Fist Bumps for Everyone

Posted on October 5, 2014 | Leave a comment

I endure the same slow, mundane drive to work every day.  I see the same landmarks, the same buildings, sometimes even the same people in the same cars.  I drive the same 26 minutes, five days a week, and even with a myriad of options, I almost always take the same route.  As I turn off of Wisconsin Avenue onto 92nd Street – the home stretch before I arrive at my second home – I see her in all her glory:  Fist Bump Lady.

Fist Bump Lady, who shall be known as FBL henceforth, is the crossing guard at a crosswalk that leads directly to the Froedtert Memorial Lutheran Hospital.  Short, pleasingly plump, and with an ever-ready smile on her face, FBL never fails to deliver.  Sunny days are met with an extra spring in her step.  Rainy days are no bother, and why would they be when you’ve got a bright yellow slicker and sturdy galoshes?  Sleet and snow?  No problem, for FBL is ready for that, too.  I can’t say for sure that she has one of those stocking caps that looks like a panda bear, but she seems like the kind of person who would.  She is ready for any of the Wisconsin elements, and cheerfully so.

Person after person, professional after professional, doctor after doctor – all are greeted with the same degree of enthusiasm, and all are offered a fist bump to start their day off right.  A few outliers avert their eyes and rush past FBL.  Most accept the offer, and give FBL a smile and a hearty fist bump back.  A few other outliers have taken FBL under their wing, and bring her coffee or other treats (after a compulsory fist bump, of course.)  It seems that in the land of all things Froedtert, FBL has become the mascot for healing what hurts us.

I admire this woman, FBL, because of her consistency and her zest for life. I don’t know a single thing about her, other than what I have witnessed as I wait at the crosswalk day after day, eager to move ahead 2 more blocks and make the turn into my home-away-from-home parking lot.  But I do know this:  she has made happiness her priority and nothing is going to get in the way of that.  Not working a job most of us would not care to do. Not crappy Wisconsin weather, which is crappy too much of the time.  Not even the occasional hater.  No, no, no.  FBL has made a choice to be happy no matter what, and through her deeds shows us it is a choice we could all make.  Thanks for reminding us how to be in this world, FBL:  That whoever we are and whatever we do, we can always be of good cheer.

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Right on Time

Posted on September 14, 2014 | 2 comments

I’ve been known to describe myself as “neurotically punctual.”  My need to be on time does not come from a place of moral superiority, nor does it come from deep consideration for others, really.  If I sit back and analyze why it is so important to me to be on time, I’d have to say that good old fashioned anxiety is at the base of it all. Nothing more, nothing less.

I don’t know where this came from or why it came about.  I was recently talking to an evaluator of a grant I manage who is exponentially more neurotically punctual than me.  So much so, it has actually annoyed me at times.  (Bearing in mind, of course, that usually the things that annoy us most about others are the reflections of ourselves.)  She told me that as a child, she was grounded one full day for every minute she was late when her parents set a curfew.  At least she has a reasonable explanation for why she turned out the way she did. I, on the other hand, cannot explain why I am such a freak.

Last fall I got to see my time-related anxiety come to full fruition.  My friend Vance and I decided to get tickets to go see Book of Mormon in Chicago.  We were all haughty about it, too.  Like we are so cultured and cool and then we were all “we should do this more often because we are so evolved and shit.”  So we bought our tickets and then somewhere along the way my sister and brother-in-law decided to go too. They got tickets and we made plans to all ride together and have a day of merriment.

The big day arrived and I could not have been more excited.  As a means of maintaining control of the situation and, let’s be honest, the timeliness, I offered to drive.  Jess and I agreed upon a time of departure and we were all set.  But as I was filling the car with gas at a gas station near Jess’s house, I got a text from Jess:  “Where are you?”  It didn’t take long to figure out after another text exchange that Jess was at my house, and I was a couple minutes away from being at hers.  Aaaargh!  So after a quick consultation it was decided they would come back to their house and we would take off from there.  No biggie, I smugly thought.  I had built in plenty of cushion for us.

