Category Archives: My life
The Secret to Happiness: Sing Off-key and Dance Off-beat
I’ve been thinking a lot about dancing this week. And it’s no wonder. I spent eight hours… yes, I counted them…. eight hours … hemming a dance costume with a full skirt and a design on the bottom that required creative hemming.
There are people who would say I wasted eight hours of my life when I could have paid a seamstress who would have prevented any worry about uneven edges or stitches that show.
But, I think those were eight well-spent hours. First, they required me to slow down and concentrate on a skill I learned over thirty years ago and have done my best to avoid ever since. Second, they required me to think about a talent I never had and a type of performance that I never really enjoyed watching.
As my daughter just told me, “Mom, you don’t dance.”
To the best of her – and most people’s knowledge – she’s right. Except for time spent in clubs in my younger days, I don’t dance. Maybe it’s because I’ve been told since I was very small that I don’t have any rhythm. Maybe it’s because I’m one of those people whose intellectual abilities don’t translate into a mind-body connection. And maybe it’s because I’ve always been hesitant, with the exception of taking belly dancing in college, to try anything at which I’m not positive I can excel.
Whatever the reason, I’ve never been one to dance in public.
But dancing in private is entirely different.
I love to dance when no one is watching. When there are no specific moves I have to know. When I can just feel the music and go with it.
I remember spending hours as an adolescent dancing in my basement while I listened to my favorite songs. I would have been horrified if anyone had seen me. But at the time? I was joyful.
The same goes for singing. I love to sing. I love to belt songs at the top of my lungs or to sing softly when I’m feeling an intimate connection to lyrics.
But I only do that in private.
In church, I generally mouth the hymns for fear of frightening the people in the pews in front of me. And one of my recurring nightmares is having to sing on stage.
But my daughter? She sings. She really sings. She just belts out songs at the top of her lungs regardless of the location, but especially in church.
I think she’s started singing before she could even talk. In pre-school, the teachers said they always knew exactly where she was because all they had to do was follow the music. She narrated her life through songs she made up.
And now she’s dancing too.
And, while she does both much better than I ever dreamed of, I also know she’s not the most talented child in either department.
But what she lacks in talent she makes up for in passion. And sheer joy.
Which serves as a reminder to me about what life is all about.
It’s not about doing everything perfectly. And it’s not about worrying about what other people think. And it’s not about excelling.
It’s about making the most of every minute. It’s about It’s about expressing yourself. And it’s about just being happy with what life hands you.
And sometimes that means that it’s about singing off-key and dancing out of rhythm.
Because at those moments, when you are living life to its fullest without worrying about living it perfectly? That’s the true secret of happiness.
Want to Be Successful? Try Living United Rather Than Living Divided
There are a lot of ways to define success. My definition often depends on my mood and on the balance in my check book.
But most of the time, I fall back on the definition that just seems to make the most sense: Success isn’t measured by the size of your bank account, by the number of people who admire you (or who fear you) or by the number of awards you’ve received. Success is defined by the positive difference you make in the lives of others.
I say that because I am extremely fortunate to be surrounded by successful people. These are people who humble me. People who make me want to be a better person. People who give far more than anyone would ever expect, and in many cases, far more than I am capable of giving myself.
I’m more than simply fortunate. I’m down right grateful. If it weren’t for these successful people, I couldn’t do my job.
For those of you who don’t know what I do, you aren’t alone. I’m not sure my husband even knows what I do.
Sometimes I tell people that I work in the community to address health and human service issues. Sometimes I tell people that I get to spend the money that others raise for the United Way of the Eastern Panhandle. And sometimes I tell people that I herd cats.
But none of those simple descriptions defines the scope of my job: every day, I get to work with a wide variety of community members who simply want to make a difference in the lives of others. And I get the privilege of watching them succeed.
