call my sister to come pick me up because some friends were getting high, either. What is the answer here? Or maybe the question should be, what is the problem?

"Long ago it must be
I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They're all that's left you."

Transitions

2006-09-09T18:42:00.000-07:00

Forseeing a change, I've learned, isn't the same as handling it.

My oldest daughter has been "out of the nest," so to speak, for three weeks now. I prepared for this all summer -- or maybe longer. Even so, it feels strange and surreal, like trying to write with my left hand after writing with my right hand since I was 5. It's not that one hand is better than the other; it's a matter of adjustment and ease. Of comfort.

She's doing fine, as I knew she would. She was an independent, fearless child from early on, and I saw nothing that led me to believe that would change now. So why am I wondering why she hasn't called? Why am I feeling disconcerted at not having visibility into the day-to-day detail of her life?

Letting go, apparently, is a skill that has to be learned over time. She knows I'm here if she needs me; why doesn't she need me more?

I know she's not supposed to need me as much now. I know I could even take her lack of "neediness" as a positive sign that I did something right these last 10 years, preparing her for independence. I'm trying to give her the space she needs to figure out who she is right now, to determine the shape these next four years will take for her. Of course, more than anything, I want that shape to be a responsible, healthy, sustainable one, a shape that's rooted in her intellect, her independence, her long-range goals for her life. But I also know that I have to let her make her own mistakes and define those goals, that shape. I may not agree with each decision she makes, but she has to learn to fly solo, even through the bumps and turbulence. I know there will be rough spots. I need to determine how I should manage -- or NOT manage -- those spots.

And then there's my younger daughter, left behind to look at the dust settling after her sister's departure. It's been a difficult transition for her, I think. She feels that she's lost a shoulder, a sympathetic ear. I do my best to be available and listen, but I know it's not the same. How could it be?

There are parts of the high school world I'm no longer privvy to by virtue of being an adult, a parent. There are things I can't understand because they really have changed. And there are things I honestly don't want to hear, because I'm the mom. I want -- I need -- to believe the best about my daughters. But they need a place to be uncensored and honest, too. But that place is no longer totally with me. And that is another transition to deal with.

Lake Lessons

2006-06-30T13:31:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here at the place that inspired the name of this blog, the outer manifestation of my inner deck. I've had three days to disconnect from the day-to-day: to listen to the wind in the aspens, smell the pines, feel the rocks and roots as I hiked, watch the magnificent lake heave and sigh.

The irony is that the permanence of all this -- forest, rocks, lake -- makes me more committed to change in my own life. The steadfastness of this place makes clear how inconsequential most of my daily struggles and decisions really are. This little cottage on the big lake, surrounded by beauty, filled with hand-made art (prints and wood cuts, hand-thrown mugs and plates, custom metalwork on the countertops, a hand-painted table by the window), reminds me that the work I'm doing right now -- nose-to-the-grindstone in a corporate setting -- doesn't feel authentic to me. It feels unnatural and forced, rigid and impersonal.

I'm tired of feeling that the "work me" and the "real me" are two separate entities vying for my time and energy. But what to do with these feelings? I don't have the answers yet, but I need to be realistic. Any changes I make will have to be gradual; I have to think in baby steps. But I need to commit to some small steps and then take them. I need to stop complaining and wringing my hands and actually take some action. The obvious baby step is to commit more of my free time to writing, whether it's these essays, poems, a novel, even recipes. I need to find ways to fuel and exercise my creativity, and I need to put off soul-killing chores and obligations.

And I need to remember that I don't need a perfectly clear vision of where this leads. All I need to see is the next baby step. And when I have trouble focusing or prioritizing where I should spend my time and energy, I can remember the steadfastness of this place, the serenity, the silence -- and be reminded of what is lasting and authentic, as opposed to what is merely noise.

So, as I sit out here on the deck one more time before we leave, it hits me. I'm sad -- crying, in fact -- but it's not because I can't come back here. I can. I did. So why do I feel sad and empty?

