I recently decided that our two-year-old Labradoodles needed a refresher course in who is in charge. It's going really well; my husband and I have remembered that we are supposed to be in charge and it's only been four weeks.
It's funny how one tune-up can lead me to recognize the need for another. I thought last week that I needed a refresher on how to get the most and the best out of my day and decided to write myself some guidelines. It was actually fairly easy to get a manageable number of things I was honestly committed to. Now, I look at them every morning with my first cup of coffee, just to get my eyes and mind open.
Here's the first one:
I will make better choices for my physical, emotional, spiritual, and financial health.
I think I need to begin simply by focusing on these things as health issues. They affect how I feel and manage. Depending on what I chose to do, I either end up empowered or depleted of energy.
One thing I've realized about myself is that I really don't have a lot of fear in my life. I've always looked at real fear as a source of energy, there to make me pay more attention to the situation around me. Consequently, I've been able to be a risk taker in a very healthy, productive way. The negative consequences I have experienced are ones I identified and was willing to accept at the outset.
But, anxiety seems to be a different issue for me lately, causing me just to ignore the issue that promts it. Sitting here as I wrtie, I can feel the physical reaction it causes: slight headache, distraction, acid in my throat and stomach. Gavin De Becker's book The Gift of Fear helped me realize the difference between worry and real fear when it first came out. It looks like I have some rereading to do.
My goal for today: Face one source of my anxiety and make at least three steps, no matter how small, to deal with the underlying issue.
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Tattooed Lady
For years I've been ashamed, embarrassed, frustrated and angry about my inability to control my weight. I was aware of how cynical I had become about myself as I'd gotten older and I was exhausted from the effort it took to fuel those negative emotions. Like most obese people, my body image was so poor that I couldn't even think about having my picture made. I was always the one holding the camera.
Fortunately, three years ago I was referred to a wonderful endocrinologist who walked me through my medical history following thyroid cancer at age 21 and explained why I had reached this point. Finally I understood how the medical treatment I'd had for thirty years and my own choices had gotten me here.
I was instantly confronted with an entirely new image of my body. It wasn't my adversary, condemning me to declining health and increasing pain. Suddenly, it was the guardian that had shielded me from even more weight, more illness, and, thankfully, more cancer. It was the body I had been blessed with, not the body I had been condemned to. And, in that revelation, I came to a place where I could begin to accept "it" as me.
I decided to put an end to the war I'd had with myself and be grateful. For years I had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo - I have no idea why. But, when the dogwoods bloomed last spring at the same time that new appreciation blossomed in my mind, I knew exactly what I was going to do.One of the nurses in my doctor's office had tattoos, so I asked her where she had gotten them. (I wasn't about to just go anywhere; the laws allowing tattoo artists in South Carolina were brand new and I wanted a medical "referral" for my body art.)
I emailed my closest friends and family to warn them of what I was about to do. OK, the truth is, I was breaking the news to my 79 year old mother. I knew what her reaction would be and I knew she was entitled to it. I remembered my reaction to our oldest son's tattoo at age 19. I'm certainly not proud of the way that I handled that, but at least HE acted like an adult.
My birthday is in April and dogwoods are always in bloom. Those of us lucky enough to be born in April are blessed to have nature celebrate our birthdays. Dogwoods in bloom are one of my favorite things, maybe my very favorite. I collected photos and drawings of dogwoods, anything I could find to create the art that I would wear the rest of my life. And, I was careful to select images of native Southern Appalachian white flowering dogwoods. No pink hybrids for me. I wanted to embrace the certainty that nature knows best, with dogwoods and with human beings.
The story of getting the tattoo can be told another day, but the experience alone was worth it. I've always believed you should try most things in life at least once and that day was just reaffirming enough.
My dogwood tattoo is just over 2 inches by 2 inches, in full color, on my right calf. I wanted where I could see it and be reminded to be thankful. Sometimes I forget it's there and am pleasantly surprised when I rediscover it. It feels like I've always had it and I've never worried about hiding it. I've tried to rediscover myself in the last year and open myself up to the opportunities around me.
Sometimes I think about adding a few more small images around my dogwood - a dragonfly to represent my husband, a Monarch butterfly for my migratory oldest son, a feisty hummingbird for my youngest. But I'm not going to do it. They don't need me to select their images for them. They'll do just fine choosing their own.
