So, I think it's easy to write about John and Paul, because they were such obvious front men. They were the song writing duo of a generation. They were the voices of the Beatles.
The year John Lennon died, I was about nine years old. My mom and I had talked about the Beatles many times over the years. She was an avid music fan just like me, but felt like she really wasn't old enough to be part of Beatle Mania. Sadly, she gravitated more toward the American Pre-fab four that was created for television--The Monkees. The times we talked about the Beatles, she always said that of the four, George Harrison was her favorite. I think she picked him just to be different, not necessarily because she really understood the merits of such a choice.
I think many people my age remember George Harrison's "Got My Mind Set On You," from the album "Cloud Nine." I owned that album on cassette. My favorite track off that record was "Someplace Else." It was a great album, but not the quintessential George Harrison album.
A great music loving friend of mine, Kat Hodes, reintroduced George Harrison to me about a year and a half ago. We spend a good portion of our days working together talking about our musical passions, and she urged me to listen to "All Things Must Pass," and I trust her taste so much that without hesitation, I pretty much immediately walked down the sidewalk to Best Buy and picked it up.
It's an album that splits open your heart and fills it at the same time. Those are always my favorite. George Harrison had the ability to pour himself, like a fine whiskey, into your soul and give you heartbreaking joy.
Over the last few days, I have been watching Martin Scorsese's "George Harrison: Living in the Material World," and again have been realizing what a great gift Harrison was.
He may have been the "quiet" Beatle, but in the early days of their first recording, he is described as being the first to voice opinions about the direction they were going. Paul McCartney credits Harrison for showing John Lennon that a guitar should have six strings--not just four. And he created one of the finest riffs ever for the song "And I Love Her." (If you're a Beatles fan, you know the one.)
Eric Clapton is arguably one of the greatest guitar players of all time. He was friends with George Harrison. He talks about Harrison strolling the grounds of Friar Park playing his guitar, and of Harrison writing "Hear Comes the Sun" in a matter of moments. There was an innate greatness in him that, perhaps, required a quiet nature. His low key persona never out shined his music.
As the years wore on, and the happy days of the Beatles were drawing to a close, George Harrison had been preparing. Through the years, he was lucky if maybe one or two of his own songs ended up on a Beatles album. John Lennon recognized Harrison's gift when he advocated that "Something" be a single, instead of a B-side like most of the other George songs that were released. Lennon's advocacy was dead on. Several years ago, I had the opportunity to work with a young man with some learning disabilities. He may not have known all of the words to "Something," but there was literally something about the melody and chorus that moved him. It resonated with someone for whom memorizing a list of simple tasks was difficult. He frequently hummed or sang the chorus as he worked.
The trials, tribulations, drug use, and misadventures with the media associated with the Beatles are pretty well documented. These were four young guys who did what most of us can never imagine: they got very famous and very rich--practically overnight--only to discover that this wasn't the destination they were trying to get to. Harrison may have come to that conclusion sooner than his band mates.
In Scorsese's documentary, Harrison talks about walking through a park where a large number of young people had gathered and the atmosphere of "free love" and drugs was all around. People were offering him a plethora of drugs. It occurred to him in that moment that the whole situation was completely messed up. It occurred to him that there had to be something more--a place that one could get to where you could achieve the feeling without the chemistry.
I'm not a religious person. In the words of Bono, "I still haven't found what I'm looking for." George Harrison started searching. I may not embrace what he found, but I respect the idea that he felt like he found it. I always respect anyone who finds a sense of faith and spirituality and is able to make it the foundation of their existence. George Harrison did that.
As he discovered what was true about himself and what he most wanted to be connected to, I think it was easier to look at what was going on around him and say 'hey, you know, I don't think this is for me.' Sadly, finding his own truth was part of the unraveling of the Beatles. He was the "quiet" Beatle, but I want to think that his truth was so bright, it shone a light on the dark truths that existed within the group.
For years, George Harrison had quietly done what he was asked to, even when he was hearing a different song. For years, he had quietly taken a back seat to John and Paul. He had literally been the B-side. At a point, even when you have believed in something that is fundamentally great, sometimes you have to believe in yourself more. You have to find and know yourself.
"All Things Must Pass" was George Harrison's invitation to the world to do just that.
"While My Guitar Gently Weeps"--The Beatles (written by George Harrison)
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
October 7, 2011--Stop using sex as a weapon: Women are the mothers of peace
So, a couple of weeks ago I was on my way home from work after what I thought was a crazy, rough day. I'd finished my shift in the evening, and was lucky enough to catch part of Public Radio International's "The World." They often bring to light stories that most of us never hear about, and many of us would never want to hear.
Unfortunately, we live in a world where violence against women runs so rampant that it sometimes seems like it gets mentioned in passing. I know I have written about violence against women and sexual abuse on several occasions, as well as sexual inequality. On a day-to-day basis, there's plenty that happens in my world that reminds me that men and women are not treated equally, and they probably never will be. I don't like it. I know most women feel the same way. But the one thing most of us who find frustration with inequality between men and women in the United States don't always realize is that we are so fortunate. By chance of birth, most of us live in a country where even though things often are not equal, many horrible and violent acts perpetrated against women are viewed as just that--horrible and violent.
"The World's" Lisa Mullins was interviewing a journalist from the Congo about the horrible sexual violence against women directly related to the ongoing conflict in the region. Congolese journalist Chouchou Namegabe spoke to Mullins about the frequency with which rape is used as a means of terrorizing villages. Women are often killed in front of their children. In the most horrific instance that Nabegabe described, a woman and her five children were kidnapped. Everyday, her captors raped her; and everyday they killed one of her children and forced her to eat the flesh.
I was pulling into my driveway when I heard this story being recounted, and it stopped me cold. I work with animals every single day, yet, I could never identify any animal I work with being more base and horrible than these so called "humans." I can't even make sense of such a violent and horrific crime being perpetrated against another human, no matter the perceived "reward."
A woman in Saudi Arabia recently decided to stand up--or sit down as it were, behind the wheel. By law, Saudi women are not allowed to drive cars. They aren't even allowed to ride bicycles. Women are required to have a male guardian with them everywhere they go. One Saudi woman has openly defied the law against driving, and faces a punishment of ten lashes for her "crime."
Can you imagine living someplace where women can't get in a car and drive to the supermarket to buy a gallon of milk? Last fall, I flew to New England and drove all over the place on my own--no husband; no guardian. I appreciated doing it, but not because I knew or cared that there were women elsewhere who don't have that same right.
As recently as two years ago, twelve women were burned on an hourly basis by their husbands. This crime is often perpetrated, either because it is felt that the dowry offered by the woman's family is inadequate, or the man simply wants to be free to remarry. The practice is illegal and if convicted, the crime can result in a life sentence, but only about thirty percent of these burnings are ever reported. Many such burnings are passed off as "accidents."
Domestic violence isn't as uncommon in the West as I wish it was, but my guess is that most of us don't live in fear of our husbands setting us on fire to end a marriage.
In many areas of the world, women are essentially property. If they are "damaged," they bring shame to their families and are turned away to fend for themselves. In Africa, young girls are often forced into marriage and become pregnant far earlier in life than they should. They receive poor nutrition and medical care, and they often have difficult childbirths. Some of these attempts at delivery result in a fistula that prevents the women from being able to control urination--they leak and are humiliated by the problem. Oprah brought this issue to light years ago, and fortunately there is an organization helping these women, but the origin of the problem remains. Girls are not valued. The sooner they are out of the house, the sooner the family is not burdened with caring for them. Imagine being a young woman who has had a horrible delivery, resulting in a horrible medical complication and being turned out into the streets because you are "damaged goods."
In countries such as China and India, female infanticide and abandonment were widely accepted for centuries. It may happen less often now, but the fact that a specific gender has been identified as less worthy of life is unfathomable to me.
In light of all of these horrible stories, it can be difficult to hold out hope for our patriarchal society. With men "in charge" how is it even possible to conceive of a time when women will achieve equality? At every turn there are men all over the world doing everything possible to reinforce how worthless and disposable we are. Violence against us is acceptable and promoted. We are no more than livestock.
