In order to navigate the realm of responsibility that often widens as we grow older, most adults make use of a set of coping skills that include concealment of our tender feelings. In 80% of the circumstances that arise during a typical day, this skill serves me well. It is not appropriate to unload onto co-workers or casual acquaintances the concerns I may have about family, health, or finances. Ordinarily, my feelings about the way that someone communicates (or doesn't communicate) with me, one of the passing and minor frustrations of the workplace, usually are best unspoken. Perhaps in taking this approach I am seeking to adapt to the stoic mode of the midwestern society that I have recently rejoined after 25 years on the more expressive East Coast. Garrison Keillor has repeatedly made me laugh with tickled recognition by lampooning the patient impassivity of the Minnesota Lutherans, and the Michigan Methodists are not far behind them.
But this week tender feelings breaking the surface have characterized a series of encounters that remind me that it is always the better course to be patient and tolerant with other people, including ourselves, out of respect for the valiant struggle that lies just below the surface of many lives.
Yesterday I told a woman of my acquaintance that I thought she would benefit from completing her formal education. She had put it on hold in order to take care of her family. As I spoke, my tears welled up and my voice trembled. There was no particular emotional charge that I was aware of before expressing this opinion. I am not a friend of long-standing or particular closeness with this woman. But the poignance of a dream set aside out of love, paired with the sense that great talent was going untended, touched a profound chord in me. I almost felt that it was her emotion that I was experiencing. I did not effuse, but simply stated that I was moved by her condition. Somehow, though, this genuine emotion, spontaneously expressed, was of service to my friend. Seeing the reflection of her own dream in another made the dream's pursuit more compelling to her in that moment.
Yesterday, a new friend spoke in very general terms about the upcoming hospitalization of a family member. I did not know of nor ask to know the details. But in the very sparingness of the dialogue, I sensed an underlying sorrow. I allowed the compassion I felt to shape my tone of voice. "I'll be thinking of her." I intended to express an openness to hearing more but without curiosity. I wonder whether I did.
Yesterday, another friend asked to talk. I said yes, then reneged. The hour was late and my blood sugar low. Later, I felt I had been abrupt, ragged in what I expressed, unfriendly although my true feelings are friendly. She did not voice hurt feelings, but I believe I did hurt her.
So today I am thinking about tender feelings. Passion, sadness, the courage to take a risk. These are the qualities that make human beings beautiful. When I am present to other people, they show me their beauties. The tender places that signal the growing edge of an organism are the places from which new life, new potential, new possibilities emerge. Experiencing the beauties of other people, when they are willing to let a tender place show, is the stepping stone to true friendship. I treasure these deepening moments when our defenses are released because they are not needed. In these moments, in the showing of our beauties, we know love.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Not about Snow
I remember staying so hot in the South Texas summers (in the days when even new houses didn't have central air conditioning and my mother used to come into my bedroom in the middle of the night and adjust my room air conditioner so that I woke up from the heat) that I wished with all my strength to live in the freezing cold, just to escape from the sweat and the burned, peeling skin and the asphalt too hot to stand on.
I remember that in most years the summer weather lasted for at least seven months. The end of school in the spring, the summer season, and then the start of the next school year were all hot -- in the 90's, mostly. The summer didn't end even by my birthday in late October. We never had to worry about covering up our Halloween costumes with coats or scarves. My home town was in the national news more than once on Christmas Day as the place with the highest temperature in the country.
I remember being hottest as a teenager. I remember how desperate we would be to find a place to swim during the long afternoons; how gaggles of girls would travel by Chevrolet Impala to the local drive-ins for iced mugs of root beer; how the heat made us respectable girls giddy, willing to run down the street after a trio of boys in a Jeep just to say hi; how the heat made the cool interior of any air-conditioned store or restaurant into a sanctuary from its implacable presence. The town's one movie theater offered everything we could wish for -- cool darkness, entertainment removed from our small-town universe, Milk Duds, Jordan almonds, and boys who would put one arm around you in the dark.
I remember getting into arguments with my parents just because I was so hot. Most of the arguments were about boys, though, so maybe I have mixed up the heat of the summer with the heat of adolescence. I remember reading novels in my bedroom the whole of a summer afternoon, with the door closed, the blinds drawn, and the air conditioner turned to High, living for a few hours in another, better, pastel world, not quite as real as the movie world, but real enough.