Fortunately, three years ago I was referred to a wonderful endocrinologist who walked me through my medical history following thyroid cancer at age 21 and explained why I had reached this point. Finally I understood how the medical treatment I'd had for thirty years and my own choices had gotten me here.
I was instantly confronted with an entirely new image of my body. It wasn't my adversary, condemning me to declining health and increasing pain. Suddenly, it was the guardian that had shielded me from even more weight, more illness, and, thankfully, more cancer. It was the body I had been blessed with, not the body I had been condemned to. And, in that revelation, I came to a place where I could begin to accept "it" as me.
I decided to put an end to the war I'd had with myself and be grateful. For years I had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo - I have no idea why. But, when the dogwoods bloomed last spring at the same time that new appreciation blossomed in my mind, I knew exactly what I was going to do.One of the nurses in my doctor's office had tattoos, so I asked her where she had gotten them. (I wasn't about to just go anywhere; the laws allowing tattoo artists in South Carolina were brand new and I wanted a medical "referral" for my body art.)
I emailed my closest friends and family to warn them of what I was about to do. OK, the truth is, I was breaking the news to my 79 year old mother. I knew what her reaction would be and I knew she was entitled to it. I remembered my reaction to our oldest son's tattoo at age 19. I'm certainly not proud of the way that I handled that, but at least HE acted like an adult.
My birthday is in April and dogwoods are always in bloom. Those of us lucky enough to be born in April are blessed to have nature celebrate our birthdays. Dogwoods in bloom are one of my favorite things, maybe my very favorite. I collected photos and drawings of dogwoods, anything I could find to create the art that I would wear the rest of my life. And, I was careful to select images of native Southern Appalachian white flowering dogwoods. No pink hybrids for me. I wanted to embrace the certainty that nature knows best, with dogwoods and with human beings.
The story of getting the tattoo can be told another day, but the experience alone was worth it. I've always believed you should try most things in life at least once and that day was just reaffirming enough.
My dogwood tattoo is just over 2 inches by 2 inches, in full color, on my right calf. I wanted where I could see it and be reminded to be thankful. Sometimes I forget it's there and am pleasantly surprised when I rediscover it. It feels like I've always had it and I've never worried about hiding it. I've tried to rediscover myself in the last year and open myself up to the opportunities around me.
Sometimes I think about adding a few more small images around my dogwood - a dragonfly to represent my husband, a Monarch butterfly for my migratory oldest son, a feisty hummingbird for my youngest. But I'm not going to do it. They don't need me to select their images for them. They'll do just fine choosing their own.
Monday, June 30, 2008
A Year for Me
When I first retired, I stumbled across The Gift of a Year: How to Give Yourself the Most Meaningful Pleasurable Satisfying Year of Your Life by Mira Kirshenbaum. When I finished reading it, I set my goal for the next year to get the house organized after thirty years of working, raising children, and everything else that comes with a woman’s adult life. At first, it seemed impossible to consider clearing every closet, drawer, and shelf. But, after I slept for the better part of six months, I did begin to get thing under control. It took almost two years to complete, but, by the end of that time, the house was cleared of much of its clutter, repairs had been made, walls and floors were renewed, and our family could fully enjoy every space in the house. We were even confident enough to consider adding an addition to the house with the help of a contractor friend.
What we didn’t see coming was a new, old house. We stumbled across an empty foreclosure with two wooded acres in an area where we never even considered living. It needed to be stripped to the studs to begin the work to bring the house back to a state where it could be lived in. On our first visit, we laughed all the way through, saying, “Not us, not us!” But, somehow, we managed to find ourselves back inside with our good contractor friend whose specialty just happened to be bringing disastrous messes of houses back to life. After that visit, we saw it only as the retirement house of our dreams, designed and built to make the rest of our lives better.
Now, a year and a half after moving in, I realize how much our lives have improved and how this has become a new family home for our children, for my sister and her children, even for my mother who will move into a retirement center nearby next year. In this short time, we’ve had more family members visit than we have ever had in thirty-five years of marriage. We’ve used our dining room table more often than we have in the last twenty years. We’ve had more diverse and more interesting collections of people drink a glass of wine on the screened porch, enjoy a fire in the living room, and always laugh around the kitchen counter than we’ve ever had in our lives. And, despite my arthritis and bad knees, I’ve discovered ways to make it enjoyable for me to entertain large parties, small groups of friends, or family as often as we like.
