Before you panic – and I know you were almost there, trying to decide whether this requires a gift or maybe a card would be sufficient – logophilia is the love of words. Boy, do I have it and bad!
I’ve always loved words as far back as I can remember. In the fifth grade, I fell in love with pugnacious. The sound of it thrilled me. I would find any excuse I could to use it in a sentence - “You sure are pugnacious, today!” For those of you who aren’t crazy for words, pugnacious means ready to fight, combative. It wasn’t that easy to work into daily conversation without starting a fight myself, especially at age 11.
I moved on to tintinnabulation, a word created by Edgar Allan Poe, to describe the ringing of bells. Say it. It does, indeed, sound like bells pealing their musical sounds. And it’s very fun to say. So, in Junior High, I ran around saying tintinnabulation like everyone knew what it meant. I got some very strange looks.
Today, I’m a writer who rarely uses words beyond the scope of the average reader. I write very simply and I find myself annoyed by writers who will throw in a perfectly good, but seldom used word in the middle of a very prosaic sentence. Oops, there I go. I just did it. But, hey, I love prosaic – meaning dull or ordinary. I was listening to a news story on NPR this morning and the reporter referred to Congress as recalcitrant. How many listeners did he lose with that one?
Anyway – my love of words hasn’t diminished but rather increased. Only now, I don’t go around flaunting my beautiful, melodic expressions to just anybody. More often than not, I hoard them; sounding them out in my head or saying them out loud in the privacy of my own home. The interior of my car is splattered with the invisible remains of linguistic sounds I tossed out while driving just to hear them and for no other reason.
I told you. It truly is incurable.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Queen of Simple Pleasures
I love birthday cards! Actually, I love all cards. Many years ago, when I was stuck in an extremely unhappy marriage, I would sneak off to the grocery store and read all the funny greeting cards.
Cards still have the same effect on me today. My birthday is January 1st, so I just celebrated the start of my last year before I turn 60. One of the cards I got was from my “little” sister - she’s still got five years until she hits the big 6-0.
She wrote in the card, “Happy Birthday to the Queen of Simple Pleasures.” I was delighted. What a wonderful way to be described! And on reflection I realized its true. Yippee!
It really doesn’t take much to make me happy or bring me joy and I’m so thankful for that. For instance, on my birthday I took myself out for “linner” – my word for lunch/dinner and asked for a quiet spot so that I could journal about the year behind and my hopes for the year ahead. This is an annual tradition for me – starting a new journal on New Year’s Day.
I jumped right in and was busy eating and writing, when I looked up and saw a lovely woman hauling a baby carrier towards the table next to me. I couldn’t see the baby. Didn’t even try. Instead, I thought, “Oh, crap.” I envisoned a crying papoose ruining my quiet time.
But when I looked up the woman was putting the cutest baby I’ve seen in years into a high chair and I melted. Here was a chubby-cheeked, curly-haired baby with the sweetest expression I’ve gazed upon since I stared at my own children. In fact, the child greatly resembled my daughter when she was about a year old.
I tried to tear my eyes away, but I just couldn’t. He was a bit of a flirt and his mother, who was eventually joined by her husband, didn’t mind the attention at all. Thank goodness, because I was smitten.
For about 45 minutes, I communed with the child with silent smiles and little waves with an occasional comment to his mom and dad. I returned dutifully to my journal, but was regularly pulled away by his gurgles and happy laughter. Finally, I’d eaten my fill and come to the end of my writing for the time being and gathered up my belongings.
When I walked out, I paused to thank the parents who had let me enjoy their baby so much. I told them it was my birthday and I couldn’t imagine a better present that just to spend time soaking in how precious their son was. I meant it.
So, when it gets right down to it – I guess I’d rather have that very simple pleasure and others like it than all the money, travel and luxury in the world. I am the Queen!
One last thing – Hail to the Queen! (I mean what’s the sense in being Queen if no one hails you, right?)
Cards still have the same effect on me today. My birthday is January 1st, so I just celebrated the start of my last year before I turn 60. One of the cards I got was from my “little” sister - she’s still got five years until she hits the big 6-0.
She wrote in the card, “Happy Birthday to the Queen of Simple Pleasures.” I was delighted. What a wonderful way to be described! And on reflection I realized its true. Yippee!