The lake, the whole north shore, reminds me that I can be bigger, better than the life I'm going back to. Every year I come back and haven't really changed, haven't taken the steps I need to live life more slowly, more peacefully. Each year I come back and this place reminds me, yet again, that I'm not doing it right. But it keeps taking me back, ever patient, quiet and tranquil, showing me through its steadiness how I can be more like it, the lake itself. Take the long view; don't sweat every little detail. And still I don't learn. I get sucked back in and forget the bigger me this place calls me to. No wonder I'm so deeply sad every time I have to leave.

All the more reason to take those small steps toward authenticity, with the lake and the rocks as my constant reminder. I leave a little lighter this time, with a clearer vision of the task at hand: to take the lake and its lessons home with me.

Life Cycles

2006-06-22T16:53:00.000-07:00

I finally connected with a long-time friend this morning, after several weeks of phone tag and e-mails. I had so much to tell her: things shifting at the job we used to share, milestones with my daughters, updates on plans and, hey, when can we get together for lunch or dinner to really get caught up?

She suprised me by answering her phone on the first ring -- I'd expected voice mail. Before I could even say, "Hey, it's me!" she asked me to hang on, I heard her close her office door, and she said: "I'm dead tired. Are you sitting down?"

Turns out, at the age of 41, after nearly 10 years of trying, giving up, trying again, considering adoption, trying once more and finally resigning themselves to being childless -- she's pregnant. I wanted to ask her two questions that blurred into one: "Are you OK?" by which I meant both "Are you feeling all right?" and "Are you happy about this?" She understood and answered both questions at once: "Yes!"

She described the initial disbelief and then the sheer terror that both she and her husband felt those first few days. I remembered feeling literally weak in the knees the first time I knew I was pregnant (after years of believing that was just a trite expression), and she said she'd felt the same sensation. She said they laughed and cried and prayed and wondered how on earth this could happen after all this time, and shook their heads over how this altered all their "plans" and laughed and cried and prayed some more until all they could do was hold each other in awe and fear and joy.

She and her husband are excited and scared and proud and amazed and realize they've been made party to nothing short of a miracle. But for her, it's tinged with a bit of sadness. Her father will probably not live to see his grandchild.

She hasn't told him yet -- her family will get the baby news over Independence Day weekend -- and she's not sure how he'll take it. She hopes he'll be happy but realizes it could be an emotional blow to his already fragile health to realize what he'll be missing. But she also sees that it could be a beautiful way for him to make peace with his mortality: a legacy in the making, in his daughter's womb. That is my sincere hope. I hope he makes this easy on her when she breaks the news, I hope he celebrates fully and leaves her with no regrets that it didn't or couldn't happen earlier. I hope he is able to be joyful that even as one life ends, another begins. That's the nature of things, for all time. They are all -- father, daughter, and grandchild-to-be -- part of that huge, beautiful, never-ending cycle.

As for me, I've gone around shaking my head and grinning all day at the wonderment of it, trying to picture her at full term, and then with an infant in her arms, or nursing, or toting a baby in and out of a car seat to go to the grocery store for diapers and baby food. I've thought about how their beautiful dog will react (and I have no doubt he will be perfect -- so gentle and protective!), and laughed at how much I know her husband will worry about daycare and school and then little league sports and friends, and what the first job is and college... and I think about how I worried about all those same things. And how I learned that in the end, all that matters is how much you love them and are there -- physically there, looking in their eyes, feeding them, helping with homework, cheering even when they're losing the little league game or don't get accepted to the "perfect" college -- just there for them. They can go to the best schools, eat the best food, read the best books, ride in the best cars and wear the best clothes, but unless the parents are there -- really present in every moment -- it doesn't matter. And it all passes by so incredibly quickly.

I wish I'd known that starting out. There's so much to worry about when a baby is on the way that it feels overwhelming. Learning to pick and choose your worries at this stage is good practice for the next two decades. But since every child and every parenting experience is different, all I can do is listen and offer advice when asked and let these two new parents make their own mistakes -- and their own beautiful discoveries. And if the new child happens to be a boy, a name is waiting, ready-made.

