“Nuf said.
“What sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity. These are but trifles, to be sure; but scattered along life’s pathway, the good they do is inconceivable.” ~
Joseph Addison
I’m headed out to see what good I can do today. If someone smiles back I’ll think maybe it’s you doing good, too.
It’s Gratituesday! I’m sure you know a few “how many people does it take to change a lightbulb” jokes. I actually found a website that has them listed alphabetically by profession. My favorite is this one:
How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?
Only one, but it has to really want to change.
What do lightbulb jokes have to do with Gratitude? You’d be surprised at the answer. If you were to seriously ask how many people are involved in the actual process of changing a lightbulb, you’d be surprised. Really. Stay with me here.
I remember sitting in the theater after the movie “Apollo 13” as the credits scrolled by. Astounded by how many people it took to put this movie together, I then naturally wondered how many people it took to put even one actual Apollo mission up into space.
Japanese calligraphy meaning Gratitude.
From there, for days, even weeks afterwards, I wondered about all the background people we seldom see, pay attention to, or know about that make different things work.
At a restaurant I see a greeter, a server and maybe a food runner, occasionally a manager makes the rounds. Yet, there are cooks, prep cooks, dishwashers, bussers, cleaning crews after hours, delivery truck drivers, garbage truck drivers, food processors and handlers at a factory, sellers, buyers, equipment manufacturers, harvesters, growers, farmers, ranchers, dairymen, water purification workers, just to name a few obvious ones. I haven’t even touched on who made the aprons, napkins, plates, lights, the building or the tables and chairs.
And that’s just a restaurant. What about a college or university or an elementary school?
My simple trip to the grocery store or to the corner drug store involves thousands and thousands of people working to create, produce, package, order, process, sell, ship, inventory, stock, price, and then finally run the store. All that, just so I can pop in, choose a four pack of lightbulbs and take them home to replace the burned out ones. I’m sure I missed a few steps in there.
How many people does it take to change a lightbulb? We may never know.
My youngest sister posted this as her Gratituesday Facebook status last week. (She’s the one who got me started doing Gratituesdays a few years ago. She’s a smart one! Thanks Becky! )
“Naikan therapy reminds people to be thankful for everything. If you are sitting in a chair, you need to realize that someone made that chair, and someone sold it and someone delivered it – and you are the beneficiary of all that. Just because they didn’t do it especially for you doesn’t mean you aren’t blessed to be using it and enjoying it. Life becomes a series of small miracles, and you may start to notice everything that goes right in a typical life and not the few things that go wrong. ~― Will Schwalbe, The End of Your Life Book Club”
I love this expansive way of thinking about the world. I feel more connected, more aware, and more thankful. When I eat my breakfast, a part of my brain thinks briefly of the many people that made my simple meal of yogurt and granola possible. Pretty amazing, if you ask me.
Just a thought here and there about all that goes into making everything in my world exist, work, run smoothly, and my life easier leaves me feeling more blessed than ever today!
Another rock find!
I’ve decided to get back to my daily practice of a gratitude journal. I’ve run across some slick smartphone gratitude apps. Debating if I want to try one, or if I’m going old school and pulling out a blank book to write in every evening before lights out. Either way, I know, from experiences going back over twenty years, it can and will make a difference in my outlook, my focus and my life. I’ve written a little about it previously in this post if you’re curious.
I’d be interested to know if any of you have tried gratitude journaling, on your phone or in a traditional notebook. Has it made a difference? Or is it just another thing on your to-do list that weighs you down?
Oh, and if you have a favorite lightbulb joke, I’d love it if you shared in the comments. Thanks!
April 7, 2014
Dear Me,
Last night after searching Netflix and Amazon Prime for a movie to watch with MSH you left the family room with a rerun of The Twilight Zone playing. Sure, MSH felt slight disappointment that you didn’t want to watch yet another science fiction program, but you’ve never like Twilight Zone, not even any of the remakes.
Former reads.
Remember how you sat down in your comfy chair in the bedroom, put your feet up on the side of the bed and cracked open a new book someone had loaned you? “Mmm…ahh…” Yes, you remember. What a feeling to start reading a new story. You were so excited to begin that you forgot to bring a snack in with you. No sunflower seeds, no ice cream, no popcorn, not even a bit of chocolate. Of course, you were only going to read the first chapter or two and then turn out the lights and call it an early night.
Something happened in that first chapter, or maybe the second, it’s hard to remember now with half a night, and half a morning, of sleep behind you. Looking down at the page numbers, surprised to see that you were in the low hundreds already, you kept reading. Well, you thought to yourself, it’s a YA, young adult book, so it’s a quicker read than most. It doesn’t feel very late. I’ve probably only been reading about an hour. But the clock on the nightstand faced the bed, so you couldn’t see the time and frankly, didn’t care.
