Month: June 2019

My right knee has been giving me problems on and off for two years. About a week ago, I really messed it up on a run, so much so that I was limping around and avoiding stairs. Runs were out of the question, and running is therapy for me, so do the math in regard to how pleasant my mood was.  

            For a couple of nights, my daughter, Margot, suggested I do some yoga stretches that she knew. Every time she asked to show them to me I was busy doing other things and basically blew her off. I finally did them with her, and the next morning, the pain was gone from my knee and I was able to run my normal route.

            As I’ve enjoyed my pain-free knee, I’ve thought a lot about how we don’t listen to children as much as we should — no matter what age the child is. 

            I am 46 years old (almost 47), and I am still my parents’ child, and their only one at that. This past week the three of us ended up in the emergency room waiting for my mother to get a CAT scan due to abdominal pain. As I sat with them in the ER for five hours, I felt like Margot must have felt as she tried to share something with me that she thought would help. She finally got through to me. I’m not sure that I was as successful. 

            Caring, or in my case beginning to care, for aging parents is tough. There’s not a rulebook for this because every situation is different by the time you factor in the type of illness, geography, finances and personalities involved. It’s hard to flip from being a caregiver to the receiver of that care, and it’s equally hard to achieve the reverse of that flip. Right now my parents and I are in the middle of flipping, and it’s not the happiest of places to be for any of us. 

            One of the hardest parts is watching Alzheimer’s slowly erase my mother. Though she is known as a smart, soft-spoken woman with a talent for baking great cakes (cherry pound and red velvet in particular), she’s also been known to push the Julia Sugarbaker button a few times in her life. (If you don’t know who Julia Sugarbaker is, that is super unfortunate is because she is by far the best depiction of a southern woman in the history of television. Google Designing Women, in particular Sugarbaker’s “The night the lights went out in Georgia” monologue, and see what I mean. Perfection.) 

            As for my mother’s feistiness, I can remember three distinct times in my life when she took someone to town with her words, and two of those times she did it for me. In the ER, I saw some of that feistiness, but now it comes out in an agitated and confused form. She’s not doing it for me; she’s doing it to me — and my father. 

            Trying to reason with her sometimes works, but most of the time it’s met with a turn of the head accompanied by a huff — an 81-year-old’s version of an eye roll. So as my dad and I sat in badly padded chairs, freezing in the ER, I looked for goodness. 

            Walking mom to the restroom, I noticed two framed pictures. One featured a blooming rhododendron bush, while the other featured a tree filled with autumn leaves about to fall. Those two pictures perfectly captured where mom and I are in our lives. I’m in the middle where everything is blooming all at once, and she’s lived through the season and is preparing for it to end. 

            My mom is not warm and fuzzy, so I was grateful that she let me hold her hand as we walked down the hall. When we were back in her room, she asked which book I was reading (Educated if anyone cares). My mother has always been an avid reader, and I inherited my love of books from her. She still reads some, but she doesn’t remember much about it. That said, I was thrilled when she asked about my book because it was a wink from my mom letting me know that she was still in there, even though this bastard of a disease is wreaking havoc on her brain. 

            Later my cell phone was almost out of power, so I asked the nurse at the desk if anyone had a charger. She soon brought me one that worked with my iPhone. I wasn’t on my phone much in the ER, as I’m working on being present, but it was nice to know that I was still connected to the other part of my life. The part where my kids swim at the pool on a sunny day and my husband texts about dinner plans — the part that is blooming. 

           Though my mom is doing better, my parents still don’t understand that they need help. But like my Margot, I keep trying to get their attention. At some point I hope that they listen to me so I can care for them the way they have always cared for me. 

            The other day my 9-year-old daughter asked how far back our family goes in North Carolina. I’ve thought about this before, but I didn’t know the answer off-hand, so I started thinking about it some more. I’m at least fourth generation on my mother’s side, and I think I’m sixth generation on my dad’s side (we really need to send in our Ancestry.com kits). Needless to say, I have some roots in the Old North State. 