Heat Day

2006-05-28T17:38:00.000-07:00

I've thought many times in the years since I returned to the Frozen North that snow days are a gift: a way of forcing everyone affected to stay home and bake cookies with the kids, play cards, put together a puzzle, and if the storm moves off quickly enough, get outside in fresh snow together and walk, shovel, ski or just clear the driveway. A snow day has a wonderful way of shortening a to-do list.

So as the temperatures here today approached 100, why am I thinking of snow days? It seems to me that maybe there's a seasonal opposite, a "heat day" of sorts. And too often, because we have the priviledge of artificially tampering with the temperature via air conditioning, we miss the opportunity to take advantage of these ultra-hot summer days.

I was forced to shorten my list today because of the heat -- and because yesterday my air conditioner decided to go on strike. Apparently I'm in good company, because the repair people can't make it here until Wednesday. As a result I've had to remember how to live the way my family used to when I was a child, the way generations did before air conditioning became ubiquitous.

That means I was up early to open windows and let the house cool down as much as possible. I was done with anything in the kitchen involving heat by 8 am. I was done with yardwork before 10. I had run my only errand by 11. And by 1 pm, I was napping on the couch.

Plans to bike, bake a rhubarb pie, trim tree branches and dig weeds melted. I let myself eat ice cream before dinner to cool off a bit. (Besides, my appetite is lousy when I'm too warm. Maybe warm weather is a natural means of weight control, as well...)

Because my house is too warm to sit in, I've been out in my backyard for a couple hours in the breeze reading, writing and listening to my wind chimes. I started the sprinkler a while ago and have made a pair of cardinals in my apple tree very happy with the free shower. They're lovely to watch, such bright red peeking out from the green leaves, and wonderful to hear, too. Earlier I saw a yellow female oriole -- mostly just because I had time to look.

Yes, I know falling asleep in such a warm house may be difficult -- thank heaven for basements that stay cool. But I have to think there's a purpose in this, a message I'm supposed to hear about slowing down and letting the season do its thing without any artificial contrivances like air conditioning.

Focus

2006-05-16T11:27:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling pulled in two directions lately -- not in the sense of being unable to make a decision and move forward, but in the sense of where I focus: in the past or in the future. It's a balancing act I didn't anticipate.

I'm generally a forward-focused person: learn what you can from the past, then leave it behind and keep moving. There's always something around the next bend, even when you can't see it clearly. But with all the transitions my daughters and I will see in the next few months, it feels like it's time to take a few... days? weeks?... to sit back and look at the changes, growth, challenges, the highs and lows of the past 11 years and take stock.

Some of the transitions we're facing are well-defined: a high school graduation and the start of a college career; another high school trek beginning; the end of the school year and a shift to summer schedules and attiudes. Other transitions feel less tangible, but still urgent: re-examining my life and career goals, establishing new routines and priorities to meet those goals; assessing one daughter's emotional health and progress, and making sure her first, crucial year of high school is smooth and productive; making sure the other daughter has what she needs, physically and emotionally, to launch into the early adult portion of her life.

For me, usually these kinds of introspective transitions happen more in the fall, but this year, the added daylight and the warmth seem to be opening up things in my mind that are begging to be fully explored and mapped. For my own goals I want a future focus, and I've even set aside time -- actual vacation days! -- to map out my thoughts. I've decided there should be no boundaries at this point -- dream big. Maybe I shouldn't be so invested in my day job. Maybe I should place more emphasis on eating well, on spending my time and energy in ways that have a bigger pay-off. Maybe I should re-prioritize and let the yardwork go and set a deadline for finishing the outline of that novel. Maybe, as my daughters reach these milestones of increasing importance, it's hitting me that I'm at a very different stage of my life -- but it's still a stage that is crying out for some visualization and planning. In that sense, my girls and I are in similar circumstances.

As I've looked at all of my "top priorities" over the past several days (how many of those can one person have at a time?), I've sometimes felt scattered and frozen. But I'm discovering that as questions and dreams have danced around in my head over the past few weeks, the weak ones fall away and only the strongest few continue to take shape. I'm learning that maybe focus isn't so much an effort of will as it is the art of learning patience.