However, along the way, I’ve picked up more clutter by way of morbid obesity and related health problems. And so, I find myself needing a new year to rid my life of those things that keep it from being the most meaningful, pleasurable, and satisfying life that I realize it could be. Just like setting the goal of updating our last house or planning a complete rebuild of our new home, I’m surprised to find that I have already prepared for the job ahead of me. I’ve paid strict attention to all the concerns of my doctors over the last three years. I’ve followed through on every test and screening that they have ordered and researched the underlying issues. Despite diagnosis as a type 2 diabetic three years ago, I’ve discovered through the process that most of my health problems can be significantly improved or eliminated through changes in diet and exercise and awareness and attitude. And for the first time in over twenty years, I don’t feel doomed to failure with regard to managing my weight for myself. I feel energized and ready.
As I write, I look out at the first vegetable garden I’ve ever had and realize that it's a tangible sign of my choice to live better and to contribute to a healthier life for our family and friends. It has taken months of preparation, from finding and ordering growing boxes that allow me to work smarter to learning to reuse kitchen and yard waste as compost, but the green tomatoes that I see on the vine promise that it will be worth it.
The next year holds other promises for me, as well.
What we didn’t see coming was a new, old house. We stumbled across an empty foreclosure with two wooded acres in an area where we never even considered living. It needed to be stripped to the studs to begin the work to bring the house back to a state where it could be lived in. On our first visit, we laughed all the way through, saying, “Not us, not us!” But, somehow, we managed to find ourselves back inside with our good contractor friend whose specialty just happened to be bringing disastrous messes of houses back to life. After that visit, we saw it only as the retirement house of our dreams, designed and built to make the rest of our lives better.
Now, a year and a half after moving in, I realize how much our lives have improved and how this has become a new family home for our children, for my sister and her children, even for my mother who will move into a retirement center nearby next year. In this short time, we’ve had more family members visit than we have ever had in thirty-five years of marriage. We’ve used our dining room table more often than we have in the last twenty years. We’ve had more diverse and more interesting collections of people drink a glass of wine on the screened porch, enjoy a fire in the living room, and always laugh around the kitchen counter than we’ve ever had in our lives. And, despite my arthritis and bad knees, I’ve discovered ways to make it enjoyable for me to entertain large parties, small groups of friends, or family as often as we like.
However, along the way, I’ve picked up more clutter by way of morbid obesity and related health problems. And so, I find myself needing a new year to rid my life of those things that keep it from being the most meaningful, pleasurable, and satisfying life that I realize it could be. Just like setting the goal of updating our last house or planning a complete rebuild of our new home, I’m surprised to find that I have already prepared for the job ahead of me. I’ve paid strict attention to all the concerns of my doctors over the last three years. I’ve followed through on every test and screening that they have ordered and researched the underlying issues. Despite diagnosis as a type 2 diabetic three years ago, I’ve discovered through the process that most of my health problems can be significantly improved or eliminated through changes in diet and exercise and awareness and attitude. And for the first time in over twenty years, I don’t feel doomed to failure with regard to managing my weight for myself. I feel energized and ready.
As I write, I look out at the first vegetable garden I’ve ever had and realize that it's a tangible sign of my choice to live better and to contribute to a healthier life for our family and friends. It has taken months of preparation, from finding and ordering growing boxes that allow me to work smarter to learning to reuse kitchen and yard waste as compost, but the green tomatoes that I see on the vine promise that it will be worth it.
The next year holds other promises for me, as well.
Monday, January 1, 2007
Family History
The stories in my husband’s family come to us as letters and documents dating back to the Revolutionary War. Their tellers include a slave, Revolutionary and Civil War Army officers, members of Aaron Burr’s family, Kit Carson, General William Tecumseh Sherman, General Lew Wallace who wrote the classic Ben Hur, Presidents Andrew Johnson, William McKinley, and Grover Cleveland, and various US Secretaries of State and Secretaries of War. They fill a cardboard box that came from an aunt’s basement to sit on a shelf in our closet.