There was a time that it wasn't so. There was a time when women had power and their value was never in question. Sadly, we live in a world where this is no longer so.
But, today, a ray of light. Three women were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Tawakkol Karman, Leymah Gbowee and Ellen Johnson Sirlea were awarded the prize today because of their efforts to promote peace, democracy and women's rights in their respective nations.
In their press release regarding the selection of these three women, the Nobel Committee stated the following: "It is the Norwegian Nobel Committee’s hope that the prize to Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman will help to bring an end to the suppression of women that still occurs in many countries, and to realise the great potential for democracy and peace that women can represent."
When I heard about the selection of these women on National Public Radio this morning, and the reason behind their selection by the Nobel Committee, I saw hope in a world where the deck seems to be hopelessly be stacked against us.
Women are the mothers of our species. We are the mothers of the future. We cannot wait to be given the power to achieve peace and equality, we must give "birth" to it ourselves.
"Love and Peace"--U2
Unfortunately, we live in a world where violence against women runs so rampant that it sometimes seems like it gets mentioned in passing. I know I have written about violence against women and sexual abuse on several occasions, as well as sexual inequality. On a day-to-day basis, there's plenty that happens in my world that reminds me that men and women are not treated equally, and they probably never will be. I don't like it. I know most women feel the same way. But the one thing most of us who find frustration with inequality between men and women in the United States don't always realize is that we are so fortunate. By chance of birth, most of us live in a country where even though things often are not equal, many horrible and violent acts perpetrated against women are viewed as just that--horrible and violent.
"The World's" Lisa Mullins was interviewing a journalist from the Congo about the horrible sexual violence against women directly related to the ongoing conflict in the region. Congolese journalist Chouchou Namegabe spoke to Mullins about the frequency with which rape is used as a means of terrorizing villages. Women are often killed in front of their children. In the most horrific instance that Nabegabe described, a woman and her five children were kidnapped. Everyday, her captors raped her; and everyday they killed one of her children and forced her to eat the flesh.
I was pulling into my driveway when I heard this story being recounted, and it stopped me cold. I work with animals every single day, yet, I could never identify any animal I work with being more base and horrible than these so called "humans." I can't even make sense of such a violent and horrific crime being perpetrated against another human, no matter the perceived "reward."
A woman in Saudi Arabia recently decided to stand up--or sit down as it were, behind the wheel. By law, Saudi women are not allowed to drive cars. They aren't even allowed to ride bicycles. Women are required to have a male guardian with them everywhere they go. One Saudi woman has openly defied the law against driving, and faces a punishment of ten lashes for her "crime."
Can you imagine living someplace where women can't get in a car and drive to the supermarket to buy a gallon of milk? Last fall, I flew to New England and drove all over the place on my own--no husband; no guardian. I appreciated doing it, but not because I knew or cared that there were women elsewhere who don't have that same right.
As recently as two years ago, twelve women were burned on an hourly basis by their husbands. This crime is often perpetrated, either because it is felt that the dowry offered by the woman's family is inadequate, or the man simply wants to be free to remarry. The practice is illegal and if convicted, the crime can result in a life sentence, but only about thirty percent of these burnings are ever reported. Many such burnings are passed off as "accidents."
Domestic violence isn't as uncommon in the West as I wish it was, but my guess is that most of us don't live in fear of our husbands setting us on fire to end a marriage.
In many areas of the world, women are essentially property. If they are "damaged," they bring shame to their families and are turned away to fend for themselves. In Africa, young girls are often forced into marriage and become pregnant far earlier in life than they should. They receive poor nutrition and medical care, and they often have difficult childbirths. Some of these attempts at delivery result in a fistula that prevents the women from being able to control urination--they leak and are humiliated by the problem. Oprah brought this issue to light years ago, and fortunately there is an organization helping these women, but the origin of the problem remains. Girls are not valued. The sooner they are out of the house, the sooner the family is not burdened with caring for them. Imagine being a young woman who has had a horrible delivery, resulting in a horrible medical complication and being turned out into the streets because you are "damaged goods."
In countries such as China and India, female infanticide and abandonment were widely accepted for centuries. It may happen less often now, but the fact that a specific gender has been identified as less worthy of life is unfathomable to me.
In light of all of these horrible stories, it can be difficult to hold out hope for our patriarchal society. With men "in charge" how is it even possible to conceive of a time when women will achieve equality? At every turn there are men all over the world doing everything possible to reinforce how worthless and disposable we are. Violence against us is acceptable and promoted. We are no more than livestock.
There was a time that it wasn't so. There was a time when women had power and their value was never in question. Sadly, we live in a world where this is no longer so.
But, today, a ray of light. Three women were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Tawakkol Karman, Leymah Gbowee and Ellen Johnson Sirlea were awarded the prize today because of their efforts to promote peace, democracy and women's rights in their respective nations.
In their press release regarding the selection of these three women, the Nobel Committee stated the following: "It is the Norwegian Nobel Committee’s hope that the prize to Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman will help to bring an end to the suppression of women that still occurs in many countries, and to realise the great potential for democracy and peace that women can represent."
When I heard about the selection of these women on National Public Radio this morning, and the reason behind their selection by the Nobel Committee, I saw hope in a world where the deck seems to be hopelessly be stacked against us.
Women are the mothers of our species. We are the mothers of the future. We cannot wait to be given the power to achieve peace and equality, we must give "birth" to it ourselves.
"Love and Peace"--U2
Sunday, September 25, 2011
September 25--"I was enchanted to meet you:" Confessions of a Closet Taylor Swift Fan
So, we all have secrets--things we don't want everyone to know about us. I don't know anyone who doesn't have at least one guilty pleasure. Aside from food and shopping, I guess most of my guilty pleasures involve music.
For the most part, my favorite music taste falls into the "alternative" category--whatever the word alternative means. You won't get into my car and hear Britney Spears blaring. Kings of Leon (even though considered alternative by some) won't be "using somebody" on my iPod. That said, there are a few things that worm their way under my musical skin. I'm often ashamed to admit these intruders have found a place in my music collection.
It all started a few years back with a New Year's Eve special featuring Maroon 5. "This Love" was being played on the radio at a rate of frequency that produced infectious annoyance. But there was something different that clicked with me when I saw them play it live. And yes, the fact that lead singer Adam Levine is freaking geeky hot doesn't hurt. I picked up the album "Songs About Jane," and was obsessed with it for months on end. I still think it's one of the best pop/rock albums ever.
I think my soul swore that I wouldn't let anything else in, but my ears are weak. Most recently, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry chewed their way onto my iPod like vermin. I'm scared Ke$ha might end up there too. Oh, the shame of pop music! I blame my parents.
Growing up, my mom and stepdad were music junkies. Their music collection ranged from Kiss, to Neil Diamond. One of my good friends loves "classic rock." When I grew up, "classic rock" was pop music. It was what everyone was listening to because what's "classic" now is what was new then. And I think there's something to be said for that.
At some point, everything in music is alternative. Rock n' roll started as an underground movement. Parents wanted to keep their kids from listening to "that trash." Country music started out as something way more risque' and inappropriate before radio arrived on the scene (Can you even think about a time without radio?!).
As an "alternative" music lover, probably one of the most shameful confessions I have to make is that I have been infected with Taylor Swift. I blame, in part, my current profession, and the fact that I grew up during a period where pop music had a love affair with country music and for a while, it was pretty difficult to tell the difference. From Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers singing Barry Gibb's "Islands in the Stream," to Eddie Rabbit's "I Love a Rainy Night," it was hard to know whether I was liking country music or pop. It was a very confusing time. When I found myself in the veterinary profession, it was almost inevitable that I would be locked in a room or car with someone who exclusively listened to country music--again during a period when country was crossing the line. But I think this time around, country artists were seeking out the affair.
From Shania Twain and Faith Hill, to Keith Urban, country and pop seemed destined to rekindle their romance. I liked what I was hearing in spite of myself, and even found myself listening a little deeper. It's hard for me to admit that some of the country I like most is also the most hard core. Montgomery Gentry's "Daddy Won't Sell the Farm" is worthy of being blasted, and the smokey and seductive heart-wrenching twang of Gary Allan easily makes me weak in the knees.