Better late than never

2006-03-12T18:32:00.000-08:00

I just finished a wonderful, inspiring book I should have read years ago. I'd heard of it and read passages from it, but never bought it and read it cover to cover. Now all I can ask is, what took me so long?

It's called "If You Want to Write," by Brenda Ueland, originally published in 1938. She was a local author who taught people from all walks of life, not only university students. In fact, she uses writing samples from her students to back up her basic premise that "everyone is talented, original and has something important to say." Her style is direct, refreshing and practical -- and she emphasizes that her points apply not just to writing, but to any creative endeavor: painting, sculpting, weaving, cooking... any craft undertaken out of love.

Many of her points are not new to me, but for some reason, her articulation of these points hits me harder than anything I've read before. For example, pretty much all writers have heard the instruction to "write what you know." So we examine ourselves for years and think we don't really know anything and allow self-doubt to silence us. Ueland, on the other hand, says not to write what you know but to write what you love, what you are willing to bear witness to. I know others like Natalie Goldberg and Julia Cameron have dispensed much the same advice, but somehow it gets lost in step-by-step directives (especially with Cameron). Ueland says to simply tell the truth, boldly and freely, about whatever it is you're observing, and it cannot help but come alive for your reader. It's when writers try to be "writerly" (her word...haven't checked that in the dictionary yet) that we stumble and become false and dead.

What really sold me on this book was a quick glance through the table of contents. A chapter titled, "Why Women who do too much housework should neglect it for their writing" made the decision for me. Imagine in 1938 exhorting women to neglect their homes and focus on their creative lives! She was a feminist long before there was any movement to back her up. Listen: "They [women who devote themselves to family alone] sense that if you are always doing something for others, like a servant or a nurse, and never anything for yourself, you cannot do others any good. You make them physically comfortable. But you cannot affect them spiritually in any way at all. For to teach, encourage, cheer up, console, amuse, stimulate or advise a husband or children or friends, you have to be something yourself. And how to be something yourself? Only by working hard and with gumption at something you love and care for and think is important."

She foreshadowed Betty Friedan's "problem that has no name" by a generation. Too few people have tapped-in to this remarkable wisdom.

The woman was amazing. She grew up here, spent many years in New York socializing with people like Eugene O'Neill, then returned to Minnesota to teach, edit and write and stayed very active, setting international swimming records when she was over 80. She was knighted by the King of Norway and lived till she was 93 (in 1985).

If she is an example of "the writing life," I want it. I want the confidence to not care what anyone else thinks, I want the independence to spend my time and energy as I see fit, I want the solitude to reflect and articulate my thoughts. I want the wisdom to sort through my experiences and determine what it is I love enough to bear witness to, unflinchingly and faithfully, so I can spark something in a reader somewhere, that will leave a mark, make a change.

Balancing Act

2006-02-25T18:11:00.000-08:00

This past week was better than it's been in a while... What do I mean by that? I mean that for the first time in several months, I did a better job of balancing obligations to work and home and self. The trick will be to keep the momentum going.

It didn't just "happen." I had to reach a point where I'd had enough, where I felt a deep, compelling need to disconnect from work, to not let it creep into my thoughts when it shouldn't and certainly to refuse to try to accomplish anything over the weekend. It can be difficult in my company's culture (or maybe it's really only isolated to my work group) to draw the line between being a dedicated, consciencious employee, always available and willing to help clients, and backing off enough to let my mind refresh. Between late last year and last weekend, that line was blurred too often.

So last weekend I drew the line: I simply didn't bring work files home. I had background reading I could have done, e-mails I could have responded to, and instead went to an all-day school function for my daughter. Talk about a total disconnect from work. It was great. (If you've never seen a show choir competition, and if such a program exists at your local high school, GO. It's probably the most fun you'll have being sober AND rowdy.)