You were fully invested in the story, the words, the lives described, the town, the plot, and the nuanced epistolary style of the book. (You remember epistolary? You’re tired today, so I’ll remind you that it’s a book written as a series of letters.) This novel felt more like you had stumbled on someone’s ribbon-tied stack of opened mail to a loved one than a book from a shelf. How could a person put down such a stack of letters mid-pile? Impossible. And so, you kept reading, letter after letter, word after word, and surprise after surprise.
Letters. A thing of the past?
MSH came in to the room after a while. Was it past midnight already? He’s such a night owl, he does his best thinking and programming after you’ve gone to bed. A trait you will never understand in people, as you’re a definite morning person. He laughed at you and said, “are you still reading?” and you laughed back and asked, “you’re not coming to bed already are you?” You wanted to stay where you were and keep reading, not turn down the lights and read like a child sneak-reading under the covers. And you didn’t want to jinx the magic by finding some other comfy spot to cacoon in for the rest of the book. Luckily, MSH found another something to keep himself occupied. You continued to read.
A smattering of books.
The thing is, it wasn’t really like reading. It was more like following along while someone thought aloud. Or watching from a distance and hearing everything that went on. You wondered, in the back of your head, how a writer accomplishes that. But mostly, you were so much a part of the story that you couldn’t, wouldn’t, mustn’t stop reading. It would make as much sense as stopping breathing, which is really difficult to do.
The last words of the book crossed your eyes. You hesitated, ran your hand across the page, held it there. What were you hoping for? A sensation transferred through fingertips of the author’s final thoughts? Whispered, unwritten words that the narrator might still wish to pass on to those who are listening with an extra measure of attention? Some feeling of completion, a symphony to accompany credits, a promise of another book?
Something intimate happens between reader and writer, in spite of, or maybe because of the distance paper and ink provides. How else to explain the desire, the drive, to meet the author of certain books? What you want is to meet the characters. Yes, I know what you’re feeling, you want to begin or continue a discussion with those very real characters, find out reasons, background, what happens next, more details about chapter eight, a recipe from chapter fourteen. Whatever little unfinished bits remained, you want more of them.
When you finally closed the back cover, running you hand over those words and illustrations, you let yourself set the book down on the nightstand. And then you simply sat. Remember any of your thoughts? No. Not surprising. You were returning from a journey of weeks, months, years, that had taken a mere four or five hours. You’d traveled through time and space and back past through who knows what science fiction-like means and had returned, intact, whole, and yet changed in subtle and significant ways.
Do you remember pulling the covers up around your ears and snuggling into the pillow? No, you don’t because your mind had wandered back inside the book and carried you dreamlike and floating through that town, the story, to the people. Of course, as dreams do, it all jumbled up with odd real life details. By morning, late morning, since you let yourself sleep in after staying up far too late, you’d lost the sweet vacation essence of the book and found yourself back in reality.
A day of to-do lists and sunlight stood at the door, quietly tapping its foot as you dragged yourself out of bed.
What’s next?
A day or two of no reading. After such sweetness as last night’s book, nothing more will satisfy. In fact completely satiated and full to the brim, you may not need another book for four, or even five days. You might find yourself searching for other books by the same other. That wouldn’t surprise us in the least.
Now, you’ve reveled long enough. Close the door on that book and move on. You have much to do. If you’re productive enough, you might allow yourself a short nap later on.
Welcome back.
Sincerely,
Me
Lovely shade tree with potential messes abounding.
Bird droppings! One of the hazards of a lovely shade tree that covers half of your driveway. Installing a bird bath with daily fresh water probably adds to the number of birds that visit my yard and tree and consequently, my red vehicle. I know, I know, six months ago I had cleared my garage enough to park my little truck inside it. But we got a different car and MSH (and, yes, I) have once again helped fill up most of the garage, this time with an ancient couch we recently replaced with a newish one.
Looks like a fierce specimen, yes?
As I was hosing off some bird deposits from my car today, the spray ricocheted off the windshield and gave the cactus a pretty heavy pelting. A small bird head popped up among the spines and gave me the evil yellow eye. Clearly he or she meant to indicate ‘I’m an idiot getting the nest and resulting eggs inside wet and could I move on to doing some other chore.’
Apologizing to the bird, I aimed my hose a different direction. I did my best to avoid disturbing the cactus and said nesting critter while finishing my little chore. After polishing up the windows of the car, I explored a bit to see if I could get a good view of the nest. On closer approach the bird flew off to a tree two houses down and looked on. Old nests and new nests look the same to my untrained eye and that cactus apparently serves as a roost for many a bird, or it has at some time.