It seemed for a while, however, that some distance had come between country music and me. But, with a hair flip and the goofy grin of then eighteen-year-old Taylor Swift, it all came back. I didn't want to like her. She wasn't "worthy" of my musical snobbery. So, I tried to ignore her.
I think it's important at this point to remind the reader that I started off talking about secrets and guilty pleasures. Among the ones I listed for myself was food. I know that it is important to eat a balanced diet and that I shouldn't overindulge. I know I should drink water instead of Dr. Pepper. I know that a poached egg or a protein shake would be a better breakfast than a cherry Pop Tart. But here's the deal, sometimes, you just want a cherry Pop Tart, even if it isn't good for you. There's something about the frosting meshing with the cherry filling when it's warmed that creates a perfect balance of tart and sweet. It's so bad, it's good. There's almost no nutritional value.
"Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone
I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run
You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess
It's a love story, baby just say yes."
"Love Story" --Taylor Swift
Those were the words. Those infectious cherry pop tart words. For one, I couldn't get away from them, for two, why wouldn't they make you smile? It found its way onto my iPod. Drat! But I didn't tell anyone, so nobody had to know.
Around the time Swift released her most recent album "Speak Now," she appeared on a television special to promote its release and the upcoming tour to support it. I DVRd it and watched it alone. A few years older, her lyrics had matured as well.
"Oh, holding my breath
Won't see you again
Something keeps me holding onto nothing"
"Haunted" --Taylor Swift
"Speak Now" has a very different vibe than "Fearless," but oddly, maybe it's more fearless than "Fearless." It's an album that explores the darker emotions associated with love--mostly lost love.
I found myself downloading the album based on the special alone. Again, I told no one.
A couple months ago, I secretly DVRd a special about her "Fearless" tour, and I found myself kind of wishing I had gotten to see her. I kind of hoped I might find a chance to see her this time around, but I really didn't want to admit that I wanted to go. Luckily, a few of my coworkers wanted to go too and I could slip going under the radar. I joked with everyone that I would go, but would tell no one, and that if I ended up with a t-shirt, it would never be paired with anything but pajama pants.
As it started to circulate that a few of us were going, my fellow music snob at work confessed that she, too, couldn't hate Taylor Swift--against her better judgment. She listened to her talking about what she does and found her "endearing." And that's the problem, for those of us who have crossed over to the "bright side," she's oddly endearing.
Some days the job I do is fairly easy. I get to help puppies and kittens (and their older counterparts) all day. And then, there are the hard days--the days that I see things I can't reconcile or make sense of. Some days, the world is a pretty tough place. Human beings are capable of inhumane cruelty to each other, and I hear about things I can't even believe to be possible.
Last night, in nearly nosebleed seats, I spent two hours with a few of my friends watching a silly twenty-one-year-old flip her hair and stare at the audience with wild-eyed expressions that bordered on absurd theatrics. But, there was a woman in the row in front of us with her daughter and one of my best friends looked at me and said "That's going to be me in about seven years." My response, "Maybe it will be me too." I felt myself choke up just a little bit and feel a little teary-eyed in the moment.
If I am fortunate enough to be that woman in about seven years, I'm sure I will want my daughter to eat her vegetables and listen to U2. I'm sure I will still be protesting that she will not be going to see Ke$ha with her "aunt Meg." But, maybe we'll be taking her and Maci to see Taylor Swift together. And that would be all right by me.
In a world that often seems to have gone crazy, and sometimes only wants to take you down with it, what can be so bad about an adorable twenty-one-year-old that writes her own silly love songs while playing her own guitar, piano or banjo? It may be cherry Pop Tart music, but you know, sometimes, you just need a cherry Pop Tart.
"Enchanted" Taylor Swift
For the most part, my favorite music taste falls into the "alternative" category--whatever the word alternative means. You won't get into my car and hear Britney Spears blaring. Kings of Leon (even though considered alternative by some) won't be "using somebody" on my iPod. That said, there are a few things that worm their way under my musical skin. I'm often ashamed to admit these intruders have found a place in my music collection.
It all started a few years back with a New Year's Eve special featuring Maroon 5. "This Love" was being played on the radio at a rate of frequency that produced infectious annoyance. But there was something different that clicked with me when I saw them play it live. And yes, the fact that lead singer Adam Levine is freaking geeky hot doesn't hurt. I picked up the album "Songs About Jane," and was obsessed with it for months on end. I still think it's one of the best pop/rock albums ever.
I think my soul swore that I wouldn't let anything else in, but my ears are weak. Most recently, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry chewed their way onto my iPod like vermin. I'm scared Ke$ha might end up there too. Oh, the shame of pop music! I blame my parents.
Growing up, my mom and stepdad were music junkies. Their music collection ranged from Kiss, to Neil Diamond. One of my good friends loves "classic rock." When I grew up, "classic rock" was pop music. It was what everyone was listening to because what's "classic" now is what was new then. And I think there's something to be said for that.
At some point, everything in music is alternative. Rock n' roll started as an underground movement. Parents wanted to keep their kids from listening to "that trash." Country music started out as something way more risque' and inappropriate before radio arrived on the scene (Can you even think about a time without radio?!).
As an "alternative" music lover, probably one of the most shameful confessions I have to make is that I have been infected with Taylor Swift. I blame, in part, my current profession, and the fact that I grew up during a period where pop music had a love affair with country music and for a while, it was pretty difficult to tell the difference. From Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers singing Barry Gibb's "Islands in the Stream," to Eddie Rabbit's "I Love a Rainy Night," it was hard to know whether I was liking country music or pop. It was a very confusing time. When I found myself in the veterinary profession, it was almost inevitable that I would be locked in a room or car with someone who exclusively listened to country music--again during a period when country was crossing the line. But I think this time around, country artists were seeking out the affair.
From Shania Twain and Faith Hill, to Keith Urban, country and pop seemed destined to rekindle their romance. I liked what I was hearing in spite of myself, and even found myself listening a little deeper. It's hard for me to admit that some of the country I like most is also the most hard core. Montgomery Gentry's "Daddy Won't Sell the Farm" is worthy of being blasted, and the smokey and seductive heart-wrenching twang of Gary Allan easily makes me weak in the knees.
It seemed for a while, however, that some distance had come between country music and me. But, with a hair flip and the goofy grin of then eighteen-year-old Taylor Swift, it all came back. I didn't want to like her. She wasn't "worthy" of my musical snobbery. So, I tried to ignore her.
I think it's important at this point to remind the reader that I started off talking about secrets and guilty pleasures. Among the ones I listed for myself was food. I know that it is important to eat a balanced diet and that I shouldn't overindulge. I know I should drink water instead of Dr. Pepper. I know that a poached egg or a protein shake would be a better breakfast than a cherry Pop Tart. But here's the deal, sometimes, you just want a cherry Pop Tart, even if it isn't good for you. There's something about the frosting meshing with the cherry filling when it's warmed that creates a perfect balance of tart and sweet. It's so bad, it's good. There's almost no nutritional value.
"Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone
I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run
You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess
It's a love story, baby just say yes."
"Love Story" --Taylor Swift
Those were the words. Those infectious cherry pop tart words. For one, I couldn't get away from them, for two, why wouldn't they make you smile? It found its way onto my iPod. Drat! But I didn't tell anyone, so nobody had to know.
Around the time Swift released her most recent album "Speak Now," she appeared on a television special to promote its release and the upcoming tour to support it. I DVRd it and watched it alone. A few years older, her lyrics had matured as well.
"Oh, holding my breath
Won't see you again
Something keeps me holding onto nothing"
"Haunted" --Taylor Swift
"Speak Now" has a very different vibe than "Fearless," but oddly, maybe it's more fearless than "Fearless." It's an album that explores the darker emotions associated with love--mostly lost love.
I found myself downloading the album based on the special alone. Again, I told no one.
A couple months ago, I secretly DVRd a special about her "Fearless" tour, and I found myself kind of wishing I had gotten to see her. I kind of hoped I might find a chance to see her this time around, but I really didn't want to admit that I wanted to go. Luckily, a few of my coworkers wanted to go too and I could slip going under the radar. I joked with everyone that I would go, but would tell no one, and that if I ended up with a t-shirt, it would never be paired with anything but pajama pants.