During this past week, when some of these committed volunteers were deliberating over the best way to invest donor dollars, an article that mentioned that United Way of the Eastern Panhandle was published in our local paper, the Martinsburg Journal. Twenty years ago, this article would have simply been an account of an event . But, thanks to the internet, people can now anonymously express their opinion about every article. Or the content of every article. Or their perceived content of every article. Or about any person, business, or organization mentioned in the article.
In this case, people took the opportunity to bash the United Way. The comments ranged from claiming the United Way is a racist organization to claiming that we use donor dollars inefficiently. For anyone familiar with the United Way of the Eastern Panhandle, these individuals obviously don’t understand the organization. Or more importantly, they don’t understand WHO the United Way is. Most likely, they don’t care.
While the internet has added so many wonderful opportunities — from social networks that let us re-connect with people from our past to a wide variety of information at our fingertips – – it also provides the opportunity for people to hide behind anonymous names and cruelly attack just about anything and anyone. Not only do they spew their negativity as though they were are an authority on the subject of they day, but they seem to take pride when others take the bait. And, unfortunately, these people mistakenly believe they are thriving. But they aren’t – – quite the opposite, in fact.
Thriving people are those who spend their time and energy building others up rather than tearing others down. The kind of people who I’m surrounded by every day:
- Staff and volunteers who work for nonprofit, service and faith-based partner organizations, and who have such passion for a cause that they often put the needs of the organization and the clients above their own.
- Community members who raise dollars that are used to make a measurable difference in the lives of others, such as a local businessperson who continues to ask for donations despite being turned down again and again and again.
- Individuals who donate what they can, even when they are struggling to make ends meet. These are people who, even when they don’t have an extra penny in their pocket, will hold a fundraiser so they can still give something. (Interesting, studies have shown that lower income people give a larger percentage of their income to charity than do the rich . Some experts think this is because they have needed help or have a family member or friend who has received assistance, and they know how important giving back is.)
These are the most successful people I know. Because, despite the size of their bank account, despite their educational status and despite the number of times they’ve been criticized, they are making their little corner of the world a lot better.
And, ironically, they are so busy doing the right thing, they don’t have any time to do the wrong thing… or to post anonymous, critical comments online.
I’m Pretty Sure There’s a Gene for That
My grandmother spent her entire life thinking she wasn't attractive.
There are times when I truly believe I am the most self-critical person on earth. At the same time, I also believe that, for the most part, I’ve become pretty good at hiding that trait from all but those who know me best.
(And yes, I also know those people are doubled over laughing at that idea that I think I can hide anything I’m feeling or thinking. But, believe it or not, I really don’t reveal everything. Really, I don’t).
But here’s the thing. I’ve begun to wonder if there might be a gene for self-criticism.
I say this in all seriousness.
While many women point out their flaws more often than they point out their strengths, there are those who take it to a whole new level.
My mother, the over achiever, is a prime example. For all her accomplishments, I don’t remember her ever being satisfied with what she had achieved. Instead, she was always comparing herself to others and thinking she didn’t measure up.
For skeptics of my self-criticism gene theory who believe it’s simply a learned behavior, let me go on the record saying my mother tried her hardest to ensure she didn’t pass that characteristic on to me.
Her efforts didn’t work. And neither did her mother’s.
I’m fairly certain that my grandmother carried a self-criticism gene that weakened upon passage to future generations. There’s simply no other explanation for why my grandmother would have been critical of herself.
First of all, she was beautiful. I look at photos of her and wonder how she ever could have any self doubts about her appearance. But she never thought she was attractive
Secondly, she was one of the strongest and most intelligent women I’ve ever known. She grew up on a farm in Michigan. I’m told she held the record for the hundred yard dash at her high school for decades. And she, like her three other siblings was so determined to get a college education that worked hard to pay her own way through Michigan State University.
In the early 1930’s.
As a female.
During the Great Depression.
And not only did she graduate, she excelled.
But, like my mother and like me, instead of seeing her accomplishments, she often focused on her perceived failures. And she constantly compared herself to others, particularly her older sister Sylvia.