My point is that I had to make a decision to back away from work. The effort I was putting in wasn't yielding proportional benefits. And this week, after backing off, taking weekend time competely away, and paying attention to my physical and mental well-being, everything seemed easier, calmer, more focused. I've had energy to write, to exercise, to pay attention to the girls, to read, to create, to think. Wow. What a concept.

I always have to fight the tendency to hedge these kinds of observations: just because I'm trying to balance my life doesn't mean I'm not a devoted worker or that I'm not interested in being challenged or growing professionally. Ironically, a greater degree of balance leaves me more energy to take on additional challenges and projects. Why can't employers see this?

Why do we drive ourselves ("we" being Americans in general) working 50+ hours a week, with minimal vacation or leave time? (Maybe the more appropriate question is: Why do we allow ourselves to be driven this way?) Why do we have less paid vacation every year than any other industrialized nation? Why do we put our workers through the proverbial wringer? Aren't we better than this? Don't we see the harm we do by pushing so hard -- or conversely, doesn't any corporate leadership see the benefits we could reap by giving people time to think, to relax, to have a life outside work? Doesn't everyone work better when they're rested and energized?

There are so many issues that go along with this...so many more essays. A couple that come to mind include the delusion that "balance" is something achieved once and for all. Bullshit. Balance is a constant struggle: some weeks you win, some weeks you don't. Just because I had a good week this week doesn't mean I've got it nailed. Anyone who makes you feel incompetent because it takes time to wrestle the issue to the ground isn't dealing with the real world.

Another issue is the inequality that still exists regarding work in the home: most women still have a full-time job at home in addition to the work they do outside the home. A book I've been re-reading, first published 10 years ago, still seems relevant on this point. The author contends this is not a gender issue, it's not a "men vs. women" thing. She says what's really out of whack is employers' expectations: "powerful" jobs, those with high salaries, high social standing, high potential, tacitly require a second person (typically a woman) to keep the home base functioning. She contends that most often, conflicts about work don't arise because of differences of opinion about gender roles, but because employers' demands demean family life and obligations, which hurts both men and women. We all lose when there's no balance.

But that's a separate essay, and I still need to finish re-reading the book ("Unbending Gender: Why Work and Family Conflict and What to Do About It," by Joan Williams). For now, all I can say is that pulling back and looking at my life and my priorities in a more holistic manner has made the past week less stressful and more enjoyable. After all, it's just a job, right? It's NOT my whole life. Here's hoping I can take this lesson forward into the coming week.

Thank you, Betty

2006-02-04T18:38:00.000-08:00

I had intended to write about something totally different before I saw the headlines that Betty Friedan died today. I feel a need to pay tribute.

I grew up seeing and hearing about the feminist (0r "women's liberation") movement, but not fully understanding its implications -- I was too young and too unaware of what was at stake. It's so ironic. The battles Betty and Gloria and Bella and all those foremothers fought seemed so theoretical at the time, as if they had no bearing on my life (or my daughters' lives -- of course, my daughters were less than a twinkle in anyone's eye at that point...my God, I could never even have imagined I would someday have sex, much less bear a child, when these women were in the public eye.) I remember people asking me, "Are you a women's libber?" And I remember responding, "I'm educated. I don't have anything to be liberated from." How naive.

But in my late twenties and into my thirties, I found plenty I needed to be liberated from in my life and in my marriages. I struggled on a day-to-day, practical basis, with questions about the limits of my autonomy, my right to my own feelings, my economic independence. The harsh reality, even after women had "won" equality (although even that's debatable since we still have no Constitutional guarantee of equal rights), is that very often, these battles are won or lost on an individual basis. And the cost can sometimes simply be too much. A woman who wants her own checking account but has to put up with physical or verbal abuse to get one has to be able to set her own priorities and boundaries.

But the fact that these battles are so personal underscores the need, I think, to continue to emphasize economic independence for women, which generally flows from having an educational basis and professional experience to fall back on. No woman should ever rely on anyone but herself when it comes down to the nitty gritty or raising children or paying the rent, because it's very possible that no one else will be there for you. Don't expect anyone to take care of you. Don't let yourself be that vulnerable, because even in this "enlightened" age, you can get trampeled. Badly. (OK, a disclaimer here: My intent is not to male-bash, but simply a cautionary note that getting an MRS degree is not a guarantee of anything.)