As it started to circulate that a few of us were going, my fellow music snob at work confessed that she, too, couldn't hate Taylor Swift--against her better judgment. She listened to her talking about what she does and found her "endearing." And that's the problem, for those of us who have crossed over to the "bright side," she's oddly endearing.
Some days the job I do is fairly easy. I get to help puppies and kittens (and their older counterparts) all day. And then, there are the hard days--the days that I see things I can't reconcile or make sense of. Some days, the world is a pretty tough place. Human beings are capable of inhumane cruelty to each other, and I hear about things I can't even believe to be possible.
Last night, in nearly nosebleed seats, I spent two hours with a few of my friends watching a silly twenty-one-year-old flip her hair and stare at the audience with wild-eyed expressions that bordered on absurd theatrics. But, there was a woman in the row in front of us with her daughter and one of my best friends looked at me and said "That's going to be me in about seven years." My response, "Maybe it will be me too." I felt myself choke up just a little bit and feel a little teary-eyed in the moment.
If I am fortunate enough to be that woman in about seven years, I'm sure I will want my daughter to eat her vegetables and listen to U2. I'm sure I will still be protesting that she will not be going to see Ke$ha with her "aunt Meg." But, maybe we'll be taking her and Maci to see Taylor Swift together. And that would be all right by me.
In a world that often seems to have gone crazy, and sometimes only wants to take you down with it, what can be so bad about an adorable twenty-one-year-old that writes her own silly love songs while playing her own guitar, piano or banjo? It may be cherry Pop Tart music, but you know, sometimes, you just need a cherry Pop Tart.
"Enchanted" Taylor Swift
Saturday, September 10, 2011
September 10, 2011--We will never have another September 10.
So, it was a phenomenally beautiful day. It was so beautiful, it nearly sparkled. It seems like that's one of the things we all seem to remember the most.
I was getting ready to leave for work--as usual, running late, and only caught a snippet about the planes from National Public Radio. It wasn't possible for me to begin to process the information--there wasn't time.
Within a couple of hours after my arrival at work, leaders from my company were calling and telling us we were welcome to go home if we wanted to. We didn't. I remember a co-worker of mine saying that nothing would change here--by here, she meant Kansas City. Before long, I think we all realized that nothing would ever be the same.
People trickled in and out of our hospital that day. But mostly it seemed like people were just someplace else. By the time I got to leave that evening, I still hadn't seen any of the images of the planes crashing into the towers, the Pentagon or in that open field in Pennsylvania.
I'll never forget the news shows endlessly replaying the video of the planes hitting and the towers falling. It was almost as if they couldn't make the event real, no matter how many times we all saw it unfold--time after time. It was a macabre and horrible instant replay. For hours, they showed footage of people taking to the streets of New York, walking away from where the towers used to be. Paper, dust, debris and smoke flew around like the tiny plastic pieces floating around in a snow globe. The surreality of everything made the event seem impossible. It was the worst disaster movie brought horrifically to life.
As people began to realize their loved ones were unaccounted for, the night brought images of the fliers and photos--the fliers and photos posted and held by family and friends desperately seeking their missing--their dead.
I remember that we huddled on the sofa, watching. It seems to me that we actually were watching MTV that night because they had people in the streets talking to New Yorkers about what had happened and where they had been. It was the first time in years MTV was relevant to me. Sadly, it hasn't been so since.
As I reflect on that night, it seems like I can't remember a time when so many people gathered--came together--outside of events like Live Aid or the George Harrison concert for Bangladesh. I'm not a patriotic person by any means, but in those moments, I was an American, just like everyone else. My heart bled for those lost, and those left behind.
In the months and years that have followed, many things have changed. For the last ten years, we have been in a constant state of war. At every turn, new threats create new security efforts that baffle many of us, and seem ludicrous at times. I'm in that group of folks who is willing to sacrifice a lot to be safe and stay alive. Take my shampoo--please! I've lost a Leatherman that Jeph gave me for my birthday that I forgot was in my purse, and mailed my bandage scissors to myself for the same mistake at another point. I've been the arrogant American waiting in the customs line in the Dublin airport as two men of Arab descent were being screened more thoroughly than the rest of us--and horrible person that it makes me--I was glad. I've been the seeking American, trying to understand where all that hate comes from, and what we should have done, and still need to do, to build bridges instead of fueling more hijacked airplanes.
On the one hand, in the days following the attacks, the terrorists lost their battle--we pulled together instead of tearing each other apart. On the other, our economy is still crumbling around us, not unlike those two towers; our leadership is divided and at war with each other; and we as a nation could not be less unified. Ten years of war have added to the death toll of that day--on both sides. And as we prepare for bed tonight, a terrorist threat looms over us again--taking us back to those horrible moments of vulnerability and uncertainty.
For many who had loved ones in the towers, at the Pentagon and in Pennsylvania, time stopped. National Public Radio has an amazing project called Story Corp, and they have worked in conjunction with the National September 11 Memorial and Museum to help loved ones document their stories. This week, I listened to a father talk about his two sons--one a fireman, one a policeman. He had spoken to both of his boys within a day of the attacks, and he had been fortunate enough to do what so many of us never get the chance to do--he had told them he loved them--not knowing how significant those words would be. No unfinished business. I also listened to a boy talking about his grandfather who died in the attacks. He said that his grandpa was the only grandpa he wanted to see and broke down. The tears of that young boy stopped me cold, and I nearly had to pull over.
I think of a friend who was in the Pentagon and injured in the attack. I can't imagine what emotions are hitting her tonight, and what she has gone through every year. I know there isn't a day that passes for her that this event isn't with her.
For many of these people, every day is September 11, 2001. A piece of their lives is gone that they can never get back. Nearly three thousand people were just lost--as if misplaced like an earring or cuff-link. You see the match everyday and it constantly reminds you that the pair--the set--will never be complete again. But it feels like it should be, and no matter how much you try to remind yourself, it just doesn't make sense. Your heart is forever searching.
As much as things changed for a moment in time, everything actually did stay the same. With the exception of those trapped on September 11 forever, the rest of us went on with our lives. We changed jobs, had children, started new diets, bought new wardrobes, or let the last ten years pass like an absent minded blur. We're back to our selfishness. We're back to looking at the rest of the world around us and when people need help, we're back to saying "that's not my problem, take care of yourself." We're back to calling people who disagree with our political views names and defiantly struggling to do anything but work together to find common ground.
In spite of what is the same, and even what's different, as we see and hear the specials commemorating the anniversary of the attacks, that same pain and horror will flash through our minds once more. Every one of us will think about that day--where we were, how we learned of the attacks and the extent of the horror, and how we vowed to stand together against terror. Every one of us will probably feel that lump rise in our throats when we hear the individual stories of last conversations, or of parents watching as the plane their son was on crashed into Tower Two in real time on television.
And the one thing that could bring us together again is remembering another day--a day we will never have again. We will forever be the post 9/11 America. There will never be another September 10 for any of us.
I hope you will click the link. Live didn't write "Overcome" about September 11, but it became an anthem for the moment. The only video I have ever seen for this track includes footage from New York in the hours we were most together. As the last ten minutes of this post 9/11 September 10 pass, I know I will be thinking about those hours on my sofa, those people in the streets who would receive word their loved ones were gone, and those survivors who ask "why did I get another chance?" For some questions, there are no answers.
"I beg you...to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." Rainer Maria Rilke
http://youtu.be/jpCa7Ay596M
I was getting ready to leave for work--as usual, running late, and only caught a snippet about the planes from National Public Radio. It wasn't possible for me to begin to process the information--there wasn't time.
Within a couple of hours after my arrival at work, leaders from my company were calling and telling us we were welcome to go home if we wanted to. We didn't. I remember a co-worker of mine saying that nothing would change here--by here, she meant Kansas City. Before long, I think we all realized that nothing would ever be the same.
People trickled in and out of our hospital that day. But mostly it seemed like people were just someplace else. By the time I got to leave that evening, I still hadn't seen any of the images of the planes crashing into the towers, the Pentagon or in that open field in Pennsylvania.