I never understood why. I always thought my grandmother was prettier than and just as accomplished as my Aunt Sylvia. I also thought Aunt Sylvia was a really cool lady who lived her life in a manner completely foreign to me.
Sylvia, by all accounts, completely lacked the self-criticism gene.
What Sylvia didn’t lack was a passion for living and a limited fear of failure: all things my grandmother strived for.
While my grandmother thought she was too skinny, Sylvia carried a few extra pounds.
While my grandmother was cautious, Sylvia embraced life.
While my grandmother aimed for perfection, Aunt Sylvia aimed for laughter, love and music.
And while my grandmother always felt like she was being judged, Sylvia never seemed to worry what others thought.
Admittedly I can relate too well to my grandmother. I have battled some of these issues all my life (with the obvious exception of thinking I’m too skinny. I have NEVER had that concern.)
But, here’s the really cool thing about genetics. They combine with those of our other ancestors to create some really remarkable combinations.
So if you can buy into the whole “self-criticism gene” theory, you can also accept that there are genes for compassion. And humor. And tenacity
All traits I think I got from some of my amazing relatives.
Which means while I believe “there’s a gene for that,” I also believe that “there’s a family for that.”
And I got one heck of a great family.
For my mom on Mother’s Day
Evadna and Trina February 1967
As Mother’s Day drew near, I once again found myself shopping for the perfect card for my mother.
Shopping for my mother is never an easy task, but card shopping for her is next to impossible.
I just can’t equate any of the flowery, sappy cards with my mother.
Granted, I’m not the flowery, sappy type myself, but compared to her? I’m a sentimental fool. I would be kidding myself and others if I claimed I had never wished my mother was the warm fuzzy type. Or that I didn’t find her a bit too serious and intense. Or that on more than one occasion (count hundreds in my teen years), I’d wished she was more like other mothers.
But I’d also be kidding myself if I didn’t recognize that if it weren’t for my mom, I wouldn’t be me. And, although it’s taken way too many years for me to publicly admit the fact, I really do like myself. So thanks Mom.
Thanks for living your life on your own terms and not bending to societal pressures. And thanks for expecting that I do the same.
Thanks for having the fortitude to speak out for what you believe, even when everyone else is keeping quiet. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
Thanks for taking on stereotypical male roles and responsibilities. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
Thanks for living a life that demonstrates what you do for others is more important than accumulating material possessions. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
Thanks for taking time to pursue your own dreams and passions while still ensuring your children get everything they need. And thanks for expecting I do the same.
And while I am grateful for everything my mom is and did, I’ve never have found the perfect Mother’s Day card to share that message. This year, I settled on one that simply said “You are special.” But I wish I could find the perfect card for her.
It would be a card that tells her to relax. She did her job as mother, and she did it brilliantly. It would tell her that she needs to stop worrying about her perceived missteps and focus on the facts: both of her kids turned out just fine. We never went to jail and we never made headlines for our bad behavior (at least I never made headlines for my bad behavior, I’m not sure my brother even participated in bad behavior.)
It would tell her she helped stack the odds in our favor so that we could live happy, productive lives. We are both well-educated, we are both responsible for ourselves and our own families and we are both parents who greatly appreciate that we had positive role models in our parents.
Most importantly, the card would tell her that she gave her children the best gift of all: the gift of knowing we are accepted and appreciated for being who we are with all our own flaws and quirks.
So instead of providing her with the perfect card, the best I can do is write my thoughts and share them with anyone who is willing to read them.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom.
I love you!
I don’t want advice. . . I just want answers
If someone were to ask me the absolutely best thing about getting older, I wouldn’t even hesitate to answer that I actually expect less of myself even though I am capable of accomplishing more than I ever have. But ask me the worst thing about getting older?
