As my inbox fills with assorted reminders of Cyber Monday, it's hard not to get caught up in it all--the feeling that if I don't act right now, I'll be missing something, the sense of opportunity passing me by. It is an effectively created frenzy. I am quite sure that the gifts I wait a week to buy will be just as good (and in many cases, just as cheap), but it is hard not to buy into the feeling that I must do it tomorrow or I will be out of luck.
Frenzy is not a good thing for me on a Sunday night. Even as a freelancer for whom these days, Sunday isn't always the end of my weekend, I have enough frenzy on Sunday. There is homework to be packed, there is a routine to resume, and there are deadlines to meet. The last thing I really need, on this or any day, is a little more manufactured frenzy.
One could argue that we thrive on frenzy--that the things that get done get done more reliably when there is frenzy behind them. One could argue that frenzy, not calm, keeps life interesting--keeps us always guessing, always reaching to catch up with the next big thing.
I'm all for keeping up and reaching higher. As for frenzy, I'd like to think I can do better--better than jumping through the next hoop, better than getting caught up in all the hype. So, while I may not blindly delete every Cyber Monday email, I won't be spending my whole tomorrow frantically online for the next bargain or the rest of my tomorrows on line frantically looking for the next big thing. There's nothing wrong with a little excitement, but when excitement turns into frenzy, it's time to take a step back--so that maybe we can actually take a step forward.
Sometimes, it feels as if there's so much running and chasing and searching for and going after. And then, every so often, there's a time when the weather or your location or your current circumstances say you can't run right now. You can't chase today. You have to pause from your search and take a break from the going after. You just have to be still.
It is in the still that we discover we can do a lot with a little. It is in the still that we find new ways to think and different ways to spend our time. It is in the still that we realize stopping can be as important as going. It is in the still that when we look, we really see.
There will be time for running tomorrow. There will be need for searching and chasing and going after before we know it. For just a moment, we may as well enjoy the still.
At the end of a long and less than productive day, I come upon Dr. Seuss. No matter how many kids' books people unload over the years, Dr. Seuss tends to remain. Somehow, it is sentimental, or relevant, or entertaining, or all of the above, no matter what your age.
This particular one is Oh, The Places You'll Go!, a Seuss almost meant for grownups, or those on the cusp of grownuphood. As I read it aloud (because who wouldn't read Seuss aloud?), I am struck on each page by how relevant it is--to my kids, of varying ages and stages of life, and to me, now, as much as it was when I was when graduating or starting work or being out of work. It jumps right to the fear we all experience. It rather fearlessly reminds us, the readers, that we are stronger and more resourceful than we seem (or realize). Entirely in rhyme, it grants us being overwhelmed by the most terrible of things, and then reminds us that there are paths out of just about everything.
On a daily basis, we are much more often reading fiction or non-fiction or self-help or the newspaper to figure out our world and our place in it. Sometimes, we succeed in our figuring. For me, just ten minutes with Seuss opened my eyes in ways those other things often haven't. Seuss may not have given me the steps to take, but it certainly made me feel strong enough to look for the steps. And sometimes, at the end of a long and not very productive day, a little Seuss strength is a powerful thing.
We gather around a full and festive table, prepared to eat more than we should. We've come from different directions, both geographical and psychological, since last we met. There is catching up to do in between the feasting. Will we feel under- or over-accomplished since last year? Will our stories be ones we are excited to tell, or ones we'd rather leave at the door or sweep under the rug with the pie crust crumbs?
I am always struck by how holidays can be both a break from our day-to-day good and bad and a time to examine all that good and bad more closely while catching new people up on the stories. While I might refrain from dwelling on the mundane, I tend to welcome the different perspectives that the holiday table has to offer. Though I may hold back on sharing absolutely everything, I can't help wanting to welcome some new opinions and learn a little from the other people's experiences of the past year. When I think about what I am thankful for, it may include all the yummy treats on the table. More often, however, I am grateful for the opportunity to escape to a new set of viewpoints. Maybe they make sense, maybe they don't. Either way, they have me leaving the table with not just a stomach full of food, but with a mind full of good ideas to ponder for the future. And that is worthwhile, whether it's over stuffing and sweet potatoes or over tea and toast.