I'll never forget the news shows endlessly replaying the video of the planes hitting and the towers falling. It was almost as if they couldn't make the event real, no matter how many times we all saw it unfold--time after time. It was a macabre and horrible instant replay. For hours, they showed footage of people taking to the streets of New York, walking away from where the towers used to be. Paper, dust, debris and smoke flew around like the tiny plastic pieces floating around in a snow globe. The surreality of everything made the event seem impossible. It was the worst disaster movie brought horrifically to life.
As people began to realize their loved ones were unaccounted for, the night brought images of the fliers and photos--the fliers and photos posted and held by family and friends desperately seeking their missing--their dead.
I remember that we huddled on the sofa, watching. It seems to me that we actually were watching MTV that night because they had people in the streets talking to New Yorkers about what had happened and where they had been. It was the first time in years MTV was relevant to me. Sadly, it hasn't been so since.
As I reflect on that night, it seems like I can't remember a time when so many people gathered--came together--outside of events like Live Aid or the George Harrison concert for Bangladesh. I'm not a patriotic person by any means, but in those moments, I was an American, just like everyone else. My heart bled for those lost, and those left behind.
In the months and years that have followed, many things have changed. For the last ten years, we have been in a constant state of war. At every turn, new threats create new security efforts that baffle many of us, and seem ludicrous at times. I'm in that group of folks who is willing to sacrifice a lot to be safe and stay alive. Take my shampoo--please! I've lost a Leatherman that Jeph gave me for my birthday that I forgot was in my purse, and mailed my bandage scissors to myself for the same mistake at another point. I've been the arrogant American waiting in the customs line in the Dublin airport as two men of Arab descent were being screened more thoroughly than the rest of us--and horrible person that it makes me--I was glad. I've been the seeking American, trying to understand where all that hate comes from, and what we should have done, and still need to do, to build bridges instead of fueling more hijacked airplanes.
On the one hand, in the days following the attacks, the terrorists lost their battle--we pulled together instead of tearing each other apart. On the other, our economy is still crumbling around us, not unlike those two towers; our leadership is divided and at war with each other; and we as a nation could not be less unified. Ten years of war have added to the death toll of that day--on both sides. And as we prepare for bed tonight, a terrorist threat looms over us again--taking us back to those horrible moments of vulnerability and uncertainty.
For many who had loved ones in the towers, at the Pentagon and in Pennsylvania, time stopped. National Public Radio has an amazing project called Story Corp, and they have worked in conjunction with the National September 11 Memorial and Museum to help loved ones document their stories. This week, I listened to a father talk about his two sons--one a fireman, one a policeman. He had spoken to both of his boys within a day of the attacks, and he had been fortunate enough to do what so many of us never get the chance to do--he had told them he loved them--not knowing how significant those words would be. No unfinished business. I also listened to a boy talking about his grandfather who died in the attacks. He said that his grandpa was the only grandpa he wanted to see and broke down. The tears of that young boy stopped me cold, and I nearly had to pull over.
I think of a friend who was in the Pentagon and injured in the attack. I can't imagine what emotions are hitting her tonight, and what she has gone through every year. I know there isn't a day that passes for her that this event isn't with her.
For many of these people, every day is September 11, 2001. A piece of their lives is gone that they can never get back. Nearly three thousand people were just lost--as if misplaced like an earring or cuff-link. You see the match everyday and it constantly reminds you that the pair--the set--will never be complete again. But it feels like it should be, and no matter how much you try to remind yourself, it just doesn't make sense. Your heart is forever searching.
As much as things changed for a moment in time, everything actually did stay the same. With the exception of those trapped on September 11 forever, the rest of us went on with our lives. We changed jobs, had children, started new diets, bought new wardrobes, or let the last ten years pass like an absent minded blur. We're back to our selfishness. We're back to looking at the rest of the world around us and when people need help, we're back to saying "that's not my problem, take care of yourself." We're back to calling people who disagree with our political views names and defiantly struggling to do anything but work together to find common ground.
In spite of what is the same, and even what's different, as we see and hear the specials commemorating the anniversary of the attacks, that same pain and horror will flash through our minds once more. Every one of us will think about that day--where we were, how we learned of the attacks and the extent of the horror, and how we vowed to stand together against terror. Every one of us will probably feel that lump rise in our throats when we hear the individual stories of last conversations, or of parents watching as the plane their son was on crashed into Tower Two in real time on television.
And the one thing that could bring us together again is remembering another day--a day we will never have again. We will forever be the post 9/11 America. There will never be another September 10 for any of us.
I hope you will click the link. Live didn't write "Overcome" about September 11, but it became an anthem for the moment. The only video I have ever seen for this track includes footage from New York in the hours we were most together. As the last ten minutes of this post 9/11 September 10 pass, I know I will be thinking about those hours on my sofa, those people in the streets who would receive word their loved ones were gone, and those survivors who ask "why did I get another chance?" For some questions, there are no answers.
"I beg you...to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." Rainer Maria Rilke
http://youtu.be/jpCa7Ay596M
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
August 30, 2011--I want to hear your story, I really do, but...
So, today my company sent out a mass e-mail asking each of us to complete a twelve-question survey that basically boils down our level of job satisfaction. It's one of those "on a scale of one to five, with five being that you strongly agree" kind of deals.
It's true, the last year has been way less than "five" for me. As the day of this e-mail was approaching, I debated what I would do or say. There was great disappointment in the "turn out" for this survey last year, and so the build up has been pretty intense, including daily "coaching" e-mails to make sure each of us understands each of the twelve questions. I've actually had to endure training seminars on communication, and having it acknowledged that sometimes we just really need to be able to vent to our "Q10." (In case you're not aware of who your Q10 is, it's your best friend.)
It's a little bit like the "Twelve Days of Christmas" without the pleasure of singing the long drawn out "five golden rings."
I think I made my decision when I hit the delete button this afternoon. As I went on through the rest of my day, I still thought about it a little. Did I do the right thing? Should I have "engaged?"
Sometimes people ask us to tell our stories just to be polite. They don't want to seem uncaring or disconnected. Last night, I attended a dinner thanking a group of us from my company who assisted our veterinary hospital in Joplin, Missouri following the tornado. Very important people from our main office came along to meet and thank us. Among those attending was the owner of the hospital who received our help. He was asked to share with all of us what it was like to be involved in the crisis.
Everyone likes a good story, right?
Well, he proceeded to tell every detail of what happened, from the mundane and irrelevant to the pertinent--or at least what I felt was pertinent. As I sat there hearing his tale, I kept silently thinking "When is he going to talk about the hospital?" It took him a while to get there, but he did finally circle round to the part to which we could all relate and in which we were most interested.
I found myself feeling a little bad about the fact that I only half-listened to him talking about people and situations I didn't really know or relate to. After all, it was his story to tell, not mine.
Nobody else volunteered to say anything about their experiences. I'd intended, if asked, to remind everyone that the people and pets of Joplin still need help, and that we shouldn't lose sight of the enormity of the disaster just because it's now three months down the road. I think I didn't volunteer because part of me felt like just as I hadn't cared about all of the details of the veterinarian's story, it was likely that nobody would care about what I had to say either.
It's a horrible feeling when you have a story to tell and no one seems to want to hear it. As someone who wants someday to make it as a writer, nothing really matters more to me than being heard or being read. When people hear that you are writing a book or that you have written a book, they often say they can't wait to read it and they will be only too happy to give you feedback. They're often just being polite.
Sending out a mass e-mail to thousands of employees sounds like a nice thing to do too. After all, don't we all want to be heard? Don't we all dream of the opportunity to tell the people we work for what we really think? The problem I have is that assigning my feelings and thoughts a numerical value just doesn't work. They want to hear my "story," but only on their terms. I don't think the number two adequately conveys my opinion about anything. And, yes, I realize that perhaps it's a little arrogant of me to think that anyone should want me to wax philosophical about the disappointments I have about my career, but I also think it's arrogant to ask me how I feel without giving me a format in which I can adequately express it.
