Looking Up

Whether it's because of the sun, the mellow breeze, being able to write this while sitting on my back porch, or just normal fluctuation of my roller coaster hormones, I'm feeling much more Matisse today (and again I refer you to this post for an explanation). The human spirit is amazing, isn't it?  It rejuvenates itself daily, healing over hurt places, pulling itself up by the bootstraps and moving forward with determination.  Much like a fractured bone, it can mend, generating strength and density from somewhere deep within. 

And speaking of fractured bones, I've just returned from the orthopedic surgeon who tells me that mine is progressing very nicely, and I can begin to "wean off the boot."

Yes.

While waiting for the doctor, I read a magazine interview with Helen Hunt, one of my favorite actresses.  She was recalling some of the more difficult times in her life - a divorce, problems becoming pregnant, the failure of a tv show.  "Something positive has come from every tough situation in my life," she said.  "It's just hell getting to the positive part."

True, that.

I tried to walk my dogs today - couldn't stand it another minute - and even though we had to turn around at the church instead of going to the park (about which Magic was none too pleased ), it reassured me to set out on that familiar path, see the signs of spring appearing in my neighbor's flower beds and forsythia bushes.  Renewal is possible, even after the most bitter of winters. 

We will get to the positive part.

So storms will be weathered, houses will be paid for (or not), it will all work itself out.

Things are looking up.

Another Day

Life's been weird lately, as you might have guessed from my last post, which was decidedly more Picasso than usual (to understand what I mean, you'll have to go read this post at Red Umbrella).  But some interesting discussion was generated in the comments section, the upshot of which I totally agree.  Life in general can get messed up but we have to deal with it, hope for the best, and enjoy whatever small pleasures are available.

Most of my angst over the weekend stems from a conversation with the company who holds the mortgage on our two homes in Florida.   Like many other people, we got caught smack dab in the middle of the housing market meltdown, and our rental property is now worth less than we owe on the mortgage.

Nasty business, that.  I won't go into any of the gory details, but we're faced with some rather tough choices in the coming months. 

So I spent the weekend being mad at the world in general and myself in particular for thinking I could make a killing in the real estate market.  There really are no free rides, and I know that.  Just a lifetime of honest, hard work, which is something with which I'm quite familiar (and by the looks of things will continue being familiar with until I'm at least 80!)

Speaking of work, there's some weirdness going on at my company these days.  We've had a rash of new hires who last about three weeks and then bail.  My boss, who has been working yeoman's duty picking up all the slack from these slackers, is about to throw in the towel.  The latest defection occurred today - a young woman who hired started on the job three weeks ago, left a message this morning stating the job "just wasn't for her," and she wouldn't be returning. 

In retrospect, I should have suspected something yesterday when I noticed she had taken the 8x10 glossy photo of her family home with her.

I'm wondering-in a state where unemployment is higher than just about anywhere and the cost of living is pretty steep too, how can people be so cavalier about jobs?  And where is the sense of responsibility?  Our company is very small, and the presence (or absence) of one person makes a huge difference in terms of profitability. 

To top it off, it's a super nice place to work.  It's a very professional environment, all women, great teamwork atmosphere, flexible schedule with the ability to work at home, decent pay, 401K program - I just don't get it. 

What do women want, anyway?

So, if you know of a good, level headed nurse out there who'd relish the opportunity to work in case management with a group of intelligent women, send her my way would you?

Along with someone who'd like to buy some swampland in Florida (smiles).

Sunday Scribblings-Fearless

Fear. Less. Disconnecting the word is the only way I can make sense of this week's prompt.  Because I must admit to you that I'm consumed with fear these days.  And writing/reading all the platitudes about conquering your fears and taking risks and diving in with both feet will fall on deaf ears here at the Byline.

Rough words from me, I know.  Writing is usually the way I work myself out of fears, my method of rising above the things that frighten me.  But I've sunken into a fear-full pit lately, and not even words (my weapon of choice for all life's dilemmas) can offer me the leg up I need to pull out.

"At the risk of sounding like an old fogey," my mother (who just turned 81 but prides herself on "thinking young") said the other day as we were driving to the market, "I do believe the world has gotten itself into the worst mess I've ever seen."

Well, I do believe she's right.  Countless businesses closing every day, homes and companies being lost to foreclosure right and left, while prices for necessary consumer goods continue to rise exponentially.  Health care costs soaring, making even basic medical treatment unaffordable.  People living longer and longer, but with deteriorating quality of life, spending their life savings to be warehoused in institutions.  And war, dragging on forever, costing young men and women their lives, and costing this country trillions of dollars.

It's a mess.

And it makes me fear full.