It is just a few hour drive. It does not involve catching a train or checking in for a plane. There's no snow gear or sun gear. Just some small bags of clean clothes, our Thanksgiving feast contribution, and electronic devices at a rate of almost two per person. Simple. And, to my amazement, executed fairly simply.
Yet, for something so simple, it accomplishes a few things that are not so simple on a day to day basis--
1. We work together. We may each be packing a separate bag, but we have to coordinate, at least a little, to make sure all the bases are covered. We carry together, we load the car together, and once in a while, we even remember forgotten things for each other.
2. We plan ahead. Okay, it's really just a few days ahead, and we're not going to Mars, but traveling does require a little more planning than the flying by the seats of our pants that we do on a daily basis.
3. (And perhaps this is most important) We escape. While our bags may be full of schoolwork and work work, and while our devices connect us with pretty much everything we are leaving, as we drive away, we leave the every day of our every day. For a few days, we will be in a different place, and at least a little, in a different frame of mind. And sometimes that is exactly what a travel day is all about...
Earlier today, a friend posted a link to an article about gratitude. As I
read it, I thought both about this blog, which quite often comes around
to gratitude, and about my day to day life, which comes around to
gratitude not nearly as often. It is, perhaps, easy to be grateful that
we are not facing the dire medical issues or personal losses that we see
friends go through. It is, perhaps, easy to be grateful for a regular
paycheck or healthy children. But what of the things and people all day
who turn what could be the rough patches of our days into the smallest
of bumps in the road--
The tech help desk associate, who doesn't charge for advice and doesn't
judge people based on their degree of knowledge or possession of technology.
The co-worker who talks you over the wall of fatigue on the overnight shift.
The friend who, happening to be up late, remembers that you too will be up, and will be happy to read her email.
The computer program that reaches one hundred percent just as you think you will never make it past eighty.
The neighbor, randomly encountered, who unwittingly provides much-needed perspective.
The long-forgotten skill that suddenly comes in handy.
The long-hidden kitchen ingredient that suddenly helps make a great meal.
The scrubby side of the sponge, which makes washing pots and pans a blip rather than a task.
The fuzzy socks that are in the wrong enough place to be found just when your icy feet need them.
Sometimes, it's the little things that make up our thanks-giving feast...
Some days, no amount of sleep makes up for the sleep lost.
Some days, no number of hours doing homework gets the homework done.
Some days, no matter how quickly you walk forward, you still find yourself moving back.
Some days, for every "to do list" item that is crossed off, there are two more added.
Some days, success lasts seconds and failure seems to hang on for hours.
Some days, neat is fleeting, but messy grabs hold and won't let go.
Some days, you wish you could just skip to tomorrow, but you know you're not ready.
Some days, no matter how much you try, there's just no catching up...
I understand getting caught up in your work, because I've been there.
I understand trying to please everyone (and sometimes pleasing no one), because I've been there.
I understand giving your all and it not being enough, because I've been there.
I understand not knowing quite what they want, because I've been there.
I understand wondering if things will ever turn around, because I've been there.
I understand hanging on tight in the hope that it will make a difference, because I've been there.
I understand guessing right and guessing wrong, because I've been there.
It's not that I've been everywhere. It's just that I have been enough places, and have remained close enough to where I've been to understand. Because...
The bus bumps up and down. It is fairly comfortable, quiet, easy. But truthfully, I think it wouldn't much matter what it was. I'm just glad to be on it.
It is a long-ish trip for this college visit/audition. It is a journey without a definitive result. It is just part of a process. But now, after days and months and overnights full of research and practical and emotional preparation and agonizing anticipation, we are on the bus.
I suppose it's not all that surprising that I'm glad to be on the bus--I have always enjoyed the being "in the trench" far more than the planning "for the trench." I am almost always happier doing than anticipating, happier moving forward than moving in circles. The assignment of a school project may rattle me, but the process of doing the project excites me. The months of limbo before One Life finished were wearying, but at least the end let us move forward. The anticipation of new work dizzies me, but the actual doing of new work exhilarates me.
