A Tidbit About Worry

Rather than try to create a masterpiece with every entry, I decided less may really be more on occasion. So here's a small point to ponder without my pithy observations intruding:

I can't know what the future holds. But my best hope is as likely to happen as my worst fear.

(That's paraphrased from an entry in Courage to Change - which I was flipping through in one of those wee-hours-worry-sessions last night. I can't remember the page or date I landed on, but the contents stuck.)

Progress, Not Perfection

I’m told that blog writers need to make entries at least three times a week, if not daily, or... else. So, wanting to avoid ...else, I was tempted to never return and just let you think I (a) got bored (b) got busy, or (c) made the mistake of entering my son’s bathroom and am now in quarantine while doctors work to figure out what rare fungus is growing between my toes.

But I didn’t do that. I've showed up. I’m about to take it on the chin, explain the time lapse between entries, and let the chips fall where they may.

I haven’t posted because I’m a perfectionist.

Wait a minute, you say. If that’s the case, wouldn’t you be on top of this blogging thing? No. One of the first rules of perfectionism is: if you can’t do something perfect, there’s no point in doing it at all.

I come by this trait honestly. I share genes with a grandmother who used to run a gloved finger into the corners of the stairs in her farmhouse (the one that sat on a dirt-packed Nebraska road) and would, holding up a gray-tipped digit, tell her daughter, responsible for dusting, that she’d do well to live in a round house.

You see where this is going. Her daughter raised me. When visiting my house, my mother would ask—-and, while I sometimes exaggerate just an eensy-bitsy-teensy-weensy bit in these columns, this is the honest-to-God truth--“When’s the last time you swept under your refrigerator?”

You’re kidding me, right?

Okay. Six months ago. But, honest, I normally ignore the refrigerator, figuring I’m on par if I hit the places people can actually see.

Which I do with regularity, because my thoughts run along the lines of: As goes the direction of the nap of my carpet, so goes I. Or something like that.

Still, I’d felt I’d come a long way – nothing’s ever too badly awry around here, but I do let dog hair thicken along the floorboards, dust settle on the sills, and I try never, ever, never to enter my son’s bathroom, although I do experience an occasional slip. It's closer to the garage door, and I'm middle-aged.

So my behavior the other day caught even me by surprise. Our neighborhood had a large trash-pickup scheduled. One of those deals where you drag anything you no longer want to the curb, like a refrigerator whose ice machine broke the last time you moved it during your weekly cleaning.

The day before items could be set out, I was working at my home computer when a friend emailed to ask if she could bring over an old mattress for pickup. Sure, I typed. I won’t be home, but slide it into the garage and my son will take it out the next day. Fine, she replied, my sister will help me move it.

Arrangements made, I returned to work. For ten minutes. After ten minutes, I was in my garage, broom in hand. I didn’t care if my friend saw the state of my garage. She knows me. Too well to ever harbor, in even the very remotest, shadowy-est region of her brain, the idea I’m perfect.

But her sister... her sister doesn’t know me that well. And I was pretty certain, too, after I’d thoroughly examined every side of the matter in that ten minutes, her sister would arrive channeling my mother. She’d even come inside and check under my refrigerator.

So I swept my garage. And straightened a few storage shelves. Okay, and I did put some muddy shoes that had been sitting by the lawn mower since last summer on this stand by the washer so that if she looked over in that corner--which I knew she would--she’d conclude that’s where we always put muddy shoes before we clean them off. On every Tuesday, without fail. But I stopped with the shoes, and congratulated myself for not touching the refrigerator.

Just as I now, with this entry, pat myself on the back for again showing up here. I’ve experienced enough personal growth to allow you, and whichever one of you is channeling my mother today, to know that I haven’t blogged lately, not because I was trying to locate the can of Dr. Scholl’s, but because I just didn’t feel like it.

It’s all about progress, not perfection.

Appreciating the Obvious

Because rare is the writer that actually makes a living from writing, and I'm no rarity, I supplement my income with editing work. Some writers would consider editing work a trip to the Dark Side, but the jobs measure well against the Big Three Criteria For Freelance Jobs that I use to make sure I maintain my integrity: Is it legal? Is it moral? And, most importantly, does it pay enough for a bowl of corn chowder and a buttermilk spice muffin at Mimi’s Cafe?

When I edit another author’s work, I largely refrain from even a hint of a raised eyebrow, because I know that for every fissure I find in someone else’s writing, there’s a deep crevasse in my own. Occasionally, though, I just can’t help it. Occasionally, I run across some little ditty that not only raises an eyebrow, but sends it flying up into my hairline.

So, okay, I’ll show you what I mean. Here’s a quote from a manuscript I read recently. Okay, not an exact quote, an almost-quote, because, along with my Big Three Criteria for Freelance Jobs, I also adhere to a list of How to Avoid Frivolous Lawsuits. Number one on that list is: Don’t be an idiot.

So, here’s what the author almost-penned:

Patricia pondered Max’s dilemma. “Isn’t there someone who could bail you out?”
“No. I’d just as soon slit my wrists than ask my brother for help,” Max said.
Sensing animosity, Patricia fell quiet.