We got on the freeway and started to make our way to pick up Vance on the fashionable east side.  We exited North Avenue, and hit wall-to-wall traffic.  I mean, it was a parking lot.  At 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday. It was hard to figure out what was going on, but it turned out to be the day of Al’s Run and thousands of people were trying to get to the same place at once.  The same place we needed to get to.  Damn.  My heart started to palpitate a little.  I stayed steady, though. This is not a problem, I told myself.  We’ve got this.  

We picked up Vance who had  been instructed to wait on the corner (“Tuck and roll in, baby!” we screeched as we pulled up to him) and when he got in the car Jess and David shared they needed something to eat. We made a quick detour to Koppa’s so they could get a sandwich.  I will be the first to admit that this is where things started to turn ugly for me. I waited in the car while the three of them went inside, because I was in an illegal parking spot and I was not in need of a sandwich.  I plugged in my GPS and programmed in our theater parking garage address.  I could see by the estimated time of arrival that I had 18 extra minutes to spare – and we hadn’t even gotten out of town yet.  I looked in the windows of Koppa’s and I saw nothing.  Back to the GPS – 17 minutes.  Back to the store windows – I see David, Jess and Vance pointing at something in the store and laughing.  (My inner dialogue was something like this:  Jesus, people! Get your freaking sandwiches and get back in this car!)  Back to the GPS – 16 minutes.  This business continued until they got back to the car and we were down to 14 minutes to spare.  Fourteen minutes of cushion between us and very expensive theater seats in Chicago.  Here we go, kids – strap yourselves in!

It was another whole ordeal to make our way to the freeway (because of all these damn runners, seriously people!) but we finally did.  I put the pedal to the metal and set the cruise control.  Everyone else was happily eating their sandwiches (which I recall had lots and lots of onions on them, as well as some mayo dripping down the side of their hands – but that is neither here nor there.)  I was doing my best to not look at the (dwindling) cushion of time on the GPS.  We had two hours of traffic to endure, and a lot could happen between now and then.

As luck would have it, we encountered very little road construction and only one or two significant areas of having to slow down on the way to Chicago.  The GPS stayed steady with a good thirteen minutes of cushion. Until we got to about a mile from the theater, that is, and then we hit a wall of gridlock traffic.  Inch by inch we moved forward, and I felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest.  Driving in downtown Chicago under any circumstances is daunting; doing so when you have a strict deadline to meet is downright maddening.  We eventually made our way to the front of the theater, which felt like pure hell because the parking garage was still two and half long, slow, painstaking blocks away.  Jess and David were excused from the car so at least half of us could be on time.

Left only to our own devices, Vance and I endured.  We now had seven minutes to spare.  We finally made our way to the parking garage.  At last! We’ve done it!  Level one:  full, and seven minutes to spare.  Level two: full.  Level three:  full and I feel like swearing up a blue streak.  Level four: full, and six minutes to spare. Level five:  full!  Level six:  full, with five minutes to spare and NOW I HAVE TO STOP BECAUSE THERE IS AN OLD LADY WITH A WALKER.  Vance and I were now screaming at each other. “Jesus! A lady with a walker!  Are you fucking kidding me?  A walker?!  We do not need this right now!” We were laughing at our pure horribleness and almost crying and completely freaking out.  Level seven:  Parked! Four minutes to spare!

We ran to the elevator, got to the street, and ran as fast as our little legs would take us.  We got to the theater, and Vance asked where the restrooms were.  The theater employee exclaimed, “There’s no time! You need to get in the theater or they will make you wait until after the first act to go in!”  So we put our bladders on hold and made our way to our seats.  Turns out, we had what were perhaps some of the best seats in the house.  We turned to each other – hands shaking, sweat on our brow – gave each other a big hug and commented that we felt like we just won the Amazing Race.  We sat down, and with one minute to spare, waited for our chance to watch a beautiful, ridiculously funny and blasphemous show.

And the moral of the story is, if it hadn’t been for that old lady with a walker, we’d have had two minutes to spare.  I’m just sayin’.