            As transient as the world is now, it seems strange to have a long lineage in one state. Though I’ve lived in seven towns across this state, I’ve never lived outside of it, which makes it hard for me to understand/relate to how frequently people move these days. 

            This summer my children lost two friends (a boy and a girl) to out-of-state moves. My daughter is taking it hard, as the girl is one of her best friends, and I’m taking it hard, as her mother is one of my best friends. Though I have no doubt that we’ll keep in touch (social media and texting are godsends in this situation), and they’re only in Tennessee, it’s hard not seeing your friend every day because the day-to-day of friendship is the best part. It’s comforting when someone can share their latest toy with you in person or read your mood in carpool line just by looking at you. 

            I’m struggling with how to help my daughter because I don’t have a good frame of reference for this from my childhood. I grew up in a small town where folks didn’t (and still mostly don’t) leave. I remember only two friends moving during my 13 years of school there.         

            The flip side is that a lot of people moved into our area during those same years. They hailed from exotic places such as New Jersey, New York and Vermont, lured by an IBM campus only a 45-minute commute away. Suddenly our neighborhood had folks who ate bagels for breakfast, used carports for storage and mowed grass on Sundays. 

            I was thrilled to learn about these new cultures and quickly began altering my speech patterns to mimic theirs. “Ya’ll” morphed into “you guys,” and “hey,” I soon learned, was something you fed to cows (even though it was spelled differently). Because their identity was new, I assumed it was better and that I needed to make it my identity.       

Fast forward to now, and I have a completely different take on that. I recognize that newcomers to North Carolina are indeed different, but I also realize that it’s not better or worse because I can learn from them and they can learn from me. 

            For example, I’d never heard the term “UP” before I met my friend, Julie. Turns out this means the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, her native state. When she told me this, I reciprocated the knowledge by telling her that North Carolina has three regions — the mountains, the Piedmont and the coastal plains. We both took something away from the conversation, and we’re better for it. 

            I’ll admit that I get angry when people move here and tell us how things are done where they’re from. Most of the time my anger is rooted in their presentation. It comes across as a put down to our way of life and not the suggestion that it was hopefully meant to be. Of course, some things can be done better, but folks also need to respect that there is probably a method to our madness and that mac and cheese most definitely should be considered a vegetable side. 

            This week, I’ve spent time with two families who moved here this month from out of state. Neither has family here, and neither knew anyone here before they moved. As someone who has decades of friendships and connections in this area, I am in awe of the courage these folks have. I doubt, rather know, I couldn’t uproot my family and move across the country and start from scratch. It’s taken me a long time to realize it, but this is where I belong. 

            Though I’m not an official welcome wagon (I don’t have a basket filled with coupons), I try to help these folks navigate the area and find what they need to feel at home because that’s what I would want if I were in their shoes. I can only hope that someone is doing that for my friend and my daughter’s friend as they make their new life in Tennessee. 

            If you know someone new in your area, send them a Wink of Goodness to make them feel at home in their new home. It’ll do you as much good as it will them, and you might just get a new friend out of it. 

This past spring when I told a friend about Winks of Goodness, she immediately said that I would have to explain what goodness is or at least what I think it is. Though that’s an obvious question to cover in a blog about goodness, the idea of writing about what goodness actually is had never occurred to me. (This is one of the zillion reasons you need friends who tell you what they really think. These are the same people who will tell you that even though you’re in good shape, you are indeed too old to wear a micro mini-skirt. Keep these people in your life.) 

            I don’t expect to answer what goodness is in one blog post, so don’t prepare to walk away from reading this completely enlightened. And I’m not going to take the easy route of typing the definition of goodness that’s found in the dictionary because a) that’s incredibly lame and b) we’re here to go below the surface and dig out the good stuff. Instead, I’m going to explain my baseline idea of goodness. 