So, just like anything new, anything with stakes, the process of applying to college is a little daunting, a little overwhelming, a little scary. But for the moment, at least for me, it is a little better. Because I am really glad to be on the bus.
As I listen to my daughter's introduction of herself in her college
audition videos, I can't help but be reminded of the introduction she so
effectively learned when taking karate. I don't imagine that either her
love of performing or her confidence in presenting herself began there,
but it probably didn't hurt to voice that introduction over and over
before presenting in a karate class or at a large tournament.
As I continue to watch, I see how much of life in general goes into her
performance. It's hard not to see signs of the triumphs of her young
life and of the difficulties she has faced along the way. It's hard not
to see hope--hope for a positive outcome, hope for success, hope for the
future.
When I applied to college, the life and the confidence (was I confident?)
and the hope were all poured into pieces of paper--typed essays and
filled out forms and lists of school activities and accomplishments.
While I may have had some interviews, I largely relied on what the
papers and the numbers and the teachers said about me, and I largely hoped that
was enough.
I listen to my daughter's introduction of herself in her college videos,
and I am glad that in so many ways, she is way more confident than I
was. Because these days, in college admissions and in life, the pieces
of paper and the hope aren't always enough. So, if you can start with a
strong introduction of yourself (in karate, in person, or on tape),
perhaps you're already a few steps ahead of the game.
After years of wishing there were more than 24 hours in a day, so that I
might have a fighting chance of doing everything that needs doing, I am
convinced that today actually had at least 25 hours. By the evening, it
felt as though the foot exercises I'd done in the morning had been
yesterday, so that I needed to do more. By the afternoon, I couldn't
quite believe that all the receipts had the same date on them. Somehow, I
had been uptown and downtown and partly across town all in the same
day, and had transported a kid to and from school to boot. And in the
midst of it all, I had written a proposal and cooked a lasagna.
I am not writing this litany to pat myself on the back for how much I
accomplished (though it is good sometimes to remind ourselves how
productive we really are). Rather, I am writing it because today I had
the realization that, while there can't really be extra hours in a day,
there can be enough hours to do an awful lot--and be a lot of different
versions of ourselves--if we keep our eyes, and ears, and minds open. We
can go through each day with a goal, or two, and be happy when we
accomplish those one or two things. Or we can start each day open to all
the things we might do, and then just try to keep at it as we make our
way through them all. It's not that we won't run out of time in a day.
It's just that we might see the day as a lot longer if we are open to
using it in creative ways.
It is quite possible that many days will feel far more like 12 hours
than like 25. It is likely that the challenge of stretching time will be
an unending one. But if one day out of many can feel as though it has
25 hours, just think about all the extra time we have...
Tonight, I was reminded that four years ago, we shot the last scenes of
One Life to Live on West 66th Street. While the rest of my day, I'll
admit, had been full of all kinds of things unrelated to that
anniversary of sorts, when I was reminded, it took me no time flat to be
transported to that day and place, and all the feelings from four years
ago. I remembered the speeches, and the hugs from unlikely coworkers,
the sudden sinking feeling that it was real, and the hollowness of
walking out of a studio that was full and alive for the very last time. I
remember being scheduled as the booth AD for that day, because I loved
being there, in the thick of things. I remember trying to capture it
all, and staying just a little longer, so it wouldn't actually be over.
It is clear from the Facebook posts that we all, in one way or another,
have moved on over the last four years. But it is also clear that the
feelings I have about being reminded of the anniversary are far from
mine alone. No matter where we each have ended up, geographically, or
professionally, or psychologically, we all still share the bond of that
day, and of the days and weeks and years that led up to that day.
So on this anniversary of sorts, I am melancholy for what may no longer
be, but even more, I am immensely grateful for what was, and for the
people who remind me of everything we shared.
As I approached my assigned waiting station, there was clear evidence
that some people had camped there all night. There were empty coffee
cups, and rotting banana peels, and scattered napkins. People had been
here a while, and once the door opened for them, they hadn't much
bothered to clean up after themselves.