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Posted in Humor, Mental Health

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Friends

Posted on September 7, 2014 | Leave a comment

I once had a friend, now an ex-friend I suppose, who was trying to explain to me why she no longer saw it fit to be my friend.  It was the first time I had ever had a friend break up with me, and my heart actually felt like it was breaking.  Her reasons didn’t make any sense to me; she had recently found God and felt that our values weren’t aligned.  (The whole thing struck me as a very un-Christian-like scenario, but apparently the irony was lost on her.)  Anyway, in the course of conversation (I am telling you, it really was like a break-up), she said that her whole life she had never been able to maintain a friendship outside of her family and her husband.  Hearing that helped me understand the circumstances a little better, since apparently she was doing to me what she had done to every friend previous to me – no matter how loyal, how charming, how wonderful they were.  (Because dammit, I am loyal, charming and wonderful.)  It also made me sad for her. Really, really sad.

I would never denounce the importance of family – I adore my family. Family grounds you and is the foundation upon which everything else in your life is built, when done right.  But friends, I believe, are equally important. Family, generally speaking, is required to include you and to love you, warts and all.  Friends do not have the same set of obligations.  Friends can come and go as they please – and they often do – and therefore you must be lovingly attentive to them.  You must make yourself a little bit vulnerable, a lot available, and put in some hard work and sacrifices if you want to keep them around.

I’ve often said that it is difficult to make good friends – I mean really, really good friends – as an adult.  In our younger, formative years it is easy.  We have school and sports and activities of all kinds where we can meet people. We also have less definition of our inner selves, and quite honestly probably aren’t as picky.  But as we get older, we have fewer venues to meet people naturally and more stringent views of the world and how we fit into it. So to have friends, be it a solid few or varied many, is a precious and beautiful thing.  My friends are one of the many ways I know my life is truly blessed.

I have friends – two of them, actually – who have known me since I was five, went to school with me from elementary school all the way up through college, have been my friends in every major era of my life, and are still my very dear friends today.

I have friends who I am only recently getting to know, and I can’t wait to know them more fully.

I have friends who have been at my side on both my darkest and happiest days.

I have friends who do the same work as me and understand how important and difficult my life’s work is.

I have friends who started as mentors, and are still mentors but are also friends today.

I have friends with whom I have gone through difficult friendship moments, but we worked through it and still love each other fiercely today.

I have friends who are also family, and even if we weren’t related I would still choose them as friends. (Hello, favorite sister and brother-in-law!  Hello, frousins!)

I have friends who are not technically family, but really are my family in every sense of the word.  (Hello, logical family!)

I have friends who make me laugh about the silliest, most mundane things, such as the merits of the Oxford comma and whether jello is a salad or a dessert.  (Same friends, two equally passionate debates.)

I have friends who know my darker side and love me even so.

I have airport friends.

I have friends who share my passions and my annoyances.

I have friends I can sit with in quiet solitude.

I have friends I can spend hours with discussing every possible thing under the sun.

I have friends who would not judge me if I stoop (lower my moral standards) on a stoop (a small raised platform).  Not only would they not judge, they would think it made for a good story.

The bottom line is this:  I have friends.  Lots and lots friends, fulfilling lots and lots of needs.  And to this, I say – bless you, my beautiful friends.  You are my life’s greatest treasure.

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Bless His Heart

Posted on August 31, 2014 | 1 comment

At the age of 60, Harold still had enough physical stamina to be of good use on his youngest son’s hobby farm.  He and his wife would pile in the Buick and make the three hour trek for long weekends of painting, building fences and planting gardens.  The days, though hot and long, gave Harold a sense of accomplishment.   What his son lacked in physical capabilities because of his chronic medical condition, he made up for with vision and passion.  It was an honor for Harold and his wife to support their son’s dreams and help bring that vision to life.