I remember that on Friday nights I would drive with my mother to the other side of town, to the restaurant where they served real hand-made tamales, enchiladas, frijoles, tacos, and pecan pralines, with big glasses of iced tea (no beer for us). It would be cold inside and the hot sun would go down beyond the big plate glass windows and we would talk as friends.
I remember that in most years the summer weather lasted for at least seven months. The end of school in the spring, the summer season, and then the start of the next school year were all hot -- in the 90's, mostly. The summer didn't end even by my birthday in late October. We never had to worry about covering up our Halloween costumes with coats or scarves. My home town was in the national news more than once on Christmas Day as the place with the highest temperature in the country.
I remember being hottest as a teenager. I remember how desperate we would be to find a place to swim during the long afternoons; how gaggles of girls would travel by Chevrolet Impala to the local drive-ins for iced mugs of root beer; how the heat made us respectable girls giddy, willing to run down the street after a trio of boys in a Jeep just to say hi; how the heat made the cool interior of any air-conditioned store or restaurant into a sanctuary from its implacable presence. The town's one movie theater offered everything we could wish for -- cool darkness, entertainment removed from our small-town universe, Milk Duds, Jordan almonds, and boys who would put one arm around you in the dark.
I remember getting into arguments with my parents just because I was so hot. Most of the arguments were about boys, though, so maybe I have mixed up the heat of the summer with the heat of adolescence. I remember reading novels in my bedroom the whole of a summer afternoon, with the door closed, the blinds drawn, and the air conditioner turned to High, living for a few hours in another, better, pastel world, not quite as real as the movie world, but real enough.
I remember that on Friday nights I would drive with my mother to the other side of town, to the restaurant where they served real hand-made tamales, enchiladas, frijoles, tacos, and pecan pralines, with big glasses of iced tea (no beer for us). It would be cold inside and the hot sun would go down beyond the big plate glass windows and we would talk as friends.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Can't Keep up with the Thanks
Yesterday, five strangers helped free me from walls of snow that had built up at the intersection nearest my house, and later, at the entrance to my driveway. I still have to learn how people in Michigan cope with the barriers deposited by snow plows as they go by. Do you park near the barrier, get out of the car, take a shovel from your trunk, and clear a path? Do you drive nothing but AWD vehicles? What am I missing?
Be that as it may, the help arrived in waves, in a moving crescendo of humane gestures, to the point that I was holding back the tears as I thanked the last helper of the day.
In the morning, I could not turn out of my side street onto a cleared road due to the piles and ridges of snow and my unskilled approach to the barrier. "Momentum is your friend," said one of the young men who pulled over to help me in an enormous pickup with a snowplow attached to the front. "After you get going, don't give it much gas or you'll spin." After they tried to push me out, one of them got in the car and drove it out of the drifts. I was so nervous about having my car sitting in the busy road as I resumed the driver's seat, I failed to give them my name, offer payment for the help (how do you know when that is appropriate?), ask if they would plow my driveway as a business arrangement, or do anything but stammer "Thank you." As I drove away, I reviewed all the missed opportunities to connect.
Coming home in the evening, I found my street plowed clean. At the entrance to my driveway loomed the biggest wall of snow so far this winter. As I approached, I had to decide whether to turn in. More rapidly than I am used to thinking, I reviewed my options: (1) park somewhere else (where?), go in my garage, retrieve my snow shovel, and remove the wall; (2) barrel through; (3) start to barrel through and if I get stuck, deal with it. I chose (3), and dealt with it for the next 45 minutes. I went forward and backward in quarter inches. I feared to leave the car untenanted while I went to the garage. Eventually, a young woman pulled over and asked if she could help. "Would you sit here while I go get a shovel?" She would. I returned with the shovel. "Do you want me to push you?" she queried. I estimated her weight at 105 pounds. "No, thanks. I will have to shovel some of this snow out of the way first." She looked wistful and drove on. The warmth of her sincere desire to help fuelled my shovelling for a few minutes. Then I tried again to move the car. I got a few inches of purchase but every time I saw headlights I braked because I didn't want to shoot out uncontrollably and hit an oncoming neighbor. A large vehicle stopped nearby. I hoped it was a city vehicle with some kind of car extraction mechanism on board. The neighborhood UPS driver walked over. "I can't stop long," he said, "but I'll try to push you out. Do you have front wheel drive?" "I don't know. I just know it's not all-wheel drive." "Do you want to go in or out?" (It was not easy to tell from the car's position.) He did push, but the car was not going anywhere. With apparent regret, he too left to go about his duties. First, he advised me to go inside and bring out some coffee grounds or sand or something else gritty to put under the tires.