Not sure if this is the current nest or not.
I want to know how they, the birds, manage to fly in and out of that prickly, spiky, spiny spot without getting impaled. Seems downright impossible if you ask me. Do they have special radar or something? Or does getting poked and pierced multiple times a day come with the job description?
Look how sharp those needles are! Ouch!
I’m going to avoid sermonizing here. I’m not even going to mention the parenting parallels. No symbolism, nothing at all. I’m simply wondering how birds do it. I guess I could Google it, but that would take away some of the mystery and the magic of nature that I so adore.
“Dreams say what they mean, but they don’t say it in daytime language.“~ Gail Godwin
My grandma, texting? No way.
At a family reunion last night in my dreams, my grandmother found me and asked if I had received her text.
First of all, Grandma died over twenty-five years ago. Second of all, she never owned a cell phone or had even heard of the concept of texting.
You can imagine my surprise when she asked me if I’d gotten her text. I fumbled for my phone and searched but saw no messages from Grandma. Meanwhile, she wandered off to visit with other family members. But I remembered her chagrin at my having missed her text and not responded to it, so I went searching for her.
What would she say to me in a text? I can’t begin to imagine it.
A tree that’s more like a bush.
I knew the names of about half of the people at the reunion. That’s not unusual. Every year more cousins marry, more children are born, little ones become unrecognizable as they reach teen years, and even more prevalent, gray hair multiplies, faces age and change. This particular reunion seemed more crowded than usual, as if Grandma had brought along her siblings and their spouses, and all of their descendants, many who’d passed away ages ago.
As usual games and contests, mounds of food and conversation abounded. What a crowd of happy, energetic people. I’m a lucky woman related to such variety and optimism.
Grandma found me during singing time, which I don’t recall ever being part of a reunion. She had a bundle in her arms. Amid the noise of talking, caterwauling and singing, she pushed the bundle into my arms, leaned in close and said, “you need to do something with this.”
I looked down at what she’d handed me. I pulled back a corner of the cloth wrapping and saw what looked like a manuscript. Pages and pages, and pages of handwritten and typed papers. The heft of it in my arms felt significant, substantial, and curious.
When I looked up, Grandma had disappeared into the crowd, so I couldn’t ask her what she meant. Did she want me to edit, proofread, make suggestions about content, or simply read it? Was it her story? My story? Our family story? Or was it something else altogether? I scanned the group for grandma’s familiar face. Nearly, every face had a familiar feature to it since we’re all related. I’d never find her standing among the throng.
Someone yelled out that lunch was ready and the crowd began to disperse. Then a pebbling of snow began to fall, a light springtime pelting that added more fun than chill to the picnic. I huddled over the manuscript in my arms and ran toward a ramada, less interested in food than in finding grandma and asking for details.
With each step I took toward the announced food, the substance of my dream unraveled. I grasped at threads to pull me back into sleep, but I had lost the wisp of it. I’d crossed the threshold between dream and reality, between sleep and wakefulness.
I lay in bed rethinking, reaching, wondering. I tried to will myself back into my dream, to no avail.
Did Grandma have a message for me in those pages? Or was her appearance simply a logical part of reliving multiple family reunions in one dream? If she did show up at my doorstep, what would we discuss? Or would I, child that I always was while she was alive, simply listen to her talking, telling stories, giving opinions, dispensing thoughts?
What I really want involves those pages. Is it her story? Is it my story? Is it something already written, or something I have yet to write. More than likely most things weigh heavy with symbolism. Or it’s all as ethereal and meaningless as fog.
I’m pretty sure the choice is mine. I can assign meaning, or I can let it slide into the slush pile of thousands and thousands of dreams that have preceded this one. Was it a nice stroll down a tree-lined lane of memory, or a message from somewhere or someone, my subconscious, God, grandma, Kathy, my desires?
I wonder, too, about the snow. Snow at a family reunion, when we normally hold them in the summertime, seems significant. I’ll let than one marinate for a while and come back to it later. I’m sure that one detail means something. At least, I think so.
Mmmm marshmallows!
But for now, my tummy is rumbling with hunger. All those potluck meals I didn’t eat during my dream have caught up to me. I want ham and killer potatoes. I want brownies and snickerdoodles and barbecue potato chips and potato salad. I want to roast a marshmallow until just before it flames, then eat the crisp outer shell. I want to roast a hot dog over the coals and feel the heat of family around the magic of a campfire.
Most of all, I want to surround myself with people I know and love, who’ve watched me grow from scamp to scallywag to awkward young mother and into whatever this is I am now.