The summer days on this small Iowa farm had air that was so thick you could practically chew it.  The morning grass had drops of dew big enough that they could visibly be seen – from a distance, no less. Undaunted, Harold put on his coveralls early in the day and headed down the steep hill to the barnyard, where he and his family would spend the day building a new corral for the horses.  A lunch of ham sandwiches and lemonade would be delivered by Harold’s granddaughter at high noon, with additional deliveries of ice cold water in the Coleman water jug being made on the hour. This heat was nothing to mess with, and everybody knew it.

At the end of the day, Harold and his son admired their accomplishments and made a list of tasks to be done the next day.  Soon after, Harold made his way back up the steep hill toward the house – this uphill trek being perhaps the most challenging part of any day spent working in the barnyard.  One foot in front of the other, he told himself, but each step proved more challenging than the one before it.  Struggling and straining, Harold stopped at the midway point and rested against a fence post to catch his breath.  His thoughts began to race, and worry set in that something was terribly wrong.  He didn’t call for help, though the thought did occur to him.  He worried that his 60 year-old body may be giving out on him.

Harold slowly and painfully made the rest of the long haul up that hill and arrived at the back porch of the farmhouse, breathless, red-faced and spent.  His daughter-in-law greeted him with a look of concern. “Something’s wrong,” Harold said.  “I don’t know what it is.  I think I might be having a heart attack.”  Ever the caretaker that she was, his daughter-in-law helped him into the house and plunked him down a rickety old kitchen chair. She gave him a big glass of ice water and a cool washrag for his forehead, keeping a watchful eye on him as sweat ran down his face.

Harold’s daughter-in-law insisted that the first order of business was for him to get out of those hot, sweaty coveralls.  The two of them decided that a long, cool shower would do Harold some good.   His daughter-in-law, also overheated after having spent the day in the kitchen canning pickles and beans, agreed to get the window unit air conditioner running in the den so Harold could relax in the recliner after his shower and continue to cool down.

After his shower, Harold came out of the bathroom in his shorts and undershirt.  As was usually the case, he was whistling a tune and laughing to himself.  “You sure seem to be doing better,” said his daughter-in-law, now feeling at ease that the threat of a medical crisis had passed.  Harold sheepishly confessed that he was sure he was not having a heart attack. It turned out, Harold had spent the afternoon barely able to move his legs because the elastic in his underwear had broken, and his underwear had fallen to his knees underneath his coveralls. The mystery was solved, and a new story was added the family archives.  It would be delightfully shared at family gatherings for decades to follow.

Harold was my Grandpa “Fox” and my family has a million more stories like these.  He was goofy, silly, full of laughter and the kind of guy who admitted that were it not for bad luck, he might not have had any luck at all.  He spent a lifetime modeling the art of self-deprecation.  He also taught all of us the subtle distinction between being the butt of a joke and being its punchline.

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Posted in family, Humor

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The Answer is Yes

Posted on August 17, 2014 | Leave a comment

My good friend Alex and her sweet little family picked up and moved to Minnesota this past year.  I knew I was going to miss her – and I do – for a whole lot of reasons.  Of course she had saved me over and over again at work – I could never forget that.  She also fed me dinner almost every single Wednesday night (and fed me well, I might add) for the entire course of our friendship.  But I think one of the most wonderful things her friendship had to offer was the opportunity to develop a relationship with her two little girls.  It gave me a chance to have children in my life, and that was just pretty cool.  I quickly became known as “Jen Wittwer” to distinguish me from another Jen who lived in their neighborhood, but it all ran together like it was one word: “Jenwittwer.”  Or, if you are the youngest of the two, “Jenwickwert.”  It stuck.  I like it.

Alex’s oldest, Kaya, is an independent little seven year-old who has a whole lot of things in life figured out for her tender age.  Her move to Minnesota has been met with mixed emotions, and I think already last winter Kaya started mapping out the ten days she wanted to spend in Milwaukee during the summer months.  Alex took down her requests and began to formulate a plan – a plan that was no doubt partially made by Kaya as a way to escape from the company of her adoring little sister. I was first surprised, and then honored, when I made Kaya’s list of people she wanted to see while here.  When a seven year-old asks to spend time with you, the only answer is yes.

