Some Days Are Black and Blue

Several weeks ago I woke with a bruise on my thigh. I had no idea where the bruise came from. This has happened to all of us, right?

So I sat and stared at the bruise. Puzzled over it; went through all activities of the day before. What did I do? When could I have bumped my leg hard enough to bruise it? Why can't I remember doing this? Is my blood clotting okay? Yes. I progressed from pondering when did I bump a piece of furniture to pondering the signs and symptoms of blood clotting disorders. This happens, right?

Back to the bruise. I push at it. Ouch, that hurt. The hurt helped me keep my focus. Now I really needed to figure out how this happened. Think. Think. As I think, I push at the bruise. Ouch. You do this too, right?

Finally, I made a decision to carry on with the day. "God only knows."  Time to leave the mysterious occurrence behind and let the bruise fade away.  I stopped the madness by the time my first cup of coffee was brewed. This was good progress for me. I am not one to step away from the the analysis loop.

I do not think I am much different than most people. I do not like unresolved stuff. It stays in my forefront. I go through events, situations, conversations. Think. Think. There have got to be answers. Solutions.

Except when there are not.

I think the desire for closure is strong. I think the desire for understanding can be equally as strong. But there is a rub. Sometimes there are no answers, at least not immediate answers. At these times, there is danger to complete closure and understanding. The danger is that we can make assumptions. We can jump to conclusions. We think we have closure and understanding when in fact our assumptions are false and our conclusions are far from the truth.

I am learning that sometimes I have to force myself to move on, to live with the mystery, to live with the not knowing. I need to keep living into the answers. Because bruises happen.

Biomedical illustration of a virus by Fanatic Studios

Some Days Are Scandalous

I just spent the last thirty minutes listening to the speech Monica Lewinsky gave at Forbes' 30 Under 30 Summit yesterday. Her speech was posted on Facebook.

As I listened, I thought anyone hearing her words could not help but feel compassion for the total dreadfulness of her experience.  After listening, I read the posted comments. Some of the responders voiced a sense of compassion. Well over half, however, were outraged. Some were quite crass in their expression of outrage. Some refused to believe anything she had to say, posting things like, "She knew he was married, she deserved the crap that followed."

I am grateful these negative responders were not around when I was in my twenties. I did not have an affair with a married man.  Nor do I recall dating a single political figure. But I did make a fool of myself. I have a life theory that many people make a fool of themselves over someone of the opposite sex in their twenties. Most of us learn our lesson and go on to make wiser choices. Some of these lessons for some of us are harder learned than for others.

All of the negative commenters pretty much proved the point Monica Lewinsky made in her speech.  Her point was not that she had made a mistake. No kidding she made a mistake.  Her point was not that she used poor judgment. Is anyone debating poor judgment? Her point was not even that she was young, although she was in her early twenties.

Her point was to share her experience of shame, public shame. The kind of public shame that made her wonder if she could go on living. The kind of shame that made others, like Tyler Clementi, decide they could not go on living. The kind of shame the Internet can facilitate.

Monica Lewinsky was talking about her own experience. Her experience was painful, for all involved. Adultery exposed is never pretty, be it locally or internationally. She was telling her story. A story that involved the World Wide Web, among other things. My personal take was that telling her story took a helluva lot of guts.

Near the end of her speech, Monica Lewinsky quoted Oscar Wilde. Interestingly, a century before the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal, Oscar Wilde was enmeshed in a scandal. He was arrested and convicted of "gross indecency." Oscar Wilde was gay and went to prison because of this. The quote she referred to was written by Wilde when he was imprisoned.

 "Beyond sorrow, there is sorrow. To mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing."

Some Days Are Daring Greatly

There are moment in our lives when we hear something we need to hear, when we are ready to hear it.  When this happens, it could be serendipity. Or it could be the handiwork of God.

It happened to me this morning. I heard something that will carry me through today.

Today I woke early and somehow stumbled on a YouTube video featuring Brene Brown.  Dr. Brown is a researcher, professor, author, and speaker. Awareness of Brene Brown is a gift someone gave me years ago.