In the Druidic tradition, bards were well respected. Their charge was to guard and transmit the oral history of Druidic belief and tradition. As our technology becomes more and more advanced and aimed at less information in more portable formats, I think we are losing an important part of the soul of humanity. In the Druidic tradition, the bard would share stories and songs with a gathering of his people. A connection was needed in order to ensure that these stories and songs would live on in generations to come.
When I was approaching the final semester of my mass communications degree, whispers about "the internet" could be heard swirling around the newsroom of the paper I interned for over the summer. I didn't know what it was, but as people started to say that someday there would be no newspaper to hold, I, like Joan of Arc, declared my undying loyalty to the hard copy. To this day, I can't bring myself to read a newspaper online. I need to feel my news in my hands. As Kindles and Nooks are becoming all the rage, I know that they afford me the ability to carry a library with me anywhere I go. I love that portability, and the fact that if I decide to read something and it turns out to be really horrible, it won't be taking up space on my already over-crammed bookshelves. But when I reach for "The Complete Poems and Tales of Edgar Allan Poe," I want to feel the hard cover and binding as I flip through the pages to find "A Dream Within a Dream." Like the cord that attaches to my Kindle to charge it, I know that given the choice of reading the "Twilight" saga in its original form, or by push button, I still want to curl up and connect with the real books.
The fast pace of today's society allows us to stay constantly "connected" wherever we are. We can "connect" with our friends via social networking. We can text in order to stay "connected" to our loved ones as we travel.
We can download movies, concerts, music and books anywhere we go. We can fast forward through commercials, skip songs on the album we don't like and scroll through to the "good part" of the book. We can hear the "story" we want to hear, not necessarily the one the story teller told. When we do that, aren't we really making the story our own? Aren't we really saying, I know I asked to hear your story, but can you get to the part I wanted to hear and skip all the rest?
Thanks to technology, we have the potential and ability to really connect. But what is the price of all of this "connection?"
Can you wait a sec, I've got to update my status?"
http://youtu.be/uibMMmcr3rc
It's true, the last year has been way less than "five" for me. As the day of this e-mail was approaching, I debated what I would do or say. There was great disappointment in the "turn out" for this survey last year, and so the build up has been pretty intense, including daily "coaching" e-mails to make sure each of us understands each of the twelve questions. I've actually had to endure training seminars on communication, and having it acknowledged that sometimes we just really need to be able to vent to our "Q10." (In case you're not aware of who your Q10 is, it's your best friend.)
It's a little bit like the "Twelve Days of Christmas" without the pleasure of singing the long drawn out "five golden rings."
I think I made my decision when I hit the delete button this afternoon. As I went on through the rest of my day, I still thought about it a little. Did I do the right thing? Should I have "engaged?"
Sometimes people ask us to tell our stories just to be polite. They don't want to seem uncaring or disconnected. Last night, I attended a dinner thanking a group of us from my company who assisted our veterinary hospital in Joplin, Missouri following the tornado. Very important people from our main office came along to meet and thank us. Among those attending was the owner of the hospital who received our help. He was asked to share with all of us what it was like to be involved in the crisis.
Everyone likes a good story, right?
Well, he proceeded to tell every detail of what happened, from the mundane and irrelevant to the pertinent--or at least what I felt was pertinent. As I sat there hearing his tale, I kept silently thinking "When is he going to talk about the hospital?" It took him a while to get there, but he did finally circle round to the part to which we could all relate and in which we were most interested.
I found myself feeling a little bad about the fact that I only half-listened to him talking about people and situations I didn't really know or relate to. After all, it was his story to tell, not mine.
Nobody else volunteered to say anything about their experiences. I'd intended, if asked, to remind everyone that the people and pets of Joplin still need help, and that we shouldn't lose sight of the enormity of the disaster just because it's now three months down the road. I think I didn't volunteer because part of me felt like just as I hadn't cared about all of the details of the veterinarian's story, it was likely that nobody would care about what I had to say either.
It's a horrible feeling when you have a story to tell and no one seems to want to hear it. As someone who wants someday to make it as a writer, nothing really matters more to me than being heard or being read. When people hear that you are writing a book or that you have written a book, they often say they can't wait to read it and they will be only too happy to give you feedback. They're often just being polite.
Sending out a mass e-mail to thousands of employees sounds like a nice thing to do too. After all, don't we all want to be heard? Don't we all dream of the opportunity to tell the people we work for what we really think? The problem I have is that assigning my feelings and thoughts a numerical value just doesn't work. They want to hear my "story," but only on their terms. I don't think the number two adequately conveys my opinion about anything. And, yes, I realize that perhaps it's a little arrogant of me to think that anyone should want me to wax philosophical about the disappointments I have about my career, but I also think it's arrogant to ask me how I feel without giving me a format in which I can adequately express it.
In the Druidic tradition, bards were well respected. Their charge was to guard and transmit the oral history of Druidic belief and tradition. As our technology becomes more and more advanced and aimed at less information in more portable formats, I think we are losing an important part of the soul of humanity. In the Druidic tradition, the bard would share stories and songs with a gathering of his people. A connection was needed in order to ensure that these stories and songs would live on in generations to come.
When I was approaching the final semester of my mass communications degree, whispers about "the internet" could be heard swirling around the newsroom of the paper I interned for over the summer. I didn't know what it was, but as people started to say that someday there would be no newspaper to hold, I, like Joan of Arc, declared my undying loyalty to the hard copy. To this day, I can't bring myself to read a newspaper online. I need to feel my news in my hands. As Kindles and Nooks are becoming all the rage, I know that they afford me the ability to carry a library with me anywhere I go. I love that portability, and the fact that if I decide to read something and it turns out to be really horrible, it won't be taking up space on my already over-crammed bookshelves. But when I reach for "The Complete Poems and Tales of Edgar Allan Poe," I want to feel the hard cover and binding as I flip through the pages to find "A Dream Within a Dream." Like the cord that attaches to my Kindle to charge it, I know that given the choice of reading the "Twilight" saga in its original form, or by push button, I still want to curl up and connect with the real books.
The fast pace of today's society allows us to stay constantly "connected" wherever we are. We can "connect" with our friends via social networking. We can text in order to stay "connected" to our loved ones as we travel.
We can download movies, concerts, music and books anywhere we go. We can fast forward through commercials, skip songs on the album we don't like and scroll through to the "good part" of the book. We can hear the "story" we want to hear, not necessarily the one the story teller told. When we do that, aren't we really making the story our own? Aren't we really saying, I know I asked to hear your story, but can you get to the part I wanted to hear and skip all the rest?
Thanks to technology, we have the potential and ability to really connect. But what is the price of all of this "connection?"
Can you wait a sec, I've got to update my status?"
http://youtu.be/uibMMmcr3rc
Saturday, August 27, 2011
August 27, 2011--The bigger we are, the harder we may fall.
So, I ran into a great friend today. She's someone who has meant a great deal to me over the years and from whom I have learned so much.
It was a rushed reunion, but in catching up a little bit, it wasn't long before we were both expressing a similar concern about the direction that we all sometimes try to take in business, and in life. Today, we happened to mostly be talking about business.
I've talked about expansion and growth before. I know that the business-minded person would argue that if you aren't growing, you're dying, but sometimes I wonder how worthwhile it is to outgrow your britches. Many would argue that if you are growing, just buy bigger britches, but at a point, getting infinitely bigger leads to one result--being unable to lift yourself up without the rescue of someone else's crane, and removing the front door.
As a registered veterinary technician, I am required to earn a certain number of continuing education credits every year to maintain my licenses. I invariably attend a large conference to get as much bang for my buck as possible. Along with days filled with lectures on everything from dentistry to how to calculate cardiac output, there is a giant hall filled with nothing but people who hope I have the power of the purse in my practice, and that I will go back to my hospital and strong arm my veterinarian into purchasing either a lot of something, or something really big and expensive. The joke is always on them--I work for a large company and have nothing to do with any decisions about purchasing. The fun thing about this giant hall is that in the effort to get my attention and "influence" over my doctors, these folks are trying to give me leaflets, samples, pens, magnets and any number of different things--oh and bags, lots of bags.