Sensing animosity? Boy, that Patricia. I thought, as I pulled down my eyebrow. Nothing blows past her.

Then, just this morning, I had my own Patricia Moment.

I woke, mind spinning with my latest issue. I sighed. “Isn’t there a way to turn off my brain?”
I opened a daily meditation book and read the first line: “No problem lasts forever.”
Sensing truth, I fell silent.

Sensing truth? Boy, that Jerri. I thought, untangling my eyebrow from my hair. She doesn’t miss much.

A Bible Story

God knows, I’m no Biblical scholar. So I may get part of this wrong. I also need to attribute some of the humor to Rev. Richard Rogers, who spoke at my church Sunday. Yes, I go to church. Mostly because I’m no Biblical scholar, and, as I just said, God knows. So I’m hoping attending services makes it up to Him. I think that’s called hedging your bets, but I’m not sure, because I’m no gambler either.

Rev. Rogers brought up Lazarus. It’s a popular story at this time of year, the time leading to Easter, which I do know about because it’s when K-Mart starts selling Easter egg baskets, those flimsy, multi-colored ones that always look so cute tied with a ribbon and loaded with candy, but you can never figure out what possible use they have after that, because who decorates their house in fushia, purple, yellow, and emerald green? Yet, at the same time, they’re so cheap that, next year, instead of re-using the one you bought this year, you’ll buy a new one. And then you end up with a cabinet full of old Easter egg baskets because it seems a shame to just throw them out, and if anyone ever figures out a great thing to do with them, well, come see me.

From what I understand of the Lazarus story, Jesus didn’t catch the first call from Lazarus’s sister or something, so he didn’t reach Lazarus’s deathbed until a few days too late. For most people, that would pose a problem, but not if you’re Jesus. He simply decided to wake old Lazarus up. (Note: Rev. Rogers put the spin on this next part, so if you want to call or write anyone about being sacreligious, you give him the ringy-dingy and not me, okay?) Lazarus’s sister was skeptical when she heard about Jesus’s plans. She said something along the lines of, “But, he’s been dead three days. Won’t he be kind of, well, smelly?” (I looked this up, by the way, and she really did say that, although she used “decayeth,” which sounds worse than smelly, so I’m sure that’s why Rev. Rogers paraphrased her.)

I’m sure everyone standing around waiting to see what happened thought the sister was just whining, so they shushed her because, sheesh, Jesus was about to perform a danged good miracle, if he could pull it off. They weren’t sure. But she was. As Rev. Rogers pointed out, she was the only one in the crowd that had faith. What she was saying was, “I don’t have any doubt you can do this, Jesus. But... do you really want to?”

Anyway, we all know what happens after that. Lazarus gets up, and, we’ll assume, someone hands him a bar of soap so he won’t be shunned during the celebration they’re about to have in his honor. (In Kansas, we’d gather to light candles and pray, in Texas, they’d have a barbeque. I don’t know what they did back then.)

After telling this story, Richard Rogers went on to talk of faith and reaching for the impossible and how on person can change the world. I’m sure most ministers emphasize the same thing, which is all true and good to know.

But I was thinking about this afterwards, and it struck me that it’s too bad we gloss right over Lazarus’s sister to get to the good stuff. because the sister had a lot to say here. Every day, we’re making choices, big and small, for good or bad. And, each time we do, shouldn’t we be asking ourselves, “Well, yeah, I can do this. But do I really want to?”

Easter’s also the time of year when a lot of people decide to give something up for Lent. That something is often chocolate. Even if buying another new Easter basket makes no sense, getting one does, seeing as they’re usually loaded with chocolate and will arrive at a time when you can finally eat it again.

But the thing is, do you want to?

Remembering What Counts

It’s been almost a week since I posted. I need to post today because I know that if I don’t update this blog regularly, those of you who are checking in regularly will stop. (If you’re not checking in that often... try harder.)

It’s not subject matter I’m having trouble with. Nor is it, even, the time to write. I’ve come up with subjects, and I’ve even had a few minutes of spare time. But the topics I’ve thought of—midlife psychosis, understanding teenagers, and why Xanax is so expensive—are the kind of subjects about which books are written. I write at that length only if I have some expectation of being paid for my time. Nobody’s paying me to do this blog, but if you want to make an offer, we can talk.

Small subjects... things where I can toss something off and leave you thinking I’m clever and pithy, yet wise... have eluded me. And also, if we’re going to be frank here, sometimes I just forget I have a blog I need to update. Maybe because I have these my-mind-is-an-arid-wasteland days.

Do you have those days? They’re the kind of days where you can meditate for hours, but still not find a single answer to the meaning of life, a single way to achieve the dreams of your heart, or a single thing listed on the menu of a fast-food restaurant that doesn’t cost more than the 76 cents you can find in your car if you hunt hard enough. That last is pretty important. I know, because the other day I didn’t have time to go home for lunch and I’d forgotten my bank card, and I was really, really hungry.