I was late to the party--so late, in fact, that a few minutes would have
made the difference between acquiring the book that my daughter was so
eager to get, and the wristband that would allow her inside to meet the
authors themselves. I was on line behind people in costume, and people
who'd driven hours to get here. And when it comes right down to it, I
was on line to do something for my daughter. And I was on line because
my odd work schedule afforded me the possibility.
As I waited, I thought about how, in a world where I and people I know
have tried--often unsuccessfully--to monetize creativity and great
ideas, people are managing to do it all the time. One look at the
YouTube history in my house reveals gamers and box-openers and crafters
and comedians, each of whom has created a niche where his or her content
is not just viewed, but discussed, and, in some cases, sponsored by
commercials or interested companies, or, as in the case of the
line-worthy people of today, a book deal. I could view it all as part of
the reason that big-budget soaps, and the jobs that go along with them,
have largely disappeared. And, on some level, I would be right. But I
can also think of it as a reminder that it doesn't have to cost a lot
to be creative. You don't always have to rent a studio to produce your
work, or a large crew to help you make it. Which may not bode well for
my job prospects, but bodes very well for the possibility of some really
creative stuff getting out there.
Because of my time on line (and her time on line later on), my daughter
got to see some people who entertain her and who have carved out a space
for their creative endeavors. A reminder that, while the rules and the
patterns may have changed, we each still have a chance of being not
washed up yet.
Today, on the daylight end of an overnight at work, I had coffee with an
old friend. We'd kind of grown up in soaps together--only rarely on the
same show, but connected throughout the years nonetheless. She
apologized for keeping me from the nap she could see I desperately
needed, to which I replied that the nap would come (and she'd know when
as soon as I wasn't making much sense any more!). And so it was that for
an hour, we recalled old times and discussed what new times meant for
people with our history. We caught up on the children who were just
infants in our soap days. We remembered old colleagues and did a little
"where are they now?" And we shared thoughts of "where do we go from
here," an inevitable question in the changing world of New York
production.
When the hour was up (and it was very clearly time for my nap), I walked
away with the warm feeling of having reconnected with a friend, a past, a
former self. I walked away with the inspiration of seeing how someone
else had handled some of the same challenges in different ways. And I
walked away with new burst of energy for my next few days, months, and
years.
Perhaps, because of the time spent and the sugar consumed (I do try to
avoid actual caffeine pre-nap), I ended up with less sleep than I
needed. But I came away with much more. Re-connection can be an
eye-opening thing...
I don't fly often. But I have traveled enough in my lifetime to have the
airline safety speech imprinted on my brain, including that
counterintuitive instruction to "place your own mask over your nose and
mouth before offering assistance."
In what other circumstance would you see a parent (or any other
basically caring individual) take care of his or her own needs before
helping a child? The safety instruction is, I'm sure, designed to ensure
that the well-meaning adult doesn't pass out before succeeding in
helping either one of them. Without hearing it, most of us would
automatically jump to help the child next to us. And so it is that those
words have remained part of the safety announcement for as long as I
can remember.
I am not getting ready to take a trip, or reflecting on my past travels, or considering the merits of air safety. But I have been realizing over the past week, a week that was, for me,
full of working nights and napping days, of careful attention to my own
stamina, how very spot-on that safety announcement is. We can't be of
much use to our kids, or anyone else who needs our help, if we don't
make sure to take care of ourselves too. We have to take at least a
little time to preserve our own health and stamina before we can
preserve the health and stamina of the other people in our lives.
I may not like stopping first, or saying that a nap has to come before I
can help with homework. I may not like listening to my own needs before
those of my family. But sometimes, "putting on your own mask" has to
come first. Sometimes, taking care of that, before we "offer assistance,"
can be the safest thing we can do--both for the child, and for
ourselves.
My son is elbow deep in goo--papier-mâché goo, that is (thanks,
spell-check for the backup on that one). With help from online
instructions and some pretty entertaining DIY videos on YouTube, he has
transported me back to a childhood I don't even remember having. Did I
ever even make anything out of this magical concoction of flour and
water and newspaper, or is the reality that I only ever heard about it?