The funny thing is, I remember the first years of attending this conference. To me, every pen, magnet, leaflet and squishy stress heart was absolutely necessary. By the end of each day, the strap marks (from all the bags) cut deeply into my shoulders, and I was in need of massage, chiropractic or osteopathic therapy from carrying all the crap around. In time, I thought I'd solve the problem simply by getting the CD Rom version of the proceedings book instead of the hard copy, but soon realized I just had to take less stuff.
This many years later, I still see the amateurs struggling with multiple bags of stuff that they had to have. Somewhere in the middle are the really hardcore attendees who bring the rolling luggage in which to cart everything around. Over the years, I have developed a strategy. I get rid of as many paper products as possible before I even start. After assessing the "valuable" crap that I could potentially pick up, I have greatly narrowed the amount of paper I have to carry around.
Today, I take great pride in the fact that I was able to limit myself to pamphlets about only one product, and the rest of the stuff I ended up with was ultimately very cool. I have two new books, four T-shirts, a new ball cap, dog slippers and three stuffed cats (yes, I really did need three). I did not pick up one pen, magnet or squishy organ!
My left shoulder still hurts like a mother (and not the one who made you cookies after school) and I am sure I still have things I really don't need.
It's natural to want more, but what if when you get more, you are able to hold onto less? I was pressed for time this morning, so I started the day off without a tote bag, and I didn't have time to grab anything to take notes on or with. Luckily, my writing portfolio was in the car, and a pen was handy. My writing portfolio has no shoulder straps. At lunch time, I found myself in a line with a book in one hand, and my writing portfolio in the other. There was no third hand for me to pick up and fill my plate, let alone grab a drink. I managed, but it was pretty tough. When I'd been sitting through the spiel that earned me the book, I hadn't considered how I was going to carry it and manage other things without a bag--all I had cared about was getting that damn book.
I think we often neglect to look beyond the horizon when something seemingly wonderful is being dangled right in front of us. In business, what could possibly be the downside to being offered a way to have more buying power with less of our own capital and effort? In life, what could be the downside to being offered an adjustable rate mortgage that allows us to buy more house than we can afford to pay for right now?
When we look at our current global economic crisis, much of it is the direct result of someone wanting more--much more. In many cases, this "more" has been at the expense of someone else less able to recover from the sacrifices needed to get this "more."
In the American automobile industry, the major car companies got tunnel vision and poured all of their resources into producing the larger, gas guzzling SUVs that were flying off of car lots. (And to think that many of us are outraged by the broken promise that we would be in flying cars by now. ha-ha) It never occurred to them that anything could change, and they were so big, that like the Titanic, they couldn't steer away from the iceberg of unrest in the Middle East and rising gas prices. Who wants to drive a tank when they can't afford to fill the tank's tank? In the quest to get more, more, more money, right away, the industry was brought to its knees.
The American automotive industry lost touch with its market because it was only focused on the easy money. It almost literally lost sight of itself. The banking industry suffered a similar fate, though because of its ability to bring everything crashing down on everyone, it hasn't met with many of the consequences most of us wish it had.
The quest for more often leads us down a primrose path. The problem with primrose bushes--they have thorns, so I imagine the paths do as well. It's hard sometimes to weigh the pros and cons of opportunity. When having more and being bigger supersedes all other goals, we have to realize in that place of more and bigger, there will inevitably be more distance between ourselves and the people and things that helped us achieve those goals. Our intentions may have been great, but in giving up some of what we have built and held so dear, we can't hold onto the things we were hoping to share--there's not enough room in the bag, and we only have so many hands.
When we find ourselves suffering the aftershocks of the giant expansion crashing around us, we're left to remember, with nostalgia, how simple and manageable everything was before. We remember that we were building things together and sharing the load. Everyone carried a small portion, so everyone felt a sense of ownership in the endeavor.
A small portion...with larger, sometimes giant heart.
http://youtu.be/F0FBi5Rv1ho
It was a rushed reunion, but in catching up a little bit, it wasn't long before we were both expressing a similar concern about the direction that we all sometimes try to take in business, and in life. Today, we happened to mostly be talking about business.
I've talked about expansion and growth before. I know that the business-minded person would argue that if you aren't growing, you're dying, but sometimes I wonder how worthwhile it is to outgrow your britches. Many would argue that if you are growing, just buy bigger britches, but at a point, getting infinitely bigger leads to one result--being unable to lift yourself up without the rescue of someone else's crane, and removing the front door.
As a registered veterinary technician, I am required to earn a certain number of continuing education credits every year to maintain my licenses. I invariably attend a large conference to get as much bang for my buck as possible. Along with days filled with lectures on everything from dentistry to how to calculate cardiac output, there is a giant hall filled with nothing but people who hope I have the power of the purse in my practice, and that I will go back to my hospital and strong arm my veterinarian into purchasing either a lot of something, or something really big and expensive. The joke is always on them--I work for a large company and have nothing to do with any decisions about purchasing. The fun thing about this giant hall is that in the effort to get my attention and "influence" over my doctors, these folks are trying to give me leaflets, samples, pens, magnets and any number of different things--oh and bags, lots of bags.
The funny thing is, I remember the first years of attending this conference. To me, every pen, magnet, leaflet and squishy stress heart was absolutely necessary. By the end of each day, the strap marks (from all the bags) cut deeply into my shoulders, and I was in need of massage, chiropractic or osteopathic therapy from carrying all the crap around. In time, I thought I'd solve the problem simply by getting the CD Rom version of the proceedings book instead of the hard copy, but soon realized I just had to take less stuff.
This many years later, I still see the amateurs struggling with multiple bags of stuff that they had to have. Somewhere in the middle are the really hardcore attendees who bring the rolling luggage in which to cart everything around. Over the years, I have developed a strategy. I get rid of as many paper products as possible before I even start. After assessing the "valuable" crap that I could potentially pick up, I have greatly narrowed the amount of paper I have to carry around.
Today, I take great pride in the fact that I was able to limit myself to pamphlets about only one product, and the rest of the stuff I ended up with was ultimately very cool. I have two new books, four T-shirts, a new ball cap, dog slippers and three stuffed cats (yes, I really did need three). I did not pick up one pen, magnet or squishy organ!
My left shoulder still hurts like a mother (and not the one who made you cookies after school) and I am sure I still have things I really don't need.
It's natural to want more, but what if when you get more, you are able to hold onto less? I was pressed for time this morning, so I started the day off without a tote bag, and I didn't have time to grab anything to take notes on or with. Luckily, my writing portfolio was in the car, and a pen was handy. My writing portfolio has no shoulder straps. At lunch time, I found myself in a line with a book in one hand, and my writing portfolio in the other. There was no third hand for me to pick up and fill my plate, let alone grab a drink. I managed, but it was pretty tough. When I'd been sitting through the spiel that earned me the book, I hadn't considered how I was going to carry it and manage other things without a bag--all I had cared about was getting that damn book.
I think we often neglect to look beyond the horizon when something seemingly wonderful is being dangled right in front of us. In business, what could possibly be the downside to being offered a way to have more buying power with less of our own capital and effort? In life, what could be the downside to being offered an adjustable rate mortgage that allows us to buy more house than we can afford to pay for right now?
When we look at our current global economic crisis, much of it is the direct result of someone wanting more--much more. In many cases, this "more" has been at the expense of someone else less able to recover from the sacrifices needed to get this "more."
In the American automobile industry, the major car companies got tunnel vision and poured all of their resources into producing the larger, gas guzzling SUVs that were flying off of car lots. (And to think that many of us are outraged by the broken promise that we would be in flying cars by now. ha-ha) It never occurred to them that anything could change, and they were so big, that like the Titanic, they couldn't steer away from the iceberg of unrest in the Middle East and rising gas prices. Who wants to drive a tank when they can't afford to fill the tank's tank? In the quest to get more, more, more money, right away, the industry was brought to its knees.
The American automotive industry lost touch with its market because it was only focused on the easy money. It almost literally lost sight of itself. The banking industry suffered a similar fate, though because of its ability to bring everything crashing down on everyone, it hasn't met with many of the consequences most of us wish it had.
