Storied Gifts

An Unhappy Time OR Junior High 1975

Me. 8th Grade. Junior High. St. Theresa's.

Who was I?  Miserable. Foster child. Personal life really sucked. Felt unlovable. Confident that NOBODY else was as hideous as I or enduring the adolescence I was suffering.Argumentative. Socially inept which led to heightened bullying at school and elsewhere. Foolish.

But I was also funny, ernest, injured, a survivor, a fighter, interested, curious and intellectual.

I was clearly aspiring to be a nun based on the attire here.

What wisdom would I give that girl if I had the opportunity to talk with her? I might say, "You're going to be just fine. You are smart and worthy of love. You'll meet someone wonderful and live a happy fulfilling life of love and family and friends. You'll live to have regrets of course and make many mistakes, but you'll learn from them and enjoy the incredible journey that is your life. And right now Sherry, while you're feeling so unhappy, this too is a part of that experience and it is perfectly what it should be in this moment."

Pictures are a powerful memory tool. Try looking at several of yourself chronologically and see what stories you recall. What would you tell your 13-year-old self if you had the chance?

Honest, I'm NOT Lying.

It bugs me, that line about "speaking my truth" because usually what it really means is that the person saying it is getting a cathartic release stating how they feel about someone else. There's no skin in that game.

I recently saw Paula Poundstone at a show here in Des Moines at Hoyt Sherman, and she joked about that other popular phrase, "I'm just sayin." Again, there usually isn't much sacrifice or humility that comes attached to it tagged on the end of a sentence. "Your ass is big because you eat too much . . . I'm just sayin."

I recently read the article, Interior Motives by Martha Beck in the May 2012 issue of Oprah where Beck addresses the importance of being honest with oneself about their choices. Others will sense our personal dishonesty, and being dishonest with ourselves ultimately prevents us from realizing personal growth.

In our speaking and in our doing, admit our agenda to ourselves at least because it is good for the psyche and shows through to others. Many times I've told my children over the years, "At the end of the day don't lie to yourself or you're sunk."

But that said, when I open myself to being honest about my motives it can be painful. I tend to feel bad, feel unappreciated and jealous of others too.

Sharing stories and insights about oneself is something that is best done without a hidden agenda because then creativity can truly fly. You can want to leave a legacy, pass on life lessons and connect with others, but without addressing what may be the primary reason, your own interest in you, the process can cultivate insecurity. "I'm not interesting. Who really cares?"

Believe me, I get this. It is THE reason I've had a blog since 2007 and yet have blogged so little. I start reading some great blogs like The Bloggess, and I think, "I can't write,or Jen Menke and think I'm not funny. My life is B-O-R-ING.

But recently I've been knocked up side the head with new-found clarity. I'm as significant and insignificant as everyone else, and so the best gift I can give me while I'm breathing is the present of permission to share my thoughts and stories. Does anyone care? Maybe . . . hopefully . . . but ultimately I do and that's what matters. Gretchen Rubin of the Happiness Project says it wonderfully in her video about Pigeons of Discontent.

 So, I speak for me to reveal me, knowing it will heal and help me come to terms with my humanity. Share your stories for you first, a gift that costs no money (unless you hire someone like me!) but is actually priceless,and let everything else parcel itself out.

Thanks to Elizabeth Welsh for the great photo of Shhh!

I Was There, Where Were You?

One favorite story I used to tell (until I was pretty sure everyonehad heard it) was the time that my husband ran over my legs with a jeep. I became adept at telling the story, embellishing details each time if I had a willing and attentive audience. To this day however, we can't agree on the facts of what transpired or who was ultimately at fault. (yes I know trying to assign blame is crazy)

The incident occurred while we were dating and in college. We used to borrow an old mail jeep from David's brother and sister-in-law. It had a swervy and clunky quality which made it fun to ride with doors that slid open. It was automatic with the gearshift on the floor, and in order to shift the button at the top of the handle had to be pressed firmly to move into a gear. I didn't know how to drive then.

One afternoon David arrived in the jeep, arriving in the driveway which had a slight incline, and came to the door but he left the jeep in neutral rather than shifting it to park. I came out and jumped into the passenger side only to have the jeep begin to roll backwards before I got completely inside. David had not gotten in yet and watched for seconds as the jeep quickly picked up momentum rolling backward down the driveway. He called to me to place it in park, but I wasn't in a good position to get hold of the handle.

I was dragged down the driveway until I fell out landing butt-first on the ground with my legs splayed in front of me, but somehow also underneath the jeep so that the front wheel on the passenger side rolled over my legs. The jeep continued and then veered left backwards toward a major intersection. David shot a look first to me in shock and then the runaway jeep before he chased the jeep to catch it before it reached traffic.

I was fine because the jeep was so light, but I love to tell how David "struggled" to chose between coming to my assistance versus stopping an accident. To this day we can't agree on the details of the story and who was at fault. I say he should have had it in park in the first place, and he thinks I should have been able to shift it into park as it started to roll.

A silly story that illustrates a point. The facts of our stories become elusive as our memory falters. Our point of view is only one version of a story that will vary from each individual present at the same event. Is it important to tell our version? Is it interesting and revealing to have witnesses of the same event share their stories with each other?

*photo of David and I 1983