            Goodness is something you recognize immediately when it’s present and notice instantly when it’s not. For me, goodness is a basic way of treating people. It’s a mixture of respect and kindness that provides comfort and love in all sorts of situations. It works for tragedies, victories, uncomfortable encounters, family get-togethers and daily living. 

            It’s talking and, more importantly, listening to someone when they’re hurting. Just being there is goodness because so many people flee from sadness or anything remotely real these days. (I call these people “Greatest Hits Folks” and you can bet a blog entry will be written about them sooner than later. Don’t be one of these people. Life is about the good and the bad. You can’t fully have one without the other.) 

            Goodness is putting others before yourself even when it’s hard, but it’s also taking care of yourself so you can do the hard stuff for others. It’s giving someone a hug before they realize how much they need one. It’s texting a funny thought. It’s being honest at all costs — with the exception of birthday presents, Christmas gifts and surprise parties. You can lie your ass off about those things in my book. 

            Goodness is doing the right thing because that’s what you do. You don’t do it for rewards, recognition or payment. You do it because that’s the way it’s done. It’s returning a found wallet, helping an elderly person down the stairs, telling the waiter you’ve been undercharged for your meal, giving a compliment, saying “hi” to someone who is different from you, keeping your word and so on. 

            If you live your life with these guiding principles, you will live a life of goodness, and that’ll inspire others to do the same. It’s like eating dinner with a friend. If they order first and opt for a salad, you’re most likely going to go the healthy route, too. (You might stop and get something on the way home, but none of us is perfect). 

            The reality is that goodness is always there. It’s in a cool breeze on a hot day. It’s in a dandelion fighting its way through a sidewalk. It’s in a friend listening to a friend’s worries. It’s in a duck leading her ducklings across a busy street. It’s everywhere, and it’s up to us to tap into it. When I let it stream into my life, I experience a fullness that transcends everything and everyone around me. Try letting goodness in and see what it does for you. 

            I notice everything. I’m the girl you want to be your witness in court because I’ll remember exactly what someone was wearing and where they were standing when they were doing whatever they were doing. If someone has a mole that is not covered by clothing, I can tell you where it is faster than their dermatologist can. 

            It’s easy to think I’m this way because I’ve spent my adult life working as a journalist, but this skill goes back farther than that, as I can still remember how the pens were arranged at the office store my mom frequented when I was kid — and that store has been out of business for at least 30 years. 

            So while I try my best to pay attention to the road when I’m driving, I always notice the folks walking along the sidewalks. Catawba Avenue is the main thoroughfare near my home, and it’s not the most pedestrian friendly street, but you’ll see your share of runners and walkers. Some walk for exercise, while others walk to work, dressed in their required uniforms. 

            Almost every morning I see this older lady with short snow-white hair barreling down the sidewalk. If she’s walking toward the drug store, her hands are empty. If she’s walking away from it, she carries a plastic bag filled with whatever she just bought. My guess is that she lives in the apartments nearby and that this is her daily outing. 

            Every time I see her, I hope and pray that I’ll be able to walk to the drug store when I’m her age. She doesn’t walk fast, but she walks as fast as she can. Her back is permanently hunched over, and she consistently wears capri pants with socks and sneakers. (Because she’s a senior citizen, she can get away with this, but don’t try this at home, kids — ever.)

             The other day she was wearing a bright red crossbody purse, and she was carrying a single red rose. The stem was clipped to almost boutonniere length, and the rose hadn’t fully bloomed. She was carrying this rose as carefully as Horton carried his piece of clover in Dr. Seuss’ Horton Hears a Who, and all I could think about was where that rose came from. 

            Did she snip it from her yard or someone else’s? Did someone give it to her? (Am I being outdone as her biggest fan?) Did she rescue it from the sidewalk after someone dropped it? I wondered. 

            Regardless, I was glad the rose had found her. The rich redness of the petals brought out the vibrant color of her crossbody so much so that she looked like one of those black and white photographs with pops of color that was popular in the 1990s. She was walking a little faster, as close as she could get to having a skip in her step, and I know that the rose had something to do with it.