With a freedom before her that only a seven year-old can appreciate, Kaya’s Milwaukee adventure began last weekend.  Day after day was lined up with play dates and visits to her former schoolmates, neighbors and babysitters.  When my day finally arrived, I took a half day off of work and went to pick Kaya up in her old neighborhood.  Her mom had speculated she might be tired by the time she got to me, but to me it seemed she was energized.  Seven year-old Jen would have probably been whiny and home sick by Day 6 of the trip; conversely, seven year-old Kaya had accumulated a pocket full of stories and was ready to make some more.  As we were mapping out our time together, I asked Kaya what time she wanted to go to her friend’s house the following day, adding that I wanted her to have enough time with her friends.  “But you are my friend, Jenwittwer, just an older friend.”  Point taken, my dear. Point taken.

True to tradition, Kaya and I first set out to find her first day of school outfit, for the fourth consecutive year. This is a girl who has already decided that when she grows up, she is moving to Paris to be a fashion designer.  (“It is The City of Love,” she explained.)  When asked if she wouldn’t miss her family if she moved so far away, she assured me she definitely would not miss her sister (though later confessed she invited sweet Indra to join her in Paris) and besides, “I can always Skype.”  So given all of this, all I really needed to do was stand back and have my credit card ready for the transaction.  Without any intervention from me whatsoever, she made a great choice for the first day of school outfit.

Later in the day, we made our way out for dinner and I treated Kaya to her first hibachi grill experience.  Her eyes lit up with wonder and joy as the hibachi chef put on a good show for her.  She later reconciled that the chefs in those restaurants are probably trained to be all crazy like that, and I told her I thought she was probably right. After dinner, we went on a quest to find some shoes to match her new outfit.  It quickly became apparent that this girl is in fact her mother’s daughter.  She loves her some shoes, and must have tried on 20 different pair.  After awhile of himming and hawing, I could see the wheels of negotiation turn in Ms. Fashion’s head.  “Jenwittwer,” she said, “I do have a nice pair of flip flops that are a little fancy that would match my new school outfit.  Maybe I should get these boots instead to wear with my jeans.  I would get a lot of use out of them.”  Her argument was so carefully crafted, I was left defenseless.  Needless to say, she went home with a pair of boots.

At home, we spent lots of time snuggling with/playing with/mildly tormenting the cats and watched a movie. We had a little bowl of ice cream.  Kaya finished hers quickly and then asked, “Jenwittwer, can I have another scoop of ice cream?”  That was a no-brainer – it was an absolute yes.  By 9:00, my girl was all worn out so I tucked her into bed.  The next morning at 5:30, I heard her get up and she made her way to my bedroom door.  “Jenwittwer, can I come snuggle with you and the cats?” Again, there is only one answer to this question, and the answer is yes. After a good spell of interaction with my amazingly tolerant cats, she drifted back to sleep.  Sweet girl.

Later that morning as we were packing up her belongings, I asked Kaya what her favorite thing was of her time with me.  Was it getting your new boots, I asked?  “Yes, Jenwittwer, well that, and spending time with you.” My heart melted, right there.  Anything that girl wants from me, I’m pretty sure there is only one possible answer.  The answer will always be yes.

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Buh-Bye, Jenny

Posted on August 11, 2014 | Leave a comment

I’m just going to warn you now.  Right out of the gate.  I am not going to hesitate or sugar coat it or mislead you in any way. If you are not blood-related to me, you are not allowed to call me Jenny.  And if you do, I might not acknowledge you.  If forced to acknowledge you, I just might give you the stink eye.  If you are blood-related to me, you may need to provide proof of such before you can call me Jenny. Then, and only then, will I consider giving you a waiver.  Why, you ask?  Because I am not Jenny.

The reason I am no longer Jenny (or Jenni – the high school rendition of my name) is because I outgrew her. Jenny represents a girl that once was, but no longer is.  Jenny wasn’t all bad, I suppose, but enough of her was someone I no longer wish to be.  She had a side to her that was fully capable of being a sassy, ruthless, mean girl.  She didn’t stop to think about how her actions and her words affected others.  For obvious reasons, Jenny is dead to me.