When I first read "The Feminine Mystique," I remember thinking that if I had read it when I was too young, I'd have dismissed so much of what Friedan wrote as irrelevant to my life, either as it was or as I assumed it would be. When I did finally read it in my late twenties, I was at a point in my first marriage when I was questioning social expectations of gender and marriage roles, and it resonated with me -- powerfully; maybe more than it should have in the late 19080s. Weren't we DONE with these issues by then?

Are we done with them now? I don't think so, especially after this week's confirmation of Samuel Alito. I fear for my daughters' rights to control their own bodies during their reproductive years -- something I took for granted during mine, thanks to Friedan and the movement she launched. Who are the leaders now who will assure that my daughters have access to contraceptives and choice? Who will be the voice who says it's OK to have a vision for your life that doesn't include husband and/or children, even if it's not what everyone else thinks a woman should want? Who will tell young women that it's good -- no, it's GREAT -- to blaze your own trail instead of following in the footsteps of previous generations?

Betty Friedan was a trailblazer. So was Simone de Beauvoir. So is Gloria Steinem, so is Gerda Lerner (read her books "The Creation of Patriarchy" and "The Creation of Feminine Consciousness"). All women need to understand our history, how we came to be where we are -- from an historical perspective, not from a "religious" or political perspective. We still get too much information that is skewed and inaccurate. Create your own women's studies course. Now. (Don't worry about what anyone else says or thinks, as I did when I was younger. "Women's studies" was codespeak for "lesbian," especially in the part of the country where I went to college.) Find your roots and then stay true to them. Be who you are meant to be -- nothing less.

Paradise Lost

2006-01-22T17:11:00.000-08:00

A brief conversation with my oldest daughter (a high school senior) this afternoon has left me with so much churning in my mind that the only way for me to try to make sense of it is to write through it.

She told me about a classmate, a boy she knows not closely, but well enough. He did something stupid last weekend and the consequences are heartbreaking.

I know everyone one has stories from their own high school experience -- or their childrens' experience -- that run parallel to this one: drugs, alcohol, a car accident, a daredevil act, and that child's entire future is dashed in an instant. Gone. Everything worked toward, hoped for, sacrificed for, guided toward...just vanished.

This young man was a class leader -- ranked in the top 10 of a class of about 450 in a high school known for its academic rigor. He was not stupid. He was not unaware. He gambled -- and lost.

He came out of a 3- or 4-day coma yesterday; brain damage is substantial -- his mental skills are at about a six-year-old's level. What a harsh reality to have to adjust to when, less than 10 days ago, this young man had a bright college career just a few months away. My heart breaks for him, for his parents and siblings, his grandparents, aunts, uncles, his teachers...everyone who saw his potential and helped nurture it.

What strikes me after several hours isn't the "he should have known better what risk he was taking" diatribe (although he SHOULD have known better). What I'm wrestling with is the thin line we all walk every day. The moment-by-moment decisions we all make that could be life-altering: Will that car really stop for the red light? Is my child safe at that friend's house? Should I allow her to go on that ski club trip or that tour with the choir?

It's that fine line we all walk between living fearfully and living faithfully. Hearing news of this young man brought that line into focus for me for today. I know risk is an everyday part of life and I've struggled with letting my children pursue opportunities versus "sheltering" them from the unknown...and I have come down solidly on the side of opportunity.

But I'm older and have more life experience to help guide my judgments. Our adolescents face these same moment-by-moment, life-and-death decisions, and too often they aren't adequately prepared to handle them. How could he have taken that drug? How could he NOT have understood the enormous risk? I know, the adolescent mind thinks it's invincible; the frontal lobe isn't fully developed, yadda, yadda. How did we survive as a species for so long?

It also occurred to me that maybe this is the origin of organized religion: parents needing to exchange prayers of hope and consolation for the risks their children faced eons ago. Maybe early religion was a support group for parents dealing with their fears and hopes, risks and opportunities.