It really doesn’t take much to make me happy or bring me joy and I’m so thankful for that. For instance, on my birthday I took myself out for “linner” – my word for lunch/dinner and asked for a quiet spot so that I could journal about the year behind and my hopes for the year ahead. This is an annual tradition for me – starting a new journal on New Year’s Day.
I jumped right in and was busy eating and writing, when I looked up and saw a lovely woman hauling a baby carrier towards the table next to me. I couldn’t see the baby. Didn’t even try. Instead, I thought, “Oh, crap.” I envisoned a crying papoose ruining my quiet time.
But when I looked up the woman was putting the cutest baby I’ve seen in years into a high chair and I melted. Here was a chubby-cheeked, curly-haired baby with the sweetest expression I’ve gazed upon since I stared at my own children. In fact, the child greatly resembled my daughter when she was about a year old.
I tried to tear my eyes away, but I just couldn’t. He was a bit of a flirt and his mother, who was eventually joined by her husband, didn’t mind the attention at all. Thank goodness, because I was smitten.
For about 45 minutes, I communed with the child with silent smiles and little waves with an occasional comment to his mom and dad. I returned dutifully to my journal, but was regularly pulled away by his gurgles and happy laughter. Finally, I’d eaten my fill and come to the end of my writing for the time being and gathered up my belongings.
When I walked out, I paused to thank the parents who had let me enjoy their baby so much. I told them it was my birthday and I couldn’t imagine a better present that just to spend time soaking in how precious their son was. I meant it.
So, when it gets right down to it – I guess I’d rather have that very simple pleasure and others like it than all the money, travel and luxury in the world. I am the Queen!
One last thing – Hail to the Queen! (I mean what’s the sense in being Queen if no one hails you, right?)
Monday, January 3, 2011
It Doesn't Have to be My Way!
I’m stealing this idea from my sister. It’s her recently adopted mantra. Every time she starts to get a little bunged up because something isn’t going the way she’d imagined it she repeats this phrase – “It doesn’t have to be my way.”
She shared this with me and I’ve begun to chant it to myself as well. It has a very nice rhythm and the refrain soothes the savage beast inside me that formerly insisted that it did indeed have to be my way.
What’s so wonderful about having installed this belief in my mind is that my brain is finally able to wrap itself around the idea that somebody else might have a better idea and even if they don’t it doesn’t really matter. How great is that?
I mean – does the centerpiece really have to be in the center of the table? Must the reports be stapled on the top left corner? Is it critical that Susan from Accounting sit next to Jemma from Human Resources or can the two of them be separated just this once? Is the sun going to wither and die if we don’t have the traditional cranberry sauce – the kind that slides out of a can with its own rings intact - this Thanksgiving?
At the next family gathering, sales meeting or planning event, when your mind begins to wander and you find yourself at the “Are these people idiots?” buffet, try switching off the mental agonizer and switching on the replay button for “It doesn’t have to be my way” and see if you don’t calm right down.
Suddenly, the planets align, harmony falls over the unruly crowd and a glimmer of hope begins to win out that the family will not end up in a verbal Armageddon or the sales meeting might actually come up with some new ideas. And even if the world isn’t completely perfect, you are no longer a part of the anguish.
There now, doesn’t that feel good?
She shared this with me and I’ve begun to chant it to myself as well. It has a very nice rhythm and the refrain soothes the savage beast inside me that formerly insisted that it did indeed have to be my way.
What’s so wonderful about having installed this belief in my mind is that my brain is finally able to wrap itself around the idea that somebody else might have a better idea and even if they don’t it doesn’t really matter. How great is that?
I mean – does the centerpiece really have to be in the center of the table? Must the reports be stapled on the top left corner? Is it critical that Susan from Accounting sit next to Jemma from Human Resources or can the two of them be separated just this once? Is the sun going to wither and die if we don’t have the traditional cranberry sauce – the kind that slides out of a can with its own rings intact - this Thanksgiving?
At the next family gathering, sales meeting or planning event, when your mind begins to wander and you find yourself at the “Are these people idiots?” buffet, try switching off the mental agonizer and switching on the replay button for “It doesn’t have to be my way” and see if you don’t calm right down.
Suddenly, the planets align, harmony falls over the unruly crowd and a glimmer of hope begins to win out that the family will not end up in a verbal Armageddon or the sales meeting might actually come up with some new ideas. And even if the world isn’t completely perfect, you are no longer a part of the anguish.
There now, doesn’t that feel good?