I shoveled again. I remembered some sno-melt in the trunk. I shook the little pellets under the front tires. I was revving the engine again when an SUV stopped. A man who seemed uncertain how to proceed asked if I needed help. "Yes," I said. He parked in the street and took over with the shovel. After a few moments, he said, "I'll try to push you. Straighten your wheels." The car was absolutely stuck on patches of ice. He pushed on the hood. "Now go back. Now go forward." I did what I had been doing for the last 45 minutes, and the car climbed out of the clutches of the snow and ice and moved up the driveway. "I can't believe it!" I thought. What had he done? It was like magic. I parked and walked back down to the foot of the driveway where he was shovelling the remaining snow to the periphery. I feared that if I spoke, I would break into sobs of relief, gratitude and amazement at what seemed like a magical escape. "Thank you," I whispered.
As he was driving away, I remembered my regrets from the morning. "My name is Sarah Gorman," I said. "I'm a new resident here." "I've lived in the neighborhood since the '60s," he said. "Just around that corner, the second house down. I thought you might need help because the first time I drove by, you were stuck; and then when I came back, you were still here." He still seemed tentative about things. His manner was gentle and pleasantly uncertain. He drove away.
As I walked into the house, I noticed that the driveway itself had been cleared during the day. My next-door neighbor with the snow blower, I imagine. The sidewalks on either side of my driveway had been cleared, perhaps by another neighbor who came all the way to my driveway instead of stopping where his property line ended.
Not 5, but 7 people helped me yesterday to deal with the snow and my inexperience and my limitations of physical strength, judgment, and know-how. Every one of them was modest, compassionate, and effective. I am not usually all three on any given day. I don't refer to the winter storm when I say, What a blast!
Be that as it may, the help arrived in waves, in a moving crescendo of humane gestures, to the point that I was holding back the tears as I thanked the last helper of the day.
In the morning, I could not turn out of my side street onto a cleared road due to the piles and ridges of snow and my unskilled approach to the barrier. "Momentum is your friend," said one of the young men who pulled over to help me in an enormous pickup with a snowplow attached to the front. "After you get going, don't give it much gas or you'll spin." After they tried to push me out, one of them got in the car and drove it out of the drifts. I was so nervous about having my car sitting in the busy road as I resumed the driver's seat, I failed to give them my name, offer payment for the help (how do you know when that is appropriate?), ask if they would plow my driveway as a business arrangement, or do anything but stammer "Thank you." As I drove away, I reviewed all the missed opportunities to connect.
Coming home in the evening, I found my street plowed clean. At the entrance to my driveway loomed the biggest wall of snow so far this winter. As I approached, I had to decide whether to turn in. More rapidly than I am used to thinking, I reviewed my options: (1) park somewhere else (where?), go in my garage, retrieve my snow shovel, and remove the wall; (2) barrel through; (3) start to barrel through and if I get stuck, deal with it. I chose (3), and dealt with it for the next 45 minutes. I went forward and backward in quarter inches. I feared to leave the car untenanted while I went to the garage. Eventually, a young woman pulled over and asked if she could help. "Would you sit here while I go get a shovel?" She would. I returned with the shovel. "Do you want me to push you?" she queried. I estimated her weight at 105 pounds. "No, thanks. I will have to shovel some of this snow out of the way first." She looked wistful and drove on. The warmth of her sincere desire to help fuelled my shovelling for a few minutes. Then I tried again to move the car. I got a few inches of purchase but every time I saw headlights I braked because I didn't want to shoot out uncontrollably and hit an oncoming neighbor. A large vehicle stopped nearby. I hoped it was a city vehicle with some kind of car extraction mechanism on board. The neighborhood UPS driver walked over. "I can't stop long," he said, "but I'll try to push you out. Do you have front wheel drive?" "I don't know. I just know it's not all-wheel drive." "Do you want to go in or out?" (It was not easy to tell from the car's position.) He did push, but the car was not going anywhere. With apparent regret, he too left to go about his duties. First, he advised me to go inside and bring out some coffee grounds or sand or something else gritty to put under the tires.