In any case, I can't help being slightly amused by the goo and his
immersion in it, and before long, my hands are almost elbow deep as
well. In a life that usually has our fingers create with only the
keyboards of our smartphones, immersion in goo is a refreshing change.
The goo event has come about because of a school assignment--perhaps
that has always been the case with papier-mâché. What I am curious to
see is whether this adventure in goo leads to more of them. The making
of something out of nothing, the willingness to get a little messy and
discover things you never did before. With papier-mâché creators
offering online videos just like gamers, perhaps what started as a
school project will become a kind of hobby. For today, I'm just enjoying
being in the thick of it.
Having worked in television for quite some time, I am used to watching
content online or on TV and wondering how it was made, and what it was
like to be there during the production, often even wishing I might have a
job working on it.
Tonight,
what I was watching online was not a television show, but live streamed
Shabbat services at the temple where I am a member. Sitting at the desk
in my apartment, I was suddenly transported to a different place, out
of the mundane preparing of dinner and picking up of dirty socks and
into a room filled with song and celebration and community.
I have been in that room live. There have been times when schedules
worked out and circumstances fell together, and I was there, among
friends and strangers, absorbing the sights and sounds and feelings. Tonight,
on a night when circumstances did not come together, I was able to be
be there, differently, but there nonetheless. And for that hour, I
really felt a part of it.
It's one thing to watch video and think that your greatest wish would be
to have a job working on what you're watching. But to watch video, and
be brought along as if you really were there, is a wish I never even
thought to wish for. And a very lovely gift for a Friday.
I crawl into bed mid-morning after a night of work, because even if I'm
not tired right then, I know in my head I need to. And a few minutes
later, my body is sound asleep.
I follow a daily path to the school where I pick up my child. I barely
know what day it is, but my body knows when to go, so I start walking.
I direct the starting of homework and oversee the making of dinner,
whether or not I really know what I am doing. But what needs to be done
needs to be done, so I do it.
I read the daily emails that I always read and delete the ones I always delete, because it's just a question of getting through.
We are used to seeing "going through the motions" as a bad thing, as if
we are not invested, not effective, not doing our best. Yet, sometimes,
"going through the motions," because we are tired, or unsure of our next
steps, or simply unable to do more, is how we actually accomplish. We
move ahead, even when we barely know what's ahead. We do the work, even
when we barely know why we're doing it. We take care of, because even
unconsciously, we know that is what we need to do.
So, on the days when I fear that I am just going through the motions, I
remind myself that some motion is better than none at all. And that the
motions I've gone through will eventually propel me in the directions I
need to go.
I walked outside, and I realized that it was not too cold and not too hot.
I walked outside, and I saw people from my past, and people from my future.
I walked outside, and I discovered that you don't always have to run.
I walked outside, and I felt the familiar breeze of what once was, and the calm of what might be.
I walked outside, and I knew I should do it more often.
I walked outside, and I wondered if I worry too much.
I walked outside, and I hoped my head would be clearer.
I walked outside, and I was clearer than I'd been in a long time.
I walked outside, and I saw things that were new.
I walked outside, and I felt things that were different.
I walked outside, and when I went in, I could tell that something had changed....
There are days (like much of today, actually) when I wonder what I am
contributing. If I am wandering through a day too sleepy to accomplish
much, what I am contributing? If I do a job that affects people I can't
see, what am I contributing? If I can't fix what needs fixing or solve
what needs solving, what exactly am I contributing?
And then I am reminded that the advice I give from my own experience,
even if it's just a tidbit in a moment of coherence, is a contribution. I
am reminded that the dinner I get to the table, whether made on my own
or picked up (possible because of the money I am making working) is a
contribution. I am reminded that each phone call or email in which I
lend support or clarity or information is a contribution.
Sometimes, the contributions we make are obvious--we have a job that helps people directly, we donate our time or
money to a charitable endeavor, we participate regularly in our
children's activities, we speak out about things that
matter. More often, however, our contributions are in the form of
making each day work just a little better--because we are contributing
salary we've made, sharing insights we've gained, or offering support
because that is what we are able to do.