The quest for more often leads us down a primrose path. The problem with primrose bushes--they have thorns, so I imagine the paths do as well. It's hard sometimes to weigh the pros and cons of opportunity. When having more and being bigger supersedes all other goals, we have to realize in that place of more and bigger, there will inevitably be more distance between ourselves and the people and things that helped us achieve those goals. Our intentions may have been great, but in giving up some of what we have built and held so dear, we can't hold onto the things we were hoping to share--there's not enough room in the bag, and we only have so many hands.
When we find ourselves suffering the aftershocks of the giant expansion crashing around us, we're left to remember, with nostalgia, how simple and manageable everything was before. We remember that we were building things together and sharing the load. Everyone carried a small portion, so everyone felt a sense of ownership in the endeavor.
A small portion...with larger, sometimes giant heart.
http://youtu.be/F0FBi5Rv1ho
Monday, August 22, 2011
August 22, 2011--Forget, or remember?
So, it was three months ago tonight that I awaited word from my husband about how a powerful tornado had affected his hometown of Joplin, Missouri. I couldn't quite get passed the surreality of the evening. We had just been on weekend road trip and were settling back in at home. I certainly couldn't process the event from two hours away.
How does anyone process this kind of tragedy? At the time, Jeph immersed himself in everything Joplin--literally, figuratively and virtually. My mother-in-law holed up at home, and intentionally stayed away from the damaged areas. Many of our friends banded together, and kept those far away up to date on what the immediate needs of the community were, and what was happening on the ground. I blogged about what was happening and even spent a week working with the "pet public" in Joplin via the company for which I work.
People questioned what was appropriate, and when it was okay to start moving on. My brother-in-law and his fiance contemplated postponing their wedding. I watched Jeph feel angry toward people who complained about the smaller irritations of life and couldn't seem to see the forest for the trees. I felt at a loss. How do you comfort someone without encouraging them to relive the things they are trying to push out of their minds? I urged my brother-in-law to go forward with the wedding--insisting that people needed a happy event to think about in the face of all of the destruction and tragedy around them.
I felt it was important to make sure that Joplin didn't slip away into the hot summer breezes that carried away the last three months. Out of site so often really does mean out of mind. Many of us with family members from Joplin have tried to find ways to support our loved ones and the community in whatever way we can. Ex-patriots of the community have pulled together to lend support in whatever way they can. It has frequently been said that the sense of community in Joplin has been strengthened by the great loss felt by so many.
As I have written before, no photograph could ever provide the real picture of the destruction--the absolute void--that the horrific tornado left behind. The photos, videos and first-hand observations, for many, are etched into memory, and I am sure there are too many moments in which many would give anything to forget all of those images.
Three weeks ago, we attended my brother-in-law's wedding. It had been about six weeks since Jeph had last been to the Joplin area. I was curious to see what progress had been made since a friend and I had wound through what had once been neighborhoods. Jeph wasn't ready to see any of it again. For me, Joplin is like an adoptive hometown. For Jeph, every unrecognizable corner holds a memory.
For a few hours tomorrow, Jeph and many of his fellow coworkers will be working in Cunningham Park. He tells me that they will be working with rakes to clean up "micro debris." I'm sure at the site of any disaster, "micro debris" is part of any clean-up effort. As I consider the hours to be spent raking the park clean, it occurs to me that one man's "micro debris" is the piece of another man's life. Fragments of building material that once helped to make up a home now fit within the tines of a garden rake. The stuffing of some child's Teddy bear pierced by flying glass twists around the metal and will be removed by someone's gloved hand in order to be discarded. A shard of the china someone registered for as a wedding gift will klink against the inside of garbage can. This "micro debris" represents the humanity of the tragedy that should never, and can never be cleaned up.
As sure as no one with ties to Joplin can or will ever forget the nearly twenty minutes that left a path of nothingness rolling through town, there also will be moments for many years to come, where the stories and images that come flooding back leave the people of Joplin wishing they could do exactly that--forget.
A tornado tore through Joplin, leaving a giant void. A tornado also tore through the hearts of those who have called Joplin home, leaving giant holes there as well.
As the days and weeks have gone by since those fierce winds and rains ripped and pommeled people, homes and businesses, there have been moments of grief and loss renewed, but there also have been moments of hope and faith restored. As sure as homes and businesses will one day fill the emptiness of the Joplin landscape, moments of joy, happiness and new life will fill the holes left in the hearts of those who have lost so much. Those new moments will never erase the twenty minutes that ripped a town apart--just like garden rakes will never be able to gather all the pieces of lives and homes lost. But time will continue to pass, lives will be rebuilt and Joplin will be rebuilt. The memories of loss will dim, and new, brighter memories will take their place. Healing hearts will choose well what to remember and hopefully, what to forget.
http://youtu.be/-wfjPmDlCB0
How does anyone process this kind of tragedy? At the time, Jeph immersed himself in everything Joplin--literally, figuratively and virtually. My mother-in-law holed up at home, and intentionally stayed away from the damaged areas. Many of our friends banded together, and kept those far away up to date on what the immediate needs of the community were, and what was happening on the ground. I blogged about what was happening and even spent a week working with the "pet public" in Joplin via the company for which I work.
People questioned what was appropriate, and when it was okay to start moving on. My brother-in-law and his fiance contemplated postponing their wedding. I watched Jeph feel angry toward people who complained about the smaller irritations of life and couldn't seem to see the forest for the trees. I felt at a loss. How do you comfort someone without encouraging them to relive the things they are trying to push out of their minds? I urged my brother-in-law to go forward with the wedding--insisting that people needed a happy event to think about in the face of all of the destruction and tragedy around them.
I felt it was important to make sure that Joplin didn't slip away into the hot summer breezes that carried away the last three months. Out of site so often really does mean out of mind. Many of us with family members from Joplin have tried to find ways to support our loved ones and the community in whatever way we can. Ex-patriots of the community have pulled together to lend support in whatever way they can. It has frequently been said that the sense of community in Joplin has been strengthened by the great loss felt by so many.
As I have written before, no photograph could ever provide the real picture of the destruction--the absolute void--that the horrific tornado left behind. The photos, videos and first-hand observations, for many, are etched into memory, and I am sure there are too many moments in which many would give anything to forget all of those images.
Three weeks ago, we attended my brother-in-law's wedding. It had been about six weeks since Jeph had last been to the Joplin area. I was curious to see what progress had been made since a friend and I had wound through what had once been neighborhoods. Jeph wasn't ready to see any of it again. For me, Joplin is like an adoptive hometown. For Jeph, every unrecognizable corner holds a memory.
For a few hours tomorrow, Jeph and many of his fellow coworkers will be working in Cunningham Park. He tells me that they will be working with rakes to clean up "micro debris." I'm sure at the site of any disaster, "micro debris" is part of any clean-up effort. As I consider the hours to be spent raking the park clean, it occurs to me that one man's "micro debris" is the piece of another man's life. Fragments of building material that once helped to make up a home now fit within the tines of a garden rake. The stuffing of some child's Teddy bear pierced by flying glass twists around the metal and will be removed by someone's gloved hand in order to be discarded. A shard of the china someone registered for as a wedding gift will klink against the inside of garbage can. This "micro debris" represents the humanity of the tragedy that should never, and can never be cleaned up.
As sure as no one with ties to Joplin can or will ever forget the nearly twenty minutes that left a path of nothingness rolling through town, there also will be moments for many years to come, where the stories and images that come flooding back leave the people of Joplin wishing they could do exactly that--forget.
A tornado tore through Joplin, leaving a giant void. A tornado also tore through the hearts of those who have called Joplin home, leaving giant holes there as well.
As the days and weeks have gone by since those fierce winds and rains ripped and pommeled people, homes and businesses, there have been moments of grief and loss renewed, but there also have been moments of hope and faith restored. As sure as homes and businesses will one day fill the emptiness of the Joplin landscape, moments of joy, happiness and new life will fill the holes left in the hearts of those who have lost so much. Those new moments will never erase the twenty minutes that ripped a town apart--just like garden rakes will never be able to gather all the pieces of lives and homes lost. But time will continue to pass, lives will be rebuilt and Joplin will be rebuilt. The memories of loss will dim, and new, brighter memories will take their place. Healing hearts will choose well what to remember and hopefully, what to forget.
http://youtu.be/-wfjPmDlCB0
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