I was talking with a friend a while back who has recently joined AA.  Of course I’ve known a lot about AA over the years, and working the field of addiction and mental health I’ve had plenty of colleagues who have been involved.  But having a friend become deeply invested in AA made me spend some time sitting with the 12 steps a little more thoughtfully. While I can see the value in each step, it was steps 8-10 that stood out to me the most.  They are:

8.  Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
9.  Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
10.  Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

Wow.  That is powerful stuff.  What if all of us did that?  Listen, I get it. Alcoholism and addiction take a toll on the person living it and everyone in their life.  It can be a massive path of destruction.  But haven’t we all engaged in our own transgressions?  Haven’t we all, at times, hurt others with our actions or our inactions? Our words or our lack of them?  Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we could all just own it?

It’s been said that the most difficult words to ever say are, “I’m sorry.” Know what’s harder than that? Meaning it.  It’s harder, because it requires you to take a good, long look in the mirror and face the ugly side of you.  It also requires you to make a personal vow to do better. Because to truly be sorry, sorry from the bottom of your heart and all the way down to the tips of your toes, takes a whole lot of grown up, painstaking commitment.  If you are saying you are sorry and meaning it, what you are really saying is,  “I won’t do that again.”

Look, we are all human beings.  We are sometimes complicated, emotional, irrational, heaping piles of complexity.  We are all capable of doing less than honorable things.  So let’s not beat ourselves up for making mistakes, because as human beings it is just something we are probably going to do.  Instead, let’s recognize it, face it, and vow not to do that again.  Whatever that may be.

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Posted in The Human Condition

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The Universal Law of Salad

Posted on August 3, 2014 | Leave a comment

There are very few things in life that I can say I know for sure, but I do know this:  salad always tastes better when someone else prepares it for me.  I call it the Universal Law of Salad. They say that love comes in many forms, and I say sometimes it comes in the form of a salad.

We all know what goes into making a great salad.  Careful selection of quality produce – locally grown, if possible – with the perfect variety for texture, taste and color.  An extended session of blanching, chopping, slicing and dicing. Preparation of a tangy homemade oil and vinegar dressing, complete with multiple tastings to ensure it is perfectly seasoned.  When all of this is done, it can be ever so gently mixed together and served.  Served on a chilled plate, if you are feeling fancy.

There are days and even seasons when a big, beautiful, delectable salad would be all I would need to be happy.  And those days and even seasons when someone else would go to all this trouble for me?  Well that, my friends, is a thing of beauty.

Look, I know exactly what it takes to make a great salad – it takes time, patience, and great attentiveness to detail. And knowing that someone else is willing to do for me what I am not willing to do for myself in the moment? It only makes that salad taste better, for it is a salad that is seasoned with love.  Pure, patient, abiding, edible love.

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The Elephants Are Gone Fishin’

Posted on July 27, 2014 | 1 comment

When visiting with my friend Katie recently, she recounted a story from her childhood that, much to my amazement, I had never heard before.  I really thought I had heard all of the childhood highlights previously. I had heard about the ducks who got their heads frozen in the pond and the goats who ate the top of her father’s car one night and the Christmas list on which young Katie requested a $10,000 racehorse.  (Kids: they say the darnedest things!)  Katie is one of those friends whose stories I’ve heard a thousand times and still we delight in telling them over and over again whenever we are together.  She’s one of those friends I know so well I have concluded I just might know it all.

So when Katie pulled out this new story, it really resonated with me. Katie told a story of how, as a child, her parents were planning a trip to Reno. Now, wisely assuming that Reno doesn’t have much to offer children, her parents built things up for Katie and her brother in the days and weeks leading up to the trip. Katie and her brother were told, over and over again, that when they got to Reno they were going to see a magical show, and in that show THERE WILL BE ELEPHANTS.  Yes, children, there will be elephants and we know you’ve never seen elephants but the elephants are going to amaze you!  As one can imagine, young Katie – a lover of animals to begin with – could not wait to meet these elephants.  She became consumed with the elephants she had not met yet.