Worried you're not making a contribution? Think again--you're probably giving a lot more than you think.
It's not that the job that you had at that major show fifteen years ago didn't help make you who you are now. It's just that right now, it doesn't matter.
It's not that it doesn't matter that you wrote this or edited that. It's just not that relevant right now.
It's not that you need to erase everything you've done. But for now, you've just got to press "delete" more often.
It's not that they don't care that you've done a lot of things. It's just that they don't necessarily care about most of the things that you've done.
It's not that you have to forget your former life. You just have to refrain from detailing it to people to whom it doesn't matter.
It's not that taking it off means it never happened. It just means it won't help the next thing happen.
Rewriting--really rewriting--your resume can make you feel as though a part of you has died, or at least has drifted away. But it is in our being willing to focus on the living parts, and willing to wave goodbye to the ships that have sailed, that we find our new selves. And that we introduce people to the person in us who is willing to glance back, but is willing, and able, to move ahead.
New motherhood is perhaps one of the few times when napping is
considered more than just a luxury. Seasoned parents, in-laws, even
pediatricians give the new mother such explicit instructions to nap, it
is labeled as almost as much of a necessity as clipping baby fingernails and administering baby
vitamins. Then, suddenly, it seems, the baby is no longer a baby, and
the parental nap returns to its luxury status. The problem is, when a
person's life schedule involves working at night, the nap is no longer a
luxury. It's a necessity. And there's no seasoned parent or
pediatrician there to provide the instruction manual. It is suddenly up
to you to carve out the nap time, to give the nap back its "not just a
luxury, but a necessity" status. It's up to you alone to add it to the
rule book. And adding to the rule book is hard.
The reality, however, is that the rule book changes in some way almost every day of our lives, in ways far more significant than the status of naps. And most of the time, we won't have someone holding our hand through the rule changes. We just have to manage them ourselves, so that we can manage the changes in life for ourselves. Some days, I feel as though I am still learning the rule book, and figuring out how I can change it to suit the "here and now," rather than the "what used to be." But sometimes, we need to carve out what is necessary and make the
world, or at least our own small part of the it, follow our new set of
rules.
Even in a post-infant world, it's important to stick up for what we need, even if it's not in the rule book. I guess that's just what you have to do sometimes when you're not washed up yet...
A number of years ago, on the advice of a friend who knew me too well, I
began having coffee. Not "having coffee" for its caffeine purposes, but
"having coffee" for networking and learning purposes. And so it was
that I met all sorts of people who might someday give me work, but who,
for now, could give me all sorts of advice and insight into jobs,
careers, and life.
What I am finding these days is that the people with whom I want to have
coffee aren't necessarily older or more experienced than I. These days,
I am finding that I learn a tremendous amount from people just starting
out, people who are just beginning to explore and make choices. The
paths of their lives are still very much in front of them, and their
view down those paths is fascinating. They are brand new in the ways
that I was, but savvy in ways that I wasn't. They are both freed by
technology and tied down by it. They have ideas and are not afraid to
express them.
It may be that some day, they will be in a position to hire me. But for
now, having coffee with them--the people below, not above--gives me a
view that is just as helpful for getting me work. If I am short-sighted,
they are a reminder that there is more to see. If I am stuck in what
was, they are a reminder of what is. If I am worried that my years have
been for naught, they are a reminder that nothing is for naught, as long
as you are learning along the way.
So, on my friend's advice, I am having a lot of coffee. And thanks to my
coffee partners, I'm making sure I'm staying perky along the way.
It can be hard when you care. Whether it's caring about your work, and
how you do it, or caring about your family, or simply caring about the
people around you, whether you touch them directly or not, caring can
leave a person confused, off-balance, vulnerable.
And so it is that when we care, we speak up--or we don't. We stand up
for what we believe--or we don't. We express what we think--or we don't.
Because sometimes, it feels hard, or harsh, to give the world a piece
of our mind. Sometimes, it feels that we will lose something if we speak
up too much, stand up too much, express ourselves too much.