Once I wade through all the usual complaints about my body not being what it used to be or that I don’t even know what cool is (according to my nine-year old daughter), I can say, without a doubt, it’s the expectation that as I age, I am expected to become wise. And with wisdom comes the ability to give great advice.
Not that I am incapable of giving advice. I give it every day… whether people want to hear it or not. But as is true with so many things, I can dish it out much better than I can take it.
I HATE getting advice. I took a dislike to it as a child, and my opinion hasn’t changed much since then. In other words, if someone suggests I go left, I often go right just to prove I’m not stupid or incapable of making my own decisions.
Unfortunately, in most cases, I really should have gone left. Eventually, I figure that out. But that doesn’t happen without first getting a lot of bumps, bruises and even major injuries. Needless to say I have a lot of scars… and even a few wounds that still need to completely heal.
But, here’s the thing. Those scars are great reminders of the mistakes I’ve made. And I do give myself credit for being someone who learns from her mistakes. And yes, I’ve learned a lot. But there are still a lot of things I’d like to know.
So instead of getting advice, what I really want is answers:
- I want to know why people who have money are given more power and attention than people who care for and teach our children or people who help those who are disadvantaged.
- I want to know why some parents treat their children as extensions of themselves and insist on rubbing all their accomplishments in your face while blaming others for their child’s mistakes.
- I want to know why some people insist they have a right to own dogs, but then keep them tied up all day and don’t give them the love and attention they need.
- I want to know why some people call themselves Christians , but then spend so much time and energy judging others.
- I want to know why some people think that tearing others down serves to build themselves up.
- And most of all? I want to know why people believe their way of thinking or doing things is THE way. Why don’t they recognize that each of us is different, and, because of that, there is no right way. We all have different needs, wants and desires.
And my personal desire? As I get older, I just want genuine answers to these questions.
They Used to Call Him Bubba, but Now We Call Him Jim
The coincidence was just too great.
In the same week that I was engaged in a conversation in which the phrase “they used to call him Bubba, but now we just call him Jim” was uttered, I ran across a news article about how your name might impact your entire life.
To be honest, I didn’t really read the article, and my immediate reaction to the whole Bubba and Jim conversation was that those words would make great lyrics for a country song.
But the two incidents must have stuck in my head because I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately. And I haven’t given so much thought to names since I gave birth to my daughter nine years ago.
Like most expectant parents, my husband and I spent a great deal of time agonizing over baby names. I say most parents, because I’m always amazed at those who obviously didn’t put a lot of thought into possible disasters when it comes to initials, potentially embarrassing nicknames and disastrous first and last name combinations. My husband and I took all of those into account.
Not that we were prepared to let anyone else in on our personal deliberations before either of our children actually arrived. Before our son was born and people were asking what his name would be, our response was that we hadn’t quite yet decided between Fyvush Finkel and Deuteronomy. We did clarify that if we selected Deuteronomy, we’d call him Dute due to our tendencies to call everyone Dude anyway.
I’m not sure if anyone actually believed us, but a few still scratched their heads when we named him Shepherd. We even had one woman who insisted that we were mistaken and his name was actually Gabriel Shepherd – not Shepherd Gabriel. I have no clue why she thought we didn’t know our own child’s name, but I had long since figured out that people just live within their own paradigms with no hope of escape.
I’ll never forget having just filled out a form at a doctor’s office when I got called back up to the front desk. The woman motioned for me to lean in so I could hear her whisper, “Honey, spouse means your husband. You shouldn’t have put your daddy’s name on that line.”
It took me a minute before I could even find the words to tell her that I had put my husband’s name on that line, we just had different last names. Based on the look she gave me, she obviously thought I was simply covering up. The look I gave her wasn’t nearly as sympathetic.
I had, after all, been dealing with such chronically confused people for years.
When I was getting married, I worked with woman who simply could not understand why I was not taking my husband’s last name. One day, she walked into my office with a big smile on her face. “I figured it out,” she exclaimed.
“Figured what out?” I asked.