“Dreams are illustrations… from the book your soul is writing about you.“ ~ Marsha Norman
I often walk through life thinking someone will find out the truth about me. They’ll find out that I’m all fluff and nonsense, a shell without substance, cotton candy. My nutritional value is exactly zero.
I am just like my yard, the front public view blooms with bright colors and lovely swept walks, while the back yard grass overgrows its bounds, weeds replicate in frightful numbers and a dead Christmas tree in April houses countless spiders.
Oh, look, it’s not a secret anymore. I just blogged the truth right here for all to see. (Bet you didn’t realize the subtitle of this blog is “True Confessions.”)
Seriously, don’t you ever feel like a fake? I do, all the time. I know all my failings, all my shortcomings, all my whininess and nitpickiness. I hear all those thoughts I never actually say out loud. I think those thoughts. I’m not a nice person. I’m not someone anyone should trust with anything precious or private or close to the heart.
This hangs in my kitchen, you’d think it would sink in.
For example, I often say “Yes” with a sincere smile, when my heart, mind and soul all want to scream “NO!!!! Are you crazy? Why would you ask such a thing of me?”
It’s almost as if some other entity has taken over my brain and formed my lips into the “yes” word. It’s automatic, instinctual, mindless. Where logic dictates a “no” answer, i.e. my schedule can’t squeeze another drop into it, I blithely, trippingly, child-without-a-care-in-the-world answer, “sure, I’d be happy to.”
Then I promptly and privately find a brick wall and bash my head against it, repeatedly. What a fool I am.
I end up letting people down because I’m overscheduled, unorganized and undisciplined. Then I really hate myself as the truth about me leaks out. I’m not reliable or consistent or kind or helpful or anything good at all.
I can’t decide if I’m super easy-going, lacking a back bone, or simply bonkers.
There’s also the reverse problem. I finally, blessedly, miraculously say “no” to something or someone. You’d think I’d breathe a huge sigh, pat myself on the back and get on with my life. You’d think wrong. I second-guess myself, feel guilty for saying “no,” feel selfish for standing up for myself and generally berate my decision and my no-ingness.
I can’t say “yes” and I can’t say “no” without repercussions. Oh, brother.
My kids know and recognize the truth. They know that mending projects may never get finished, regardless of my deeply sincere intentions. They know that “I’m going to bed early tonight” actually means I’ll probably be awake until two or three a.m. They know and have sadly lived with the raving lunatic driver who wishes her car came equipped with a bazooka and a bullhorn. They’ve seen this angry rock-hurling, lawnchair-throwing maniac pushed past her limits.
Lucky for them, they escaped and now live elsewhere. Miraculously, they still call and drop by occasionally, bless their hearts.
I also agree to things that I’m deathly afraid of. (Snake handling, spider killing, heights, skydiving. Sorry, no way. I can say no to those obvious things. That’s easy.) But, ask me to talk to a stranger, I about disintegrate. My insides shatter like so much safety glass. Try something new and different? My legs turn to jelly and I all but fall to the floor in a puddle of goo.
I’m sure people exist who are exactly what you see. No smoke, no mirrors. A secret hidden camera in their home would reveal nothing new or surprising. The public person would exactly mirror the private person. At least I hope so. I hope most people aren’t like me. Happy on the outside, roiling and gurgling on the inside.
It’s not like I’m intentionally bonkers, it just happens.
I only have my own inner battle as evidence. I want to be the same inside and outside. I want to be consistent in public and in private. My inconsistency often overwhelms me and a kind of self-loathing takes over. A huge, overpowering self-excoriating “how can I live in my own skin” kind of muck happens. It’s not pretty.
I can’t blame hormones, grief, sleep deprivation, lack of chocolate or the weather. I’ve been like this my whole flipping life. I want to convince myself that everyone battles inner demons like this, but I don’t have any evidence to support such a lame thesis. All I have are these boxes of depositions against myself, double stacked nearly to the ceiling, of how I’ve failed to live up to my own expectations, stand up for myself, be honest about my life and feelings, say what I’m really thinking, do what I really want to do, be the real me.
I’m sure some psychologist or talk show host would have a heyday with this scenario.
Even my computer understands my lack of back bone.
I’m a mess. I admit it. I’m the first to admit it. Well, MSH would also admit it, maybe. Although he says he still loves me. I’m not sure how he manages to do that. Pity or desperation, perhaps. Maybe he’s a little nuts, too. I don’t love me, so how can he?
Life makes me so tired.
Can I just crawl back into bed today and stay there until Saturday?
Does anyone have any chocolate?
How about a spare life-long around the world cruise ticket? I could use one of those. I’m sure it would help.
Kami's Beautiful Morning 