But sometimes, it is only when we give a piece of our mind that we can
truly find peace of mind. When we are willing to speak up for what we
believe, we find the peace of having tried. When we are willing to stand up
for what we need, we have the peace of having ventured. When we are
willing to express ourselves, we can truly be at peace with ourselves.
It doesn't always make sense to give the world, or anyone in it, a piece
of our mind. It can be exhausting and frustrating and futile. But when
we do it from a place of need, a place of knowing who we are, a place of
holding on to who we want to be, we can find the peace of mind that
makes it all worthwhile.
I've been thinking a lot recently about the meaning of "a day." With a
larger number of my work days starting on one calendar day, when I get
in a cab to head out into the night, yet officially beginning in the
next calendar day, when I settle into my work station at midnight,
I can't say that I'm ever quite sure exactly what day it is. I could
say that breakfast, lunch, and dinner still exist, but what, then, do I
call the meals between midnight and 8 that help to keep me awake? And is a school pickup at 4pm part of the same day that began at midnight,
or is it part of a new day that started after a morning nap? Are days
twenty-four hours, or are they simply defined by the hours you are awake
within them? And is it possible to live in multiple versions of "a
day," being a part of both the hours when others are sleeping and the
hours when others are awake?
I am sure that at some point, I will begin to know what day it is, and
to understand how to manage the days that seem to go on, without much
pause, for a week. I am sure that the pieces and parts of sleep will add
up to what they need to, at least most of the time, and that perhaps
coffee will fill in the blanks. And, in the midst of all of it, I am
hopeful that I will remember that a day is not defined just by how many
things you do in its hours, but by the difference you have made in some
of its minutes.
It is perhaps one of the most dreaded toddler phrases, repeated over and
over as a child navigates the world with endless questions.
Somewhere along the way, we humans start spending much less of our time asking
"why?" and much more asking "how?" How can we get into the right schools
and the right circles? How can we make more money? How can we advance
our careers? How do we balance any of this with personal and family
life? We learn how to answer the "how," coming up with new strategies
and new pathways, and quite often, we succeed. But rarely, along our
path of "how," do we stop to ask ourselves that favorite toddler question of "why."
So, that means we get a lot done, right? And that we are far less
irritating than all those "but why?" toddlers, right? Maybe. But when we
go through life just figuring out "how," and never asking "why," we run
the risk of going down all sorts of paths with no particular reason for
what we are doing. We chase--and capture--the money that seems good or
the title that seems prestigious, but do we stop to think what either of
these actually means? We acquire what we say we wanted, but are often
left wondering what it was exactly that we actually wanted.
While not every decision we make, job we choose, path we take has to
make complete sense, we have a much better chance of making all of those
paths and decisions worthwhile if, at least once in a while, we let the
toddler in us out. We can make something work, "but why?" We can try a
new job or a new schedule, "but why?" We can aim for the top, but the
top won't matter much if we never ask--and answer--the question "but
why?"
"But why" helps us understand our world. "But why" slows things down
long enough for us to process new things. "But why" gives us the time to
make choices, rather than just make things work.
So once in a while, perhaps we should take a lesson from our younger selves. A little "but why?" may go a long way.
It is a school holiday, and I am not sleeping in. On the contrary, I
have been up all night, ready for sleep just as my school holiday gang
is ready for its vacation day. It turns out that, after just a short
recovery, I am too. There are necessary things accomplished, because in a
busy life, that is what you do with a day off. There is work for
school, because a day off is really just a tiny pause in a stream of
expectations. But for a short time, sometimes too short even to
remember, there is a feeling of abandon. For just a moment, there is an
escape from the "need to" and the "should" and the "must." And in that
moment, there is ice cream. In that moment, there are goofy looks, and a
lot of laughter, and the kind of complete abandon that leaves us
feeling really connected, not by the studying of vocabulary words or the
carting back and forth or the routines of daily life, but by the joy of
making each other chuckle. The joy of appreciating the moment.
The day off is over in an instant. The moment is gone, the joy of
abandon put on a shelf for next time. But if we listen carefully, we can
still hear--and feel--the laughter...