Life in Three Stages
I believe most people would recognize that we live our lives in stages in many senses; each stage defined by sociologists, psychologists, our parents and their parents, basically the world outside our own selves.
I recently had an epiphany, which relieved my mind greatly. I was struck in a flash by the distinct stages of my own life as defined by myself.
I realized that if I were to divide my life so far, at the age of 59, into parts that were clearly on one path, it would divide fairly close to thirds. Until the age of thirty, I would say I had spent most of my life without direction, in pain and basically screwing up everything. This was my infancy.
From thirty to sixty- or 59 to be more exact - I have been in the process of finding myself, growing and becoming a personality that is individual. I am now clearly my own person, unafraid to declare my beliefs and more importantly, fearless in pursuing my one true passion – writing.
I’ve spent sometime beating myself up for taking so long to get here. But the truth is I wasn’t ready to write anything substantial until a few years ago. A story had to be about something other than what I knew because to write about what I know – as everyone says you must – I would have revealed too much of myself. Even to me.
So, now I’m set for the last third of my life, during which I plan to do what I do best – write – and pursue another great love in my life – travel. These are to be the top priorities as I cruise through the best stage life has to offer – what I’m calling my True Blue period.
We all develop differently. I am not a prodigy – that’s for sure. But I’m not a failure either, because I’m not yet done with trying to secure my success in the one thing that matters to me – writing. I guess I’m a late bloomer. Picturing myself as a bulb that’s been lying dormant for years, finally gathering enough nutrients and water to push through the ground and at last bloom into a beautiful tulip – my favorite flower – is somehow warming to my soul.
Whatever stage you’re in, may you soak up everything you can and enjoy as much of it as possible.
I recently had an epiphany, which relieved my mind greatly. I was struck in a flash by the distinct stages of my own life as defined by myself.
I realized that if I were to divide my life so far, at the age of 59, into parts that were clearly on one path, it would divide fairly close to thirds. Until the age of thirty, I would say I had spent most of my life without direction, in pain and basically screwing up everything. This was my infancy.
From thirty to sixty- or 59 to be more exact - I have been in the process of finding myself, growing and becoming a personality that is individual. I am now clearly my own person, unafraid to declare my beliefs and more importantly, fearless in pursuing my one true passion – writing.
I’ve spent sometime beating myself up for taking so long to get here. But the truth is I wasn’t ready to write anything substantial until a few years ago. A story had to be about something other than what I knew because to write about what I know – as everyone says you must – I would have revealed too much of myself. Even to me.
So, now I’m set for the last third of my life, during which I plan to do what I do best – write – and pursue another great love in my life – travel. These are to be the top priorities as I cruise through the best stage life has to offer – what I’m calling my True Blue period.
We all develop differently. I am not a prodigy – that’s for sure. But I’m not a failure either, because I’m not yet done with trying to secure my success in the one thing that matters to me – writing. I guess I’m a late bloomer. Picturing myself as a bulb that’s been lying dormant for years, finally gathering enough nutrients and water to push through the ground and at last bloom into a beautiful tulip – my favorite flower – is somehow warming to my soul.
Whatever stage you’re in, may you soak up everything you can and enjoy as much of it as possible.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Never Enough
As I sit here listening to Willie Nelson and Norah Jones singing “Baby It’s Cold” outside, I find myself reflecting on how lucky I am. Very.
Why just the other day I found out I’m about to come into a windfall, admittedly small, but still something I hadn’t expected. My mind ranged over a couple of things I’d been meaning to take care of and I found that with the extra cash I could do one – not both. Isn’t it amazing how there’s never enough?
The truth is that this was just the right amount to do something for myself, and then share a little with my son and daughter. Just enough. But we are so conditioned to always be searching for the amount of money that will meet all our needs, and then all our wants, and then all our conceivable wants and needs into eternity!
Never enough. It never ends – the need for more and more – if you don’t stop it yourself. I think it’s in our DNA to collect, hoard and save, as a hedge against the future and to comfort ourselves that nothing could ever go wrong, because we have enough.
The truth is that there really is never enough to save us from poverty of life or spirit no matter what. There are still earthquakes, floods, tornados, heart attacks, aneurysms, Bernie Madoff, Wall Street crashes and all manner of thieves to steal away your safety nets.
There is only way true way for what you have to be enough. You must declare it so and mean it. You have to take stock and look around you and say, “I have enough for today and that may be all the time I have anyway. I’ll worry about tomorrow - tomorrow.”