So, on this second Sunday in April when winter seems to have returned once again, snow flurries falling from leaden grey skies, I would dearly love to fear less.  I want to stop being afraid about the falling equity in my home(s), the rising prices at the gas pump, grocery, and drug store.  I want to stop being afraid about growing older, about dementia and cancer and bone disease.  I want to stop being afraid this war will not only continue, but will escalate into additional conflict.

I want find a way to fear less. 

How about you?

for Sunday Scribblings

It's Only Me

Growing up an only child in a very Catholic, post WWII neighborhood, I was quite the anomaly.  Viewed with a mixture of awe (by my peers) and pity (by their parents), I rather enjoyed my somewhat exalted status.  In fact, I enjoyed being an only child so much that I married one, and then became the mother of one. 

Which is probably why many young women of my acquaintance consider me an expert on the subject.  These days, it's quite popular to have just one child-over the past 20 years, the percentage of families who choose to have only one child has doubled.  Yet, these women occasionally harbor lingering doubts about their decision, and seek out my opinion. 

"Tell me what it was like being an only child," they'll plead.  "Was it really okay?  After all, you and Jim and Brian all turned out fine, didn't you?"

Next time I get this question, I'm going to offer them a copy of Only Child, a selection of essays edited by Deborah Siegel and Daphne Uviller.  These two women, both only children themselves, solicited writers to "reflect on transformative episodes that defined them as only children."  These twenty essays explore not just childhood experiences growing up as an "only," but also the way this has shaped the writers relationship with friends, their own parenting experience, and finally, coming to grips with their parents aging and death. 

So we have Peter Terzian, writing about himself as a 10 year old who developed an almost personal relationship with his postcard collection; Sarah Towers, who at age eight was so desperate for a sibling she was "ready to  settle for a chimp"; Betty Rollins who, until she was 15, didn't realize her "birthday wasn't a national holiday."   

And there's John Hodgman, who decided to have two children of his own, since, "like a farmer who needs two children to till the soil and cannot risk having but one, so I need more than one child to lower my risk of absolute awful heartache."  And Penn Jillette, a professional magician who learns to practice a different sleight of hand in caring for his aging parents.  "If you're an only child, and you love your parents, and your parents need you, well, what do you do?  You help them while pretending not to help.  You lie.  And you think you fool them."

By turns poignant and humorous, the collection provides valuable insight into the psyches of only children. Nearly every essay contained a nugget of truth so close to my own experience that I found myself nodding in affirmation, or shaking my head in wonderment.  Yes, exactly! I might think, comforted to know there were others who had felt the same way.  Those hot button issues that only children face in spades - creating boundaries between themselves and their parents, learning to express anger, conquering loneliness - are tackled in this group of essays.

Whether you are an only child, the parent of one, the spouse or offspring of one  (or, in my case, all of the above!)  these essays will touch your heart, make you smile, and offer valuable insights into navigating the waters of this life experience. 

Only Child, Writers on the Singular Joys and Sorrows of Growing Up Solo

edited by  Deborah Siegel and Daphne Uviller

published in 2006, Three Rivers Press

256 pages

this review brought to you by  Mother Talk

Cafe Writing-Hopelessly Devoted to You

I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. –Julius Caesar Act III, scene i

Take seven minutes (use all seven, but don’t go over), and write on the subject of loyalty or constancy. This is a timed exercise and it’s expected that it won’t be perfect. Any format - fiction, essay, verse - is acceptable.

They lie at my feet most nights, whether I'm watching tv, or writing, or reading.  Whether I'm angry, frustrated, sad, or joyful.  Whether its a fat day, skinny day, or bad hair day.  Whether dinner was gourmet or from a can.  They don't care.  They love me anyway.

They are my faithful companions.  Two small dogs with less than 25 pounds of flesh between them, yet they would move mountains to please me.

Everything you've ever heard or read about the loyalty of animals is true.  Once you create the bond, they will cleve to you with completely unstinted devotion. 

So, how can we harness that loyalty among our human companions?  What can we do to make our partners, our siblings, our friends, offer us that same abject devotion?  Is it even possible?

Not until humans can lower their expectations.  After all, what do Magic and Molly ask of me?  Nothing more than two meals a day, a walk around the block, a few minutes of tossing the ball around, and an occasional belly rub or scratch behind the ears.

And they only want those same things every day.  The expectations never change.  They never get tired of walking around the same block.  It's always a great new adventure.  They're never bored with their food or their biscuits.  It's always a delecable treat.  They're never unfulfilled by their morning massage or nightly rubdowns - they're always orgasmically satisfying.

Loyalty to them is born from constancy.  The same routine love and affection, constantly, every single day.

That's all it takes.  A no-brainer.

If only the rest of the world were so easy.

for Cafe Writing, April Prompts