Storied Gifts

Alarmist

It’s only taken 48 years to realize I’m an alarmist but I get that I am. I can feel it coming on too, that fast-paced breathing, the raised voice, and talking really fast. I’M IN CRISES MODE. Thank goodness it happens less often now that I’m older, but when I go to the "dark place" of thinking out eight steps ahead of what might happen . . . I freak.

My knee-jerk reaction, sad to say, is sort of that way in a crises. I immediately scream F*&$K (expletives release energy I find) and then repeat, repeat, repeat my thoughts to anyone and everyone within earshot before I rinse it out of my system.

Case in point yesterday, I write this reflective post on bliss, living in the moment and all that (which is generally true) and then find myself within a mini-crises.

• One daughter late for an appointment
• No juice or minutes on my cell phone (procrastinate)
• Other daughter trying to call me to remind me to take her to work but can’t.
• Son freaking out on cell phone call to me via other sister’s cell phone.
• I run screaming into store and abandon here there to gather other daughter.
• Rush other daughter to work. I speed, I mentally sputter, I feel crappy in the moment.

I’m headed to a “You’re Not So Broken” workshop to learn more about the Three Principles. Work in progress, always.

photo by zscream powered by flickr

No Control And It's Okay

We were thrust into the “Empty Nester” phase abruptly several years back but embraced it. Our daughter married young, our son headed off to Africa via the Peace Corps; both of them pigeonholed away in their lives largely out of our site and thus our worrying eyes. We reveled in doing whatever we wanted whenever it suited us.

At first this seemed like bliss, but I grappled with the prospect of becoming closed to taking chances living in fear of losing the quiet easier life, a settled existence.

Then the economy sank, we were job shifting, planning an altered future, building a business, going back to school, rethinking ourselves and what it means to be successful.

From there our daughter’s marriage ended (thankfully), our son and our South African daughter-in-law came to the states and are now building their savings and planning for their future. Remarkably all our adult children are back in the nest and it is just fine. They are doing what they need to and we help as we can. Our expectations have shifted and we're grateful in the present.

It’s cramped, we have to share and we live on a shoestring budget but when I ponder it all I feel fulfilled and happy to have these people around me. It is messy and intrusive for everyone, but it is also vibrant, busy and alive here. I am thankful we are together.

These days I see the less controlled life as shiny to the eye. When things are good I have learned to rejoice more. When they’re difficult I’ve altered my view to see adventure rather than adversity.  

 

Photo by Princess Toadie powered by flickr

 

Journal of a Middle-Aged Woman

It's been years in the making . . . this post right here. I've wondered what to blog about on my website and now, after all this hard thinking it comes to this. I'll journal about the experiences of now; the meanderings of my brain and this time in my life, my hangups, my triumphs and whatever the seems really important . . . or totally useless.

If you haven't already dozed off and clicked onto something else, let me explain further. I'm a 48-year-old woman with two grown children, one spouse, one stinky dog, and a business. I work part/time to supplement my growing business, and have FINALLY sort of figured out that balance.

I'm a personal historian by business trade which I state with irony since I haven't written my own memoir yet. Why? I guess it's the deal of the accountant who doesn't balance his own checkbook, or perhaps I'm waiting for the right approach.

For now, I'm more interested in doing the work for others. That isn't to say I can't spin a good yarn about my life here and there it just has not been written in a formal memoir. I'll get it done . . . later.

So at this point, I AM BLOGGER hear me peck. (thanks to one of my favorite bloggers, Kelly of The Mother Load who writes about motherhood and that stage in her life. You've made me realize it is important to get it out there. Next step, aspire to your quality!) 

Why write about me? It is apropos to what I do for others in assisting them to share their stories along with thoughts and feelings AND I think loads is written about being a young mother, an upwardly moving professional, and that sort of thing but little is written about finding and furthering yourself in middle-age.

How often will I post? What will I talk about? These are things to discover. For now I'll just commit to journal, inspired I think by the likes of Elder Storytelling . . . but without the polish.

photo: One we (my husband) took at a winery in South Africa in 2009. A trip for which we really threw caution to the wind financially and went to see our son while he was serving in the Peace Corps. Could be the last trip for awhile.  

A dose of my own medicine

A full solid year of Storied Gifts and I think on review it has been an incredible year. The stack of books on my shelf reminds me that I've made new friends and proudly helped others tell their stories as only they can. Now I'm winding down several projects, and thinking about reaching out to see what clients I'll be privileged to work with for 2010.

In between this and that, I've started to take on writing my very own memoir, for my children I say, but I know that I'm also doing it for me, too. Generally, in Storied Gifts projects, I'm working with people who are probably 65 years or older. They are seasoned travelers of life and have many stories to tell. I've seen such dramatic power in this process that I've realized it is important, no matter one's age, to start telling your stories outside of your head so you can "see" them from another vantage.

There is an emotionally soothing experience that comes first from the interviews. Someone asks you questions focused solely on eliciting your recollections without judgment. The mere act of remembering and telling can be healing, insightful, and meaningful. Even more incredible is what happens once the stories are written and then read by the teller. I've witnessed the epiphanies of clients who read their life stories in their own book propelled along with their cherished photos. There is this HUGE, almost self-altering experience that takes place. 

I've learned that some folks keep their life stories so much in their head, like so many photos packed away in boxes with no clear markings, that just collect potential misinterpretation. They churn there seemingly forgotten but still leaving the residue of judgment as to their meaning. Assumptions are made and stories take on only one meaning. But then, once they are told and read back by the teller, it is a marvel to see people see themselves with different eyes.