I’m not saying you don’t responsibly plan for the future, just that you don’t let the future take you over. Enjoy what there is today – a downpour, jazz music filling your little space from your small (but good enough) radio, an onion bagel. Let the warmth of fuzzy socks soak into your soul and convince you that in the precious moment – that’s all you really need. Enough is enough.
Why just the other day I found out I’m about to come into a windfall, admittedly small, but still something I hadn’t expected. My mind ranged over a couple of things I’d been meaning to take care of and I found that with the extra cash I could do one – not both. Isn’t it amazing how there’s never enough?
The truth is that this was just the right amount to do something for myself, and then share a little with my son and daughter. Just enough. But we are so conditioned to always be searching for the amount of money that will meet all our needs, and then all our wants, and then all our conceivable wants and needs into eternity!
Never enough. It never ends – the need for more and more – if you don’t stop it yourself. I think it’s in our DNA to collect, hoard and save, as a hedge against the future and to comfort ourselves that nothing could ever go wrong, because we have enough.
The truth is that there really is never enough to save us from poverty of life or spirit no matter what. There are still earthquakes, floods, tornados, heart attacks, aneurysms, Bernie Madoff, Wall Street crashes and all manner of thieves to steal away your safety nets.
There is only way true way for what you have to be enough. You must declare it so and mean it. You have to take stock and look around you and say, “I have enough for today and that may be all the time I have anyway. I’ll worry about tomorrow - tomorrow.”
I’m not saying you don’t responsibly plan for the future, just that you don’t let the future take you over. Enjoy what there is today – a downpour, jazz music filling your little space from your small (but good enough) radio, an onion bagel. Let the warmth of fuzzy socks soak into your soul and convince you that in the precious moment – that’s all you really need. Enough is enough.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
As Thanksgiving Approaches
I’ve written editorials that espoused all the platitudes about gratitude and meant every word of them. But now it’s time to get a little down and dirty. Tell it like it is. Kick the euphemisms to the curb. Oh, yeah, baby!
Excuse me while I fan myself. I got a little overwrought there. But really, isn’t it time to be for real about gratitude. You want to know what I’m most grateful about this season? I give thanks everyday that we’re a nation at peace. Oh, wait! No, that’s not right. Well, at least we have universal health care. What? What’s that you say? Not exactly.
Let’s start over. I’m thrilled that I don’t have to be the one to hose off the guy who lives in the ratty RV next door when he accumulates too much filth. I’m even more thrilled that alcohol didn’t get me the way it got him.
I’m thankful to be the one trying to get donations for the food bank, instead of being one of those that need the food.
I’m happy that when I whine about how tough life is, I still have the ability to get outside of myself (after several minutes of intense whining) and see that I’m really a very lucky gal.
Every time I’m lonely, I can reach for the phone and call someone. Isn’t that something?
I’ve been given the gift of understanding how wonderful the internet is and it makes my life easier in so many ways that I’m eternally grateful and excited to see what’s next.
I get a paycheck twice a month. I have a roof over my head. I have a vehicle that gets me where I want to go. I have enough clothes to last two weeks comfortably without doing the wash! I have family who love me and I love back. I have…I have…I have.
Thank you, Universe, for everything I have. And thanks even more for letting me see that there are others who don’t have…don’t have…don’t have.
Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.
Excuse me while I fan myself. I got a little overwrought there. But really, isn’t it time to be for real about gratitude. You want to know what I’m most grateful about this season? I give thanks everyday that we’re a nation at peace. Oh, wait! No, that’s not right. Well, at least we have universal health care. What? What’s that you say? Not exactly.
Let’s start over. I’m thrilled that I don’t have to be the one to hose off the guy who lives in the ratty RV next door when he accumulates too much filth. I’m even more thrilled that alcohol didn’t get me the way it got him.
I’m thankful to be the one trying to get donations for the food bank, instead of being one of those that need the food.
I’m happy that when I whine about how tough life is, I still have the ability to get outside of myself (after several minutes of intense whining) and see that I’m really a very lucky gal.
Every time I’m lonely, I can reach for the phone and call someone. Isn’t that something?
I’ve been given the gift of understanding how wonderful the internet is and it makes my life easier in so many ways that I’m eternally grateful and excited to see what’s next.