Funny how something like this throws my emotional state back to such a primal level. But maybe that's the point: At the root of everything, as parents all we want is for our children to survive and be healthy and fulfill something close to their potential. Make the Varsity team? It really doesn't matter: you're healthy and whole and still able to strive. Lots of scholarship offers from colleges? It's OK...you're smart and have all the essential tools you need to find the path to your vocation.

Let's stop worrying about adding one more point to those ACT scores or getting you behind the wheel of an SUV before you're 18 or buying that Coach purse for your next birthday. Let's start focusing more on the fundamentals: I love you, I believe in you, I trust that you are learning to make solid decisions -- and in the meantime, I'm here anytime you need support or advice... or a good butt-kicking. Because I understand the peril you're in better than you do, and it's my job to protect you -- from yourself.

Time travel

2006-01-21T17:22:00.000-08:00

I've been on something of a cleaning binge since the new year began, and I like it -- not necessarily the process of cleaning, but having a clean house, relatively de-cluttered, dusted and not too much dog hair.

Today, in the process of cleaning and minor furniture moving, I opened my cedar chest for the first time in at least a year. It's a nice cedar chest; I 've owned it for probably 20 years and use it to keep some precious baby clothes, a quilt that will be handed down to my daughter, a Christmas quilt my sister made and a few other odds and ends. I had forgotten that somewhere along the way, I'd tossed an old briefcase in there. I had to open it to remember what I'd stashed inside.

Sure enough, there were several of my old journals. Now, I've been journaling since junior high so I've had time to amass a pretty impressive collection. I looked through a few pages of the journal I was required to keep for 9th grade English, and found a note from my teacher that was quite touching: "I want to hear from you in the future...it matters to me what happens to you. Is is silly for a teacher to feel that way?" Mrs. Corn was her name, and all afternoon I've been wondering if she's still alive. But even if she isn't, her words touched me, and made me wonder: how many of my daughters' teachers would be brave enough to write something so emotional and honest to either of them in this day and age? The power of the pen to reach across years, maybe even through death, and spark an emotion -- gratitude, amazement, admiration -- still stuns me.

Then I opened another journal, and had to shut my bedroom door for a few minutes to be alone. Reading several passages from 11 years ago brought memories flooding back. Not that they've ever faded entirely -- I doubt that will ever happen. But the detail is what struck me today: How my ex's outbursts affected me every day, practially every waking hour. How his moods affected my mood and my ability to be a good mom. How I braced for the really bad ones days in advance, how I developed a shorthand for the things going on: "a big outburst about the usual," or "he drove it off."

I was struck by the tightness of my handwriting, how it looked small and closed and cautious, as if it was trying to be secretive on the page. A few pages later, there was an entry from a time when he was traveling for work, gone for four days -- and my handwriting loosened, became freer. I was surprised at the anger I expressed at the joy and energy he drained from me -- but then remembered that setting aside that anger was a conscious decision I had to make after it was all over to keep from becoming the same as he was (maybe still is).

I didn't have the time or the privacy to go through those notebooks for as long as I'd have liked, so maybe some evening or some cold, cloudy Sunday when the girls are occupied or out of the house I'll pull them out and do a little time travel to see what I can glean from the pain I poured onto those pages during that horrific time. And maybe I'll pull out the journals from happier, less complicated times as well. But for now, they'll stay in the cedar chest, under lock and key. And I'm not telling where the key is.

Lost

2006-01-07T18:28:00.000-08:00

I was raised Catholic. In fact, during junior and senior high school, I was heavily involved in many church activities, including a youth group that did community service and planned a mass each week as well as two music groups. There was one neighbor who, I think, was truly surprised when I married after college instead of going into a convent.

Over the past 8 or 9 years, I've struggled with the role of organized religion in my life. I've felt abandoned by the institution of The Church, and yet retained my belief in the need for a relationship with a higher power (0r God, or The Divine, or whatever -- the name seems irrelvant at this point). I've shaken my head in sorrow as I've read articles about edicts from the Pope: that pedophile priests are "better" than homosexuals or divorcees because, at least, they're repentant. About the fact that gays and lesbians are "unfit" to minister to the needs of a parish. About how birth control is a threat to the family.