Okay, what I just said is a little misleading. About the bank card, that is. It’s not just that I’d forgotten the bank card; it's that I don’t even know where it is. I know, though, it’s somewhere in my house, so I’m not calling the bank yet. I’ve already replaced that card three times. This year.

Which brings to mind this idea I had. People who make bank cards should start equipping them with those beeper-things that are on a cordless phone. You know—-the ones where you push a button on the phone base and the receiver squawks from between the sofa cushions, from your son's room, or from the dishwasher? That beeper works really well for me, as long as I notice the receiver is missing before the battery runs down. I’m not buying another new phone this year, either.

Someone told me this blanking-out I experience is a result of declining estrogen. Or maybe I read it somewhere. I don’t remember. I do remember that the information was offered as if I’d find it reassuring to know that, at midlife, this is a normal phenomenon.

I’m not reassured. In fact, since I don’t expect spontaneous regeneration of my ovaries, I find it worrisome that this is something I’ll be dealing with for a while. If I'm lucky, quite a while.

Well, that’s the natural progression of life, I suppose. And maybe it’s not so important that I remember where I left my bank card or the cordless receiver, as long as I do remember the important stuff: never go to bed angry, always take time to smell the roses, and Hy-Vee Supermarket has Nature’s Choice Granola Bars for only 50 cents plus tax.

Reaching the Top of the Happiness Scale

I read the other day about a study published in the Perspectives on Psychological Sciences journal. No, I hadn’t heard of it, either, but it sounds very important. And it must be since I was reading about it in TIME magazine. And TIME doesn’t report on unimportant stuff, so I’m assuming this is a very important study. It was on happiness. A bunch of experts asked a bunch of people a bunch of questions about life satisfaction and income, then ranked the whole bunch on what was termed a happiness scale.

And they apparently found there was a correlation between happiness and success. The higher you ranked, the more money you made. The article didn’t editorialize on whether this implies happiness leads to success or success leads to happiness or indicate if the experts who conducted this study had drawn any conclusions. Maybe its just a vicous circle. The kind of circle you’d like to join.

But apparently the correlation falls apart if you reach the very tippy-top-top of the scale. If you consider yourself blissfully happy, Number Ten Happy, your life satisfaction completely, well, satisfied, then, weirdly, it seems it’s likely you don’t make as much money, have as much stuff, or have GPAs quite as high as those who fall into slots Number Eight and Nine.

I got excited. Isn’t this proof that money doesn’t buy happiness? In which case, I have a shot to become very, very, very.... very happy.

But when I read on, I became confused. Experts think, therefore, that there may be an advantage to being slightly dissatisfied. Experts posit this means that the slightly dissatisffied try harder. They’re more likely to change a career. A major. Their hairstyle. Which means they’ll probably get a bigger house, have TiVo, and a Harvard degree.

Advantage, advantage... I pondered that word. Pondered the article. Pondered the perspective. Pondered changing my hairstyle. And after all that pondering, I could only conclude that this very important study missed something very, very important.

Ponder it.

Grab the Gusto

I announced I was moving to Texas. Now I’m announcing I’m not.

Dagnabbit.

I’m not sure if that word originated in Texas or Arkansas or Oklahoma, but the three syllables and hard consonants make that a gusto word. One of those words you can fill with feeling and really roll out there.

So, dag-nab-it.

Not that I’m feeling all that horrible about staying, either. There were, and are, lots of reasons to go and lots of reasons to stay put. So, how’d I decide? I didn’t. My child’s future-vocation decision—-which involves colleges and tuition and programs and a nice girl in English—-did it for me. So, here I stay for the foreseeable future.

I wrote something recently about, “When in doubt; wait.” I took the advice. And the decision was made without my having to make it.

And now there’s another. Should I stay put in this house or go smaller; buy a cute bungalow with a big front porch and a good spot for a bird feeder and a shower wider than the measurement from one of my elbows to the other when they’re positioned to wash my hair?

This decision is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish that has to do with interest rates and housing markets and how many steps it is from my car to the kitchen with an armful of groceries, and that’s all wrapped up in another choice involving career directions and income and trailers in Texas and... well, the only thing it doesn’t involve is fish, so I’m not sure why I brought them up.

On Friday at lunch, a wise, very wise, friend of mine told me I needed to “embrace the wait.” That instead of acting like cats trapped in a burlap bag, I should relax... look at this time as a suspension from decisions... a space where I can be free from doing.

Another friend called today, and when I told her of my Friday-friend’s advice, she said my Friday-friend was wise, very wise. And that while her advice may seem obvious, all of us need to hear it at some time or another because “embracing the wait” is precisely what we believe we aren’t allowed to do. But she couldn’t tell me why any of this would involve cats, so I’m not sure why my Friday-friend brought them up.

Still, you might want to give her recommendation a try. Today, if you face a decision and don’t know which way to go, embrace the wait.

I know. It's not in my nature, either. But, seems to me waiting eventually leads to a serendipitous confluence of circumstances.

Serendipitous confluence of circumstances. Now, there’s a phrase with gusto.