“Why you aren’t changing your name,” she said, as if I should know that was the biggest mystery to ever hit our office.
“Or really,” I asked. “Why’s that?”
“Because your last name begins with a B and his last name starts with an S,” she said. “This way, you can stay at the top of the alphabet.”
I couldn’t think of a response. I guess I could have told her that my identify was tied more to my name than to my future husband, but I knew that concept was well beyond her.
But my belief that our identity is tied up with our names has continued. How could I think anything else with a mom named Evadna and a husband named Giles? That’s why, with a last name of Snyder, I wanted make sure my kids didn’t have the same name that hundreds of others did.
Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, my dog didn’t fare as well. While our entire family fell in love with him the first time we met him, we didn’t all agree on his name. His foster family had temporarily named him Rodney after the animal control officer that picked him up. I just didn’t think the name fit a German Shepherd.
My kids, on the other hand, had other ideas. “How would you like it if someone kept changing your name?” they asked.
O.K., they had a point. And Rodney kept his name.
I admit, I do think it’s better than Bubba or Jim. And “A Dog Named Rodney” might also be great title for a country song.
A Simple Guide to Driving Me Crazy
Before I get to simple strategies for driving me crazy, I need to make a disclaimer: I don’t think I’m perfect. Not even close. In fact, I know I’m far, far from it.
If you know me at all, you know that I am the first person to call myself out and recognize my own flaws. And there are a lot of them:
I talk too much, which means I interrupt too much. I have to let everyone know exactly how I feel, whether they care or not. I’m too opinionated, and I don’t even try to hide my true feelings. I constantly compare myself to others and obsess about how I fall short. I have a temper that I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to keep hidden but, at times, still rears its ugly head.
The list goes on and on., and I haven’t even touched on all my physical flaws. But no one except me cares about those anyway, so there’s no reason to list them.
But this week, other people have driven me absolutely CRAZY.
CRAZY to the point that I really just want to avoid all people.
CRAZY to the point that I feel the need to share the insanity with everyone else.
CRAZY to the point that if I don’t write about it, my condition may become permanent.
And so, I’m writing down the characteristics and behaviors that drive … or maybe have already driven… me crazy. Obviously, I’m not naming names. No point in that. But I do feel the need to vent.
And, if you have any interest in making me completely insane, here’s the check list:
1. Live your life as though you are the center of the universe. After all, every political, economic, or social issue is about how it affects you…not how it affects people who might not have the family support, intelligence or other resources that make life easier for the more fortunate.
2. Throw your money around to get what you want. And, if you give money to an organization, make sure everyone knows you are now entitled to drive the direction of a project or a program based on the fact that you gave money. It doesn’t matter that you don’t have the slightest clue how to effectively address the issue.
3. When you are in a meeting or engaged in a conversation, be more intent on what you want to say next rather than on listening to what others are saying.
4. Take credit for work that you never did. After all, if you follow principle number 2 as listed above, you deserve to get the glory whether you did the work or not.
5. If you are working on a project or program with others, your top priority is letting everyone else know how smart, well-read or experienced you are… or at least think you are.
6. Don’t make any attempt to learn about and understand the people you are working with (whether it’s in the workplace or on a volunteer team.) After all, you already know it all anyway.
7. Make promises you don’t keep. Instead of following through on you commitment, spend all your energy ensuring everyone thinks you did something. It IS all about your image.
8. Don’t follow the rules. You are allowed to do this since you are special, more important or just in a bigger hurry than everyone else. Therefore, you don’t need to wait in line with people who are less important.
9. Make sure you employ devious ways to tear down the people who are actually doing good work. After all, their hard work and success might make you look bad for not following through on your commitments or playing nice with others.
10. After you have engaged in any or all of the above behaviors? Pretend to be nice to my face while trying to undermine me behind my back.
So there you have it, a guide to drive me insane.
You might think I’m a bit crazy for even sharing this list. If so, you are probably be right. But if I am? You now know the reason why.