If my local parish had merely been an echo of the Vatican, stopping attendance would have been easy. But one reason I struggled with leaving the church was the pastor of the parish I attended: Father Mike Tegeder. More than once, his sermons and his clear disagreement with "official" church doctrine amazed me.

I remember two instances in particular. First was an incredibly emotional sermon he delivered after the murder of Matthew Shepard, the young gay man in Wyoming. He spoke about fear and hate and tolerance and what Christ would have done. He cried shamelessly in front of the entire congregation as he tried to express his sorrow, frustration and anger, his hope for change, and called for compassion for ALL people.

Another sermon I recall was during the annual appeal for parishoners' time and talent (and of course, money). The local bishop had issued a statement trying to justify the church's rationale for limiting the role of women in the liturgy (ie, trying to explain why women can't be deaconesses). Fr. Mike opposed that statement -- politely and respectfully, of course -- but clearly, saying that the church really couldn't afford to refuse anyone's gifts regardless of gender, income, age, orientation or any other label. During the years I attended his church, Fr. Mike embodied the dictionary definition of the word "catholic," in my opinion, as well as other words like "courageous," "moral" and "strong." In fact, I've wondered more than once if his outspokeness might not cost him his post at the parish.

So I was heartened this morning to read an op-ed piece with his name and title, showing that he is still the pastor at St. Ed's. He hasn't lost his job, and he's still speaking out very publicly when he feels his church has gone astray. And clearly, right now, he feels it has.

Apparently here in Minnesota, the bishops have deemed it necessary to join forces with other "religious" organizations (I use quotes because I don't believe these groups have the slightest grounding in moral or religious teachings) to organize a postcard campaign to state legislators to force a constitutional amendment onto the November ballot to "protect" marriage by defining it as only a bond between a man and a woman. Fr. Mike did a masterful job of pointing out the hypocrisy of the bishops' viewpoint: if same-sex marriage is such a threat to the institution, then are they also going to push for amendments to restrict artificial birth control and divorce? As Fr. Mike pointed out, these two issues are far more threatening, by virtue of their pervasiveness and general societal acceptance, than the same-sex marriage issue. So to be consistent, it really should be all or nothing, right?

Right. They know full well that there's too much money to be lost if the bishops take a stand like that. After all, if families have 5 or 9 or 12 children and only one income, where do you suppose the money will go ? Groceries and shoes and saving for college tuition, or to the church? The truth hurts. (Or it will set you free, depending on your perspective, I suppose.)

Once again, Fr. Mike speaks out as someone who "gets" Christianity more completely than the so-called religious leaders; as someone who listens to the teachings of Jesus and actually tries to live them. Don't get me wrong: the man doesn't walk on water, I'm sure. He'd probably be the last one to claim such a thing. But I admire the fact that he has the courage of his convictions and speaks to the powers that be for a host of us who no longer care enough to get involved. God bless him for that.

I can't help but think that if there were a lot more Fr. Mikes in the world, I might still be able to be a Catholic.

New to the neighborhood

2005-12-28T14:46:00.000-08:00

I was finally cajoled into doing this by a friend who's been sending me the links to his posts for a year now. It's not that I'm averse to writing -- quite the opposite. I write as a major part of my job, I journal, I take writing classes when I can, and I'm even trying to lay the foundation for a novel ... someday.

So why did I hesitate? I'd written essays for a friend's website four or five years ago, and although I'd curse the (infrequent) deadlines, I tremendously enjoyed diving into a different topic every few weeks. But blogging seemed so... I don't know -- risky? controversial? labor-intensive? out of character?

Maybe all of the above, but here I am anyway. I make no guarantees about being able to post my thoughts on anything even approaching a schedule, and I also make no guarantee to be enlightening or even entertaining. This is simply an outlet for the occasional insights or questions that arise in the course of the day-to-day routine with the hope that I might spark some insights or questions -- or even conversation -- through my writing.