I get a paycheck twice a month. I have a roof over my head. I have a vehicle that gets me where I want to go. I have enough clothes to last two weeks comfortably without doing the wash! I have family who love me and I love back. I have…I have…I have.
Thank you, Universe, for everything I have. And thanks even more for letting me see that there are others who don’t have…don’t have…don’t have.
Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Dear Abby Needs an Update
This weekend, I was casually looking for the movie times, when I spied Dear Abby and was compelled to read it. When I was in my teens I used to read Ann Landers religiously, so I’m still drawn to advice columns. This one sadly disappointed me.
A newly-wed woman was complaining that her husband was happy to eat frozen pizzas and bagged salads every night saying the meals she cooked, with pleasure after a long day at work, were too expensive and too much trouble. Abby advised her to make him eat them anyway, because it was healthier and gave her pleasure. Hmmm.
There are so many things wrong with that answer, I don’t know where to start. First, she works herself, so she should feel free to cook for pleasure if she wants. Second, if he doesn’t want to eat what she cooks, she should take the leftovers for lunch the next day. Third, he’s an adult and is entitled to make his own food choices, healthy or not, and is capable of heating up his own pizza and pouring his salad from the bag. Fourth, who says a married couple must be blended together to such a degree that they must eat the same way?
The answer Abby gave leans on the tired old way of looking at marriage that I see around me everyday. This subject bugs me so much, that I may have mentioned it before in my blogs, but it bears repeating. Being married doesn’t equate to giving up oneself and becoming like the other.
I can immediately think of two couples where the wife is constantly saying things like, “We think…” Really? And when did your husband have his cloned (from yours) brain transplant? I’ve never heard a husband say the same thing. I think this is so horribly wrong.
These same two couples are not able to function separately in their lives away from work. The wives can only go shopping by themselves, never to a girls’ night out or a solo weekend retreat. The husbands seem to whine a lot and mope when left on their own, one of them choosing to starve until his wife returns to feed him. I don’t know which is sadder, being held captive against your will or willingly building your own prison walls.
Anyway, Abby, this isn’t the first half of the 20th century when the sole responsibility for health and happiness (and cooking) was in the wife’s hands. This is an age where two adults supposedly come together out of love, most of the time sharing responsibilities for income and household. It’s not necessary for the poor schmuck to eat her dinners to make her happy or him healthier. It is necessary for both to wake up to the reality that they are different entities and truly blend their preferences in a way that neither gives up the way they want to live; or not. In which case, they’re not long for the married state.
A newly-wed woman was complaining that her husband was happy to eat frozen pizzas and bagged salads every night saying the meals she cooked, with pleasure after a long day at work, were too expensive and too much trouble. Abby advised her to make him eat them anyway, because it was healthier and gave her pleasure. Hmmm.
There are so many things wrong with that answer, I don’t know where to start. First, she works herself, so she should feel free to cook for pleasure if she wants. Second, if he doesn’t want to eat what she cooks, she should take the leftovers for lunch the next day. Third, he’s an adult and is entitled to make his own food choices, healthy or not, and is capable of heating up his own pizza and pouring his salad from the bag. Fourth, who says a married couple must be blended together to such a degree that they must eat the same way?
The answer Abby gave leans on the tired old way of looking at marriage that I see around me everyday. This subject bugs me so much, that I may have mentioned it before in my blogs, but it bears repeating. Being married doesn’t equate to giving up oneself and becoming like the other.
I can immediately think of two couples where the wife is constantly saying things like, “We think…” Really? And when did your husband have his cloned (from yours) brain transplant? I’ve never heard a husband say the same thing. I think this is so horribly wrong.
These same two couples are not able to function separately in their lives away from work. The wives can only go shopping by themselves, never to a girls’ night out or a solo weekend retreat. The husbands seem to whine a lot and mope when left on their own, one of them choosing to starve until his wife returns to feed him. I don’t know which is sadder, being held captive against your will or willingly building your own prison walls.
Anyway, Abby, this isn’t the first half of the 20th century when the sole responsibility for health and happiness (and cooking) was in the wife’s hands. This is an age where two adults supposedly come together out of love, most of the time sharing responsibilities for income and household. It’s not necessary for the poor schmuck to eat her dinners to make her happy or him healthier. It is necessary for both to wake up to the reality that they are different entities and truly blend their preferences in a way that neither gives up the way they want to live; or not. In which case, they’re not long for the married state.
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