The Way I Choose to Ride My Bike
I’ve been monitoring the weather all week in hopes that both the temperature and the wind would cooperate so I could actually get out on my bike.
They did and I did.
In the last few months of cold weather, I’ve only been out on my bike four times. Yes, I’ve actually kept track. And, while I most definitely have a passion for riding my bike, I’m not sure which I enjoy more: the actual riding or the challenges that come with it.
Not everyone gets this. I’ve discovered that a lot of people who are bike riding enthusiasts simply like leisurely rides so they can enjoy a pretty day or the beauty of the world around them. Some people even prefer to stay on flat land as much as possible.
Not me. I love hills.
I can’t stand taking the easy route. It’s just not as interesting, exciting or challenging.
And, to be honest, I don’t really take the easy route when it comes to other parts of my life either. I guess how a person rides (or even doesn’t ride) a bike says a lot about how they live their life.
The thought first struck me years ago as I was struggling up an extremely steep hill. “I could have chosen an easier route,” I thought. “But if I did, I wouldn’t feel as strong at the top.”
Those hills are just like life’s challenges. None of us has a perfect life and all of us have our uphill climbs. But we also have choices as to how we face them.
We can either accept that challenges will be there and choose to tackle them head on, knowing that eventually things will get easier and we can enjoy the downhill glide, or we can try to avoid them and never have the opportunity for growth.
There are obvious benefits to choosing the easy route. There’s very little stress. There’s very little risk. And, you can focus on your surroundings and enjoy them. Granted, even when you take the easy road, there are always bumps and you’re always going to face a few hills. But, if you haven’t been practicing for those hills, building up your endurance, they are even harder to face when you are forced to go up them.
As I struggle to go up hill, no matter how much I want to quit, no matter how much my lungs feel like they are going to burst and no matter how my legs ache, I don’t let myself stop or turn around. I convince myself I will make it to the top, because, every time I do? I not only build my strength, I also build my confidence.
Besides, there is something to be said for making it to the top of a particularly steep climb with your pulse racing, your heart pumping and your nerves on edge. Not only do you have the sense of pride and accomplishment, but you know that, at least for the moment, you face a glorious, joyful, breathtaking dive downhill along with an opportunity to simply appreciate the moment. And, at least for me, I feel like I’ve earned the right to sit back, breathe deep, admire, the scenery, and appreciate a much deserved “easy ride.”
And the next time I face a hill, whether by choice or by circumstance, I don’t have any doubt that I can conquer it. Just like those uphill battles I face in life.
Birthday Reflections
With the passing of another birthday last week, I officially reached middle age. That’s according to my nine-year old daughter who provided the specific definition for me: “Middle age is when you are halfway to 88.”
The definition makes as much sense as any other age-related matter. And I’m fine with the label.
That’s because, the older I get, the less important the number is and the more important the richness of the lessons I’ve learned.
I haven’t always felt this way.
I used to view age as something that came with benchmarks. For example, by the time I was 25 I should have a good paying job. By the time I was 30 I’d have written my first book. By the time I was 40, I’d have travelled the world.
The problem was, I never lived up to my own expectations. When I was 25, I had a job that provided wonderful opportunities to be creative, engaged in the community and work with interesting people but, the salary certainly wasn’t good. When I was 30, the only thing I was writing were papers for graduate school. When I turned 40, most of my travelling involved carting kids around from activity to activity.
The whole age thing just wasn’t working for me – at least the way I had mapped it out in my head.
I realized I was never going to be rich of famous. And I was most certainly never going to achieve my aspiration of aging so incredibly well that I would surprise everyone by evolving into a stunning beauty as I got older.
So I changed my philosophy. I decided that maybe growing older isn’t about aspiring to have an impressive resume, a substantial bank account or the most talented, well-rounded kids. I’ve decided maybe it’s about how well we adapt and grow based on lessons learned.
I’m not referring to