My focus is on older individuals, but this year I've learned that it is never too early to tell the stories of a one's life and gain new understanding. That is why I'm taking on my own Storied Gifts project and can't wait to work with others in 2010 to do the same. I love working with older individuals, but I encourage everyone to tell your stories no matter your age. Tell them on paper, to a trusted friend, or to a personal historian but don't let them stay locked in your head collecting dust.

photo by rakka, powered by flickr

Plain as the blush on my face

It’s been going on for over a decade now, this attention I draw from strangers regarding the color of my skin. To explain, I have what I generously call a “lily white” complexion. I’ve spent my life the owner of this shade. In my youth, occasionally I would attempt to tan (burn), and fellow sunbathers would raise their hands to protect their eyes from the glare of it.  

At a point in my 30s, my face began to take on a reddish hue, almost as if I’d been in the sun for the bulk of my 20s. During periods of extreme heat the ruddy color intensified but never completely dissipated once it appeared. Now, in my 40s, I still exude a pasty shade, but with the permanent addition of this pink, raccoon-like façade that encircles my eyes and shines across my chin, cheeks, and forehead.

Dermatologists have offered a couple of theories as to the cause:  Rosacea being one and more likely sun damage.  But, whatever the reason, I’m left with something I either attempt to cover with makeup or just ignore. I’ve moved on. Acceptance that this is how I look was the easy part, but understanding the comments of others has been trickier. What do you say when people note something “unusual” about you that stands out as “plain as the nose on your face?”

Periodically, people will proffer observations, “Oh! Have you been skiing?” or “It looks like you’ve gotten some sun there.” I usually respond with a one-answer “no . . .” assuming that that will nip the conversation about it. However, more often what ensues is persistence by the inquisitor, “Well you look like you’ve gotten some sun,” or “Really? Well you look like you’ve been skiing.” I’m ALWAYS mystified at this point.

 I was taught that one should politely ignore the oddities of others ― especially obvious ones. Never, for example, ask the morbidly obese woman, “When are you due?” And do not extend index finger toward that large mole on the man’s face and say, “Sir, do you realize you’re sporting a growth shaped like Texas?”

I speak with a mix of frustration and empathy here because I’ve certainly made plenty of social missteps. But often I take these encounters as an opportunity to teach through my remark. If the person presses I think they deserve the honest answer, “This is my skin. I have sun damage. Thank you for your comment.” That response definitely ceases the investigation and I hope makes the point not to mention such things in the future. 

A few days ago, I had to give my standard response some consideration. I was standing behind this man at the courtesy counter at the local grocery store. He had a large plastic bag filled with cans. I noted a latex glove on one of his hands and could see that that hand was shaking. I saw his matted hair and dirt smudged skin, and the bandage covering a large sore. He turned to me and smiled revealing his remaining teeth. I politely smiled back. He proceeded, “Looks like you’ve gotten some sun.”  I applied my usual response to which he countered, “Looks like you had on your sunglasses out there.” I took a breath. Does this desperate fellow really need my “lesson” on appropriate stranger etiquette?

At that moment I decided to give it up. My red face states it plainly. I’m an avid skier and I’ve just come back from a weekend trip to sunny Vale where I swished and swooped on fine powder at high altitudes wearing my trusty goggles. Don’t believe me? I’ve got the sunburn to prove it.

photo by riot Jane, powered by flickr

My trashy confession.

I attended Dowling Catholic High School in Des Moines, Iowa in the late 70s. At that time, clergy still comprised a portion of the teaching staff. (Not the case today as there are fewer nuns and priests in the U.S.).

One day, during my freshman year, while sitting in class, there was a knock at the door and this nun entered the room. She spoke briefly with the teacher and then looked grimly in my direction. She was a petite woman, wearing an A-line wool smock dress covered with a beige sweater, the sleeves of which housed her partially used facial tissue. I did not recognize her, but knew immediately that she was a nun by the telltale signs: no makeup, a standard solemn continence, and a beige aura that generally matched her clothes.  

Moments after speaking with the teacher, I was called out of the room to face this woman who established eye contact with a mixture of authority and retribution. I learned that she patrolled the hallways during class periods, and while doing so found a disturbing problem that needed resolution.

With clueless trepidation I followed her to the issue in question. With hand and forefinger extended (think Ghost of Christmas future and you’ve got it) she gravely pointed to the culprit of her concern. As if to scream “Man down!” there rested a fallen trashcan in the locker stalls surrounded by the debris of trash strewn forth. The contents carpeted the high-gloss terrazzo flooring in a violent projectile fashion.

Then from within the deep sanctum of her sweater pocket, the nun dramatically retrieved a crumpled piece of paper which she unfurled and handed to me. Yes, the paper had my name on it. “Sherry Perry” scrawled in the right hand corner of this old assignment, which came as no surprise to me as I was partial to tossing my trash in this can located near my locker.

At this point what became clear is that this woman had determined that I was the guilty party, based on this telltale piece of paper she had picked up from the rest. She had determined that prior to attending class, I had gratified my prankster self by head-banging the grey plastic vessel for the joy of watching waste fly. Ah, alas if only I had been such a person, instead of the mousy, fearful, loser-type that actually was my persona throughout high school.

With confusion as my companion, and her enforcement work completed, the nun padded off in her gum sole shoes to save other hallways of the school. I quickly gathered all the trash, placed it in the righted receptacle and scurried back to class. No long lasting damage done other than my understanding of how she arrived at my guilt. I was always perplexed by her reasoning but considered it a sign of things to come in high school. What the H-E-double toothpicks ― it will all be fleshed out in purgatory. Just for the record though I didn’t do it.

Ever been accused of something you did not do?    

 

photo by giveawayboy, powered by flickr