I shoveled again. I remembered some sno-melt in the trunk. I shook the little pellets under the front tires. I was revving the engine again when an SUV stopped. A man who seemed uncertain how to proceed asked if I needed help. "Yes," I said. He parked in the street and took over with the shovel. After a few moments, he said, "I'll try to push you. Straighten your wheels." The car was absolutely stuck on patches of ice. He pushed on the hood. "Now go back. Now go forward." I did what I had been doing for the last 45 minutes, and the car climbed out of the clutches of the snow and ice and moved up the driveway. "I can't believe it!" I thought. What had he done? It was like magic. I parked and walked back down to the foot of the driveway where he was shovelling the remaining snow to the periphery. I feared that if I spoke, I would break into sobs of relief, gratitude and amazement at what seemed like a magical escape. "Thank you," I whispered.
As he was driving away, I remembered my regrets from the morning. "My name is Sarah Gorman," I said. "I'm a new resident here." "I've lived in the neighborhood since the '60s," he said. "Just around that corner, the second house down. I thought you might need help because the first time I drove by, you were stuck; and then when I came back, you were still here." He still seemed tentative about things. His manner was gentle and pleasantly uncertain. He drove away.
As I walked into the house, I noticed that the driveway itself had been cleared during the day. My next-door neighbor with the snow blower, I imagine. The sidewalks on either side of my driveway had been cleared, perhaps by another neighbor who came all the way to my driveway instead of stopping where his property line ended.
Not 5, but 7 people helped me yesterday to deal with the snow and my inexperience and my limitations of physical strength, judgment, and know-how. Every one of them was modest, compassionate, and effective. I am not usually all three on any given day. I don't refer to the winter storm when I say, What a blast!
Friday, February 1, 2008
Snow Day
Why do we love a snow day?
It's a gift of time, one of the few forms of natural wealth possessed in equal measure by everyone.
It's a surprise, removing for a few hours the predictability of life.
It's permission to forget about deadlines, sleep in, skip showering, put half and half in your coffee because you're out of skim milk and it's not safe to drive to the store.
It's a no-fault waiver of responsibility, removing for a few hours the burden of life.
It could be the postponement of a quiz or a test. If it falls on a Friday, it's a grand 3-day reprieve.
It's rare enough to be precious.
It's usually quieter than other days, inwardly and outwardly. After the snow plow goes by, the sounds of the world are cushioned.
Here's my favorite thing about a snow day: if you go on with your usual business (driving to work, showing up at the office, visiting the post office, making phone calls) on a snow day, you feel a certain mastery. You share that feeling of mastery with the other people who also showed up. You are quietly victorious. You have overcome. You have been prepared for the weather. You have put duty first. What a great set of moral green stamps to collect, and how sweet it is to cash them in at some future opportunity.
Here's to snow days! Long may they descend on us from the compassionate hand of Mother Earth.
It's a gift of time, one of the few forms of natural wealth possessed in equal measure by everyone.
It's a surprise, removing for a few hours the predictability of life.
It's permission to forget about deadlines, sleep in, skip showering, put half and half in your coffee because you're out of skim milk and it's not safe to drive to the store.
It's a no-fault waiver of responsibility, removing for a few hours the burden of life.
It could be the postponement of a quiz or a test. If it falls on a Friday, it's a grand 3-day reprieve.
It's rare enough to be precious.
It's usually quieter than other days, inwardly and outwardly. After the snow plow goes by, the sounds of the world are cushioned.
Here's my favorite thing about a snow day: if you go on with your usual business (driving to work, showing up at the office, visiting the post office, making phone calls) on a snow day, you feel a certain mastery. You share that feeling of mastery with the other people who also showed up. You are quietly victorious. You have overcome. You have been prepared for the weather. You have put duty first. What a great set of moral green stamps to collect, and how sweet it is to cash them in at some future opportunity.
Here's to snow days! Long may they descend on us from the compassionate hand of Mother Earth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)