The day finally arrived, and Katie and her family checked in at their Reno hotel where the magical elephant show was going to occur.  All the hopes and dreams of a wonder-filled night of prancing elephants came to a screeching halt when Katie and her parents saw a sign hanging in the lobby that read:  “The elephants are gone fishin’.”  Sad but true, the elephants were not available for the show – probably on a sabbatical or the subject of a union disagreement – and young Katie’s heart sank.  The night she had so eagerly anticipated for weeks on end was now ruined. It turns out, a life without elephants – elephants you had never met and now you never would – was hardly a life worth living.

Of course, the show went on without the elephants, but Katie did not enjoy it.  I mean really, how can you enjoy a show without elephants, when you know elephants are a possibility?  Katie has surmised, in her wiser adult years, that it was probably a perfectly lovely show and she may have even enjoyed it under different circumstances.  But without the elephants, the show was a lost cause for her and an utter, miserable waste of her time.

There’s a lesson to be learned there, a lesson that can provide a gentle reminder to all of us no matter how old we are.  Simply put, the lesson is that we can’t bank our happiness on the elephants.  Do we all want the occasional appearance of elephants in our show called life?  Of course. But in order to really, really be happy – the kind of happy that has you waking up smiling and humming to every tune you hear – you must first free yourself of expectations.  This is not to say you should go into life with low expectations, for that is just plain old pessimism.  Rather, when you can, try to approach your life with no expectations.  When you can do that, you just might find that the show with playful organ music, dancing ladies in glittery gold outfits, tightrope walkers and acrobats will fill your heart with joy.  Even if the elephants are gone fishin’.

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Vitamin J

Posted on July 6, 2014 | 1 comment

I don’t wish to be buried, but if I were I do wonder what the epitaph on my tombstone might say.  “She always appreciated good grammar.” “Here lies one sassy woman.” “Even in death, she was quite punctual.”

What is it that we want to be remembered for?  We each have countless quirks and steadfast beliefs for which we stand firm.  Are you a lover of animals?  A humanitarian?  A teacher?  A spiritual guide?  When it comes time to eulogize you, how will someone encapsulate the very essence of you in a 10 minute speech? I wonder.

Over the years, I’ve decided I would make my mark in one simple way that can be broadly applicable to any situation.  It is this:  I want those who have spent time with me to feel better after than they did before. Bit by bit, minute by minute, interaction by interaction, I want to elevate the energy field of the world around me. That’s it. It’s realistically my only goal.

And while it sounds simple, it is not always so.  I manage people, and people can be tough – what with their personalities and dysfunctions and deep, unwavering commitment to their misery and such.  Not only do I manage people, I manage them in an environment that is stressful, contentious, often demoralized and sometimes downright impossible. To maintain an environment that leaves people feeling better than when they entered it is no small task.  But it is a task I take seriously.

My basic work philosophy is that it is not only possible – but rather, it is necessary – to work hard and have fun at the same time.  Maybe I carry it too far – maybe there is such a thing as too much levity – but I want people walking through the halls of our workplace to hear echoes of erupting laughter.  I want people to feel joyful about the difficult work that we do, and to celebrate the small triumphs that are the result of our efforts. I want people to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the goodness in their hearts transformed into action has in fact made the world better.

For years I’ve referred to this intervention of mine as “Vitamin J.”  If someone is having a bad day, a bad week or a bad life, it’s nothing that a little Vitamin J can’t help.  Vitamin J encompasses a myriad of ingredients. It might just be a concerned, listening ear.  It usually involves reflecting the good the person has done and a sincere compliment or two.  It almost always involves a laugh, especially at the absurd.  Vitamin J is offered in regular doses and is always on the lookout for those who are woefully deficient.  Never fear, Vitamin J can also be delivered upon request.