We’ve been told many times how lucky we are to have these stories. But the truth is that my husband’s family chose to perpetuate the stories of their ancestors rather than live their own. They were crippled by the profound burdens of responsibility and privilege at the stories’ cores. The contradictions they tell are too powerful for us to pass on as legacy to our sons.
My husband and I have decided to put all the family documents up for auction, to let them be studied and shared as they never have been before. Despite the wealth of family history, we find ourselves collaborating by necessity with people who value them for the thousands of dollars they bring. Somehow, we’ll create a new story.
We’ve been told many times how lucky we are to have these stories. But the truth is that my husband’s family chose to perpetuate the stories of their ancestors rather than live their own. They were crippled by the profound burdens of responsibility and privilege at the stories’ cores. The contradictions they tell are too powerful for us to pass on as legacy to our sons.
My husband and I have decided to put all the family documents up for auction, to let them be studied and shared as they never have been before. Despite the wealth of family history, we find ourselves collaborating by necessity with people who value them for the thousands of dollars they bring. Somehow, we’ll create a new story.
Tuesday, May 7, 2002
Unanticipated
I find myself in a totally unanticipated position – I am retiring after twenty-eight years of teaching kindergarten. Despite measuring the years by the number of Halloweens and Valentines Days that remained in my active career, I never actually expected the count to get down to zero. I guess I thought it would be more like continually dividing a pizza into slices; no matter how minute the portion, there would always be some left to divide again.
I am not actually going to stop working. I won’t stay at home to read or garden or volunteer or travel. In June I will retire from the public school system where I’ve worked for most of my life. Next fall I will teach at one of the colleges in our area. During the last two years as a specialist working directly with teachers, I often thought that I would like to end my career back in the classroom. I just never anticipated that it would be with kids who can tie their own shoes, cut their own meat, and drive their own cars.
It took me over a month to make up my mind to actually do it. I don’t think it was an age issue. It’s more like it’s a RETIREMENT issue. I mean, I remember my first week of teaching and how happy I was when we were snowed in for the entire second week of my career - and again for the entire fourth week. I remember the kid (what was his name?) who brought a snake to school in his pocket and pulled it out after lunch for show and tell during that first spring. Not many people get off to a start like that.
I was stunned to find that after thirty years of a wonderful marriage, raising two great children, and a career as a really strong teacher, I was completely unprepared to make a decision that was so obviously to my advantage. My gross pay will go way up. My workload will go way down. I thought I turned the job down once, but apparently I was negotiating. Who knew you could do such a thing? I certainly did not and I bet not many of my public school colleagues know it either.
This time in my life is actually a lot like cresting the first climb of a new roller coaster. I chose to go for it. I can see some of the loops, turns, and drops ahead. I can appreciate the view. A lot of my friends and family are getting ready to go for the same ride. I have some idea of what lies ahead. I just hope it won’t be over about the time I quit screaming and open my eyes.
I am not actually going to stop working. I won’t stay at home to read or garden or volunteer or travel. In June I will retire from the public school system where I’ve worked for most of my life. Next fall I will teach at one of the colleges in our area. During the last two years as a specialist working directly with teachers, I often thought that I would like to end my career back in the classroom. I just never anticipated that it would be with kids who can tie their own shoes, cut their own meat, and drive their own cars.
It took me over a month to make up my mind to actually do it. I don’t think it was an age issue. It’s more like it’s a RETIREMENT issue. I mean, I remember my first week of teaching and how happy I was when we were snowed in for the entire second week of my career - and again for the entire fourth week. I remember the kid (what was his name?) who brought a snake to school in his pocket and pulled it out after lunch for show and tell during that first spring. Not many people get off to a start like that.
I was stunned to find that after thirty years of a wonderful marriage, raising two great children, and a career as a really strong teacher, I was completely unprepared to make a decision that was so obviously to my advantage. My gross pay will go way up. My workload will go way down. I thought I turned the job down once, but apparently I was negotiating. Who knew you could do such a thing? I certainly did not and I bet not many of my public school colleagues know it either.
This time in my life is actually a lot like cresting the first climb of a new roller coaster. I chose to go for it. I can see some of the loops, turns, and drops ahead. I can appreciate the view. A lot of my friends and family are getting ready to go for the same ride. I have some idea of what lies ahead. I just hope it won’t be over about the time I quit screaming and open my eyes.
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