I leave work at 8am,
having made it, awake, through another night. I see the bus I need to
go home pull into, then away from, the stop, all as I wait for the light
to change so I can cross the street. I could check the electronic
system to find out when the next bus will come, but instead, I just wait
at the stop. I will get home, eventually. It is what it is.
I mix up a batch of fudge. Our cabinets are full of Halloween candy, and
likely will be for weeks, but what I want is fudge, not gummies. What I
want is homemade, not packaged. So I make the fudge. It is what it is.
I am home, and I could make dinner. I have a shelf full of cookbooks and a
cabinet and fridge full of possible ingredients, but no particular idea
about what to cook. So, while home dinner is within our reach, I pick
up takeout instead (and people enjoy it). It is what it is.
I get dressed for work and the things that used to look good, feel good,
make sense no longer do, so I change to things that look good, feel
good, make sense now. I could bemoan my weight or my shape or my age, but instead, I just enjoy feeling better. It is what it is.
I know basically what I have to do in the next few days, but I couldn't tell you what my schedule will be next week, or next month, or next year. It is what it is.
Sometimes, I can maintain a relatively orderly apartment, and sometimes, just the simplest of clean-up tasks is far beyond what I can commandeer. So, sometimes, we live in order, and often, we live in chaos. It is what it is.
We are so used to being able to, and expecting ourselves to, take charge of the situations in our lives, that just letting things remain out of our control can seem shocking. But sometimes, it's okay just to let things fall as they may. Sometimes, in life, it just is what it is...
I have begun to notice that in ways far beyond "how was your day?" at
dinner, my work has become a more central presence in my household than I
remember it being before. While I have had a career for my whole adult
life, it has often been just a piece of the puzzle, a place where I am
during the day, a source of a few tales at supper time.
These last few years, alternating between looking for work and managing a
schedule that requires transportation planning, daytime sleeping, and
strict attention to stamina management, I sometimes feel as though I
have made myself the center of attention. One could argue that I should
enjoy being in that spot. After all, we moms spend all sorts of time
focusing on our children--shouldn't we have some moments to focus, and
have others focus, on us? Yet, it is a position that does not come
naturally for me. I have a hard time sleeping in preparation for a night
shift when there are homework assignments to help with, costumes and
hairdos to advise on, games to play, and treats to make. I am
self-conscious when too much conversation revolves around if and when
I'll be working and the logistics surrounding that work or lack of work.
I suppose that in a family, the center of attention changes on a fairly
regular basis. There will be days when a middle school social studies
test is the most important thing, and days when a head cold grabs
everyone's attention. There will be days when it's all about college
applications, and days when, yes, it's about when Mommy's gonna take a
nap. Unemployed or working, I won't always be the center of
attention--there are far too many people and things to take on that role
most days. And that's really okay. I'll get that nap when I need to,
and still be around to focus on a whole bunch of other centers of
attention. Because what kind of life would it be if we were always looking
in the same direction?
It is Halloween, and I am at work. There is a particular irony
here--after years of arranging weekday work to be home to costume my
kids and give out candy, we arrive at a year with Saturday Halloween, and I am not there.
I could have arranged to be off, I suppose. After all, freelancing does
include the (use it wisely!) privilege of giving "unavailable" dates.
But when I was choosing those dates, I simply didn't think of Halloween
as one of them.
It's not that my kids would be sidelined in my absence--they are old
enough, and quite eager enough, to trick-or-treat in our building on
their own, and I have spent my free hours over the last few weeks and my
free moments over the last few days putting together costume pieces. And while I have
enjoyed receiving candy-seeking visitors these last few years, I'm okay
with not having had to buy pounds of treats.
And so it is that I am receiving updates--on wardrobe malfunctions (not
many) and candy acquisition (huge) long distance. There will be
pictures, and there will be excitedly told stories about all the
adventures. And for weeks, if not longer, there will be candy.
It is Halloween, and I am at work. Because I'm a freelancer. Because I
currently work in a business that doesn't stop for weekends. Because my
kids are learning to be what is ultimately the best of all
things--independent. And because it's just another Hallow's Eve.