I was once at work standing by the mailboxes and two employees were having a conversation I could overhear, though they had no idea I was standing there.  One employee was lamenting how terrible her day had been.  The other listened and then offered, “Sounds to me like you need some Vitamin J.”  My heart swelled with pride in that moment right there. A little time with me had become the antidote for what ails ye. How cool is that?

Do I think I have something special to offer?  Truthfully, I do.  But the secret to all of this is that everyone has

their own version of Vitamin J to offer the world if they try hard enough.  Our society has developed a sorry habit of focusing on the negatives in life, but it needn’t be that way. Take the time to watch as others make their way in this complicated life. Recognize that everyone has some colossal piece of luggage they are carrying around with them day in and day out, filled with their problems and their sorrows.  And then take a moment to elevate your energy, say a kind word, pay a compliment, tell a funny story or give a hug.  It’s the easiest and best thing you can do to make the world a better place.  And not only that, you just might make your own heart sing.

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The Truth

Posted on June 29, 2014 | Leave a comment

The truth may set you free, as they say, but before that it might kick you around a bit and bitch slap you upside the head.

I’ve thought a lot about the truth in the last year.  As I set out on this adventure to write 52 blogs in a year (yeah, yeah…I’m  a couple behind….no worries) I promised myself to try two things:  1)  write a piece of fiction (done) and 2) reveal some truths about myself (done, and painfully so).   For years I’ve carried things deep inside myself, things that – truthfully – most people would probably hear and say, “That’s all you’ve got? That’s it?”  But to me, they were my things, the things I felt too proud or too scared or too whatever to share. It has actually occurred to me that I could make a list of every stupid little secret I have and unveil them all in one single blog.  I’m not there yet, but I do wonder how freeing that might feel.

In the last few months I’ve witnessed a couple of women I admire tremendously reveal themselves in ways that stunned me and gave me pause.  The first was my friend – a blogging hero of mine – who wrote about the back alley abortion she had when she was in college.  Her rawness of her emotion practically jumped out of the computer screen as I read her story.  She used her undoubtedly painful story as a means of advocacy, and did it perfectly so.  Her story was so meticulously descript, I wondered if she wept while she wrote it. It’s possible that the events were remote enough that the sting of the truth had lost its sharp edge, but it is equally possible that the pain couldn’t fully resolve until she told that story.  In the end, as I read her beautiful story in awe, I realized that her sharing of one of her painful truths only made me respect her more. And I didn’t even really know that was possible.

A couple of weeks ago, our department held a training event in which we invited David Sheff, author of Clean and Beautiful Boy to talk about his son’s addiction to and recovery from heroin.  In the afternoon, we asked a panel of individuals to talk about their own experience with addiction, each afflicted in a different way.  One by one, they revealed their stories. Stories that I won’t share here, because I respect their privacy and the intimacy that the room of 300 people experienced that day.  But suffice it to say, everyone in that room walked out the door at the end of the day a different person.  Here were people we knew and deeply respected, who shed a bright, burning, unrelenting floodlight on the darkest corners of their lives.  More than two weeks have passed, and I’m not sure the lump in my throat has fully resolved.

As I checked in the next day with one of the most forthcoming panel members, the feelings of vulnerability were palpable.  I won’t say there was regret, but there was a detectable shred of doubt.  I assured this person that sharing their story was an act of courage I’d not see the likes of before, and it had surely profoundly changed everyone in that room. Then, one by one, emails and phone calls and personal visits were paid to this panelist to express gratitude and awe and pure love.  In less than 24 hours, any lingering doubt -and substantial portions of the power fueled by the painful past – were permanently swept away.  The truth, some of it more than 20 years old, when shared in such a public and bold way, had actually set this person free.  I saw it with my own eyes, and it was beautiful.

I’ve had my own truths to face at times, truths I avoided facing sometimes for years on end.  Truths that, when finally acknowledged, hurt like hell and made me take a good, hard, painstaking, god awful look at myself and re-evaluate everything.  But always, every single time I tell you, the other side of that mess has been a better version of me.  A better version of me with more respect for myself and more authentic relationships with the people I love.

This blog is my therapy.  More truths are on the way.

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