            Most of us would take a single rose for granted, especially one with a short stem. But this lady treasured her floral gift just as much as I treasure seeing her walk every day. Instead of stopping to smell the roses, she opted to carry the magic home, and I know she enjoyed it.   

I’ve never been good at gymnastics. In elementary school, I was the one who cheered her friends on as they flipped on the monkey bars and performed round-offs on the asphalt. All I could muster was a cartwheel. Those fears still linger, as I still can’t do wall handstands in my functional training class.

At the last staff meeting of my almost former job, a co-worker gave me the card pictured above. I stared at it because it was a beautiful Wink of Goodness that completely nailed where I am in my life right now — even though I can’t do handstands.

Leaving a job after 10 years is scary. There’s a lot of security in doing the same thing over and over. Some people stay in the same job all of their lives, and I admire them for it. But after thinking and thinking and thinking about it, I knew it was time for me to take a different path, so I jumped off of a somewhat secure track onto the dirt. There’s some brush in my way, but it’s nothing I can’t handle — I think.

While taking the first steps in my new life, I’ve been reading a lot about personal narratives. These are the storylines we create in our heads based on tidbits of information we receive in daily life. This information can and often is easily misunderstood and therefore, misconstrued. For a long time, my personal narrative has been negative based on my whacked out interpretation of everyone’s motives and actions.

Only recently have I begun to understand that I can change the narrative because I’m the writer of the story. Believe me I see the irony in this. As someone who has made her living telling stories, it’s incredible that I never realized that I have the power to tell my own tale truthfully until now, but I didn’t. I looked at the worst of situations and went from there.

Now that I’m in a season of change, things don’t seem so negative anymore, and my narrative is taking a positive turn. There are so many emotions to sift through as I create this new storyline. I’ve worked the whole time I’ve had children, so taking a couple of months off seems decadent. Insert guilt here.

My friends run the gamut from stay-at-home moms, part-time working moms, full-time working moms and super corporate moms. I love them all, but I’ve never felt like I fit into any of their categories, and I’m sad to say that I have judged all of them. But the person I’ve judged the most in my head is myself.

I went through the season of being everything to everyone — working to top capacity, serving on boards, volunteering whenever asked and so on. Though things were mostly getting done, I wasn’t living truthfully, and my family suffered. I was going through the motions of being a seemingly perfect person who had it together, but I didn’t have it together at all.

Now that I have stripped all of that away, I’m starting over. It’s like rebuilding a desktop on a computer. I know which programs don’t work, and I’d like to try some new ones that I’ve heard do work. There is so much goodness in this realization, and I’m grateful that I’m in a place in my life where I can rebuild and improve it.

People will say what they will, and my old narrative would cling to the negativity of their statements. But my new narrative is stronger, as it’s sprinkled with a healthy dose of “who cares what you think, this is my life.” I trust myself enough now to know that I’m going to construct a positive narrative with solid information. That’s helpful as I wrap up my tenure at my job and begin enjoying a little free time.

I’ve noticed that I’ve been noticing things that I haven’t noticed for years. For instance, last night at the pool, my daughter asked me to swim with her, and after reading for a while, I did. Splashing in the pool, she asked me to do handstands. (Though I can’t do them on land, my gymnastic skills in the water are considerably better. In my mind, I’m the Mary Lou Retton of the three-foot-deep section of the pool.)

I looked at her, smiled and quickly dove into the water to land the perfect handstand. As the cool water enveloped my head and my legs darted into the air for at least an 8.5 score, I felt like new life was being injected into me by the second. When I finished the first handstand, I went back for another and then another. It felt good to turn things upside down, and it still does even though I’m no longer in the pool.

We chart our own stories every single day in our heads, and they are hardly ever accurate. I took the scenic route to arrive at my true story. While I wouldn’t change any of the twists and turns that landed me here, I sure am grateful that I’ve finally arrived.