Her words satisfied a longing in me today. I am on the back side of OOTW. You know, One Of Those Weeks. We all have them. Brene's talk (yes, I have decided to be on a first-name-basis with Brene) was on having the courage to be creative. But creative courage was not exactly my takeaway today.

Her talk made me think of the whole process of making decisions, long reached decisions. Most people can relate to the feelings that emerge during these decision-making times. For me, the overriding feeling is fear; not so much fear of making decisions but fear of living with the choices. Obviously not referring to what to have for dinner.

What makes the decision-making process beautiful are the people who lighten the load. The ones, as Brene says, who believe in what we are doing and why we are doing it. The ones who pick us up and dust us off; who call us brave. The ones who journey up the stairs with us.

What makes the process difficult are the critical voices from the sidelines, include the voices in our own heads. I have dubbed that voice in my head my "left shoulder voice." It always seems to be perched right there waiting to squash anything requiring sustained courage. These voices make us freeze when we are at the bottom of our metaphorical stairs.

Here is the quote that Brene Brown said changed her life. It is a quote from Theodore Roosevelt, with several dot.dot.dot ellipses:

It's not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the person who is in the arena. Whose face is marred with dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly ... who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly ...

The quote that I needed to hear today was not Mr. Roosevelt's, great as it is.  The quote that resonated for me was Brene's. It was advise for those damn critical voices:

If you are not in the arena getting your butt kicked, I'm not interested in your feedback.

Whoa.

What I am hearing in Brene's message is that it is not necessary to stop caring about what others say and feel. That could potentially turn us into The Walking Numb.

But we can be aware that sometimes we need to say to those voices, especially the ones over our left shoulder:

I see you. I hear you.

But I need to climb these stairs anyway.

Thank you, God, for serendipity.

photo from leonie'slonging.org

Some Days Are Unbelievable

Does the truth matter?

Yesterday was a U.S. national holiday, observed annually on the second Monday in October. Since this holiday was declared in 1934, we are learning disturbing things about Christopher Columbus, the holiday's namesake. On a positive note, he was greedy and ruthless. Then it all goes downhill. He kidnapped hundreds of people, dealt in child prostitution, murdered indigenous people.

All of this was written in his own journals and logs.  In the 1500's Columbus was forcibly taken to Spain to face charges for "crimes against humanity." None of this conjecture, all on the record.

What is the matter with me? Why would I write such things? Why am I trying to upset people? Columbus was a hero. He sailed a yacht-sized ship through uncharted waters. He was brave and strong.  His character is not relevant. Let history read the way it has been written.

We can call the people who would dare to write a post as this delusional; someone who obviously hates America and does not care that people enjoy three-day weekends.

The truth shall set you free. As long as you believe it.

Some Days Are Puzzles

I met a new person last spring. This fall I am getting to know her better. Her name is Maggie. She is a cardiac surgeon, obviously bright and accomplished. Maggie is also biracial and adopted, traits that run in our family.

I am looking forward to learning Maggie's insights on adoption and race, from an adult's perspective. I want to meet Maggie's parents and learn their story from the adoptive parents' perspectives. But more than that, I am intrigued by Maggie's personality and how she came to be the person she is today.

Maggie said last Thursday, "When I find a puzzle, it is very hard for me to put it down." I can so relate. I say, "When I find a puzzle, it is very hard for me not to analyze the crap out of it."

Maggie went on. “Most puzzles come down to one last piece of information, whether it’s the answer to a medical mystery or to the question of who you are or where you fit, it all comes down to that last piece.”

I wonder...How far is a person willing to go to find that last puzzle piece? How important is it? What if it cannot be found? How will Maggie live into the puzzles? How will I?

My relationship with Maggie is a bit one sided and totally dependent on the storytelling genius of Shonda Rhimes.   You see, Maggie is Dr. Maggie Pierce, a new character on Grey's Anatomy.

Some Days Are Squeakers

Marriage is a wonderful experience. Not only do Jay and I share love and life, we share vocabulary. Before Jay, I knew nothing about cars and car terminology. My ignorance resulted in blowing out an engine. True story. Ignorance is not bliss. It is expensive.

I will share with you three words that I have added to my vocabulary while living life with Jay. These words are squeakers, limiter, and pole.

Squeakers is a way-too-cute name for an awful sound. I found out about squeakers when I first owned a car that had this feature built into the brake system. It is rather elementary yet genius. Squeakers are basically a warning that your brakes need attention, sooner rather than later. The sound of squeakers is akin to a loose spring banging against an aluminum pie tin. This sound is present when the wheels are turning, saying to the driver TIME TO DO BRAKES constantly, unrelentingly until you give the brakes the needed attention.

Limiter. I do not even pretend to understand this one. It has to do with a computer setting in a car engine that limits the speed of the engine so it does not blow up. I could have used a limiter on the car I destroyed.

Jay and I have personified the term limiter. We will say, "He is on the limiter" or "Warning, I am on my limiter." Basically, it is the same as saying "He is on his last nerve" or "I am in messy, emotional overload." Personal limiters are as important as car limiters. A personal limiter can keep you from imploding or exploding, damaging yourself and others. It is important to keep your limiter in good working condition.

People could use squeakers too. In fact, people have squeakers. We just do not always recognize them as warning systems. Personal squeakers can be loud - like the sound of a bully harassing another person. Or personal squeakers can be quiet - like the soundlessness of a person withdrawing. Squeakers are the external equivalent of limiters. Without understanding, personal squeakers are just irritating. Not the warning system they truly are, letting others know that important attention is needed, sooner rather than later.

The final word is pole. The first time Jay told me he was on the pole, I had such a weird image come to mind. I now know being on the pole is a great thing. It means you will start a car race in first place. But here is my initial image and the old joke the words being on the pole evoked...

Jose came to America, ready to embrace his new life. The first thing he did was go to a baseball game. However, he could not find a seat.  In desperation, he climbed the flagpole and sat on the top. Perfect view, he thought. Before the game began, everyone in the stadium rose, faced him and sang "Jose, can you see." I love America, smiled Jose.

Some Days Are Blackjack

What do this century, CornHole, Blackjack, and this blog have in common?

Cue Jeopardy music.

Da da da da da da da. Da da da da DA, dadadada. Da da da da da da da DA, da da da DUH, DUH, DUUHH.

Did you get it?  Actually, there are two answers.  The first  answer is "21." It is the 21st century, the winning score in CornHole and in Blackjack is 21, and this is my 21st blog entry. Good job!

The second answer is that all the items on this list have the potential to generate stories.  For example, although not technically 21st century, oh the stories we could tell about Y2K. People in the computer biz are chock-full of stories of their lives leading up to Y2K. Stories about all work and no play. And maybe no sleep.  My story would be remembering and marveling that every stoplight was busy doing its thing early in the morning of January 1, 2000. Way to perform, grid.

When I think CornHole, I think 4th of July. Jay's brother Bryan constructed CornHole platform boards in the usual Shuler fashion: perfectly. CornHole, replete with all kinds of silly, funny, out-of-control shenanigans, went on all weekend. Our daughter still pulls her pj bottoms up to her pits and struts around saying, "I am Uncle Bryan!" You had to be there.

Blackjack triggers stories of visiting Melody and Steve in Vegas. We all played at a group arcade and our daughter, perhaps six years old, won. All the teen and twenty-something boys could be heard saying, "That little girl beat us?" You betcha, fellas!

And then my blog. I admit, I do not know what I am doing exactly. I just keep doing it. Although 21 blogs later, I believe I am living more fully now that I have taken on this new hobby.

Norman MacLean wrote, "Somewhere along here I became conscious of the feeling...that comes when you first notice your life turning into a story." He said this in A River Runs Through It and Other Stories (emphasis mine).

So it seems. All our lives are stories, just waiting for us to realize this. And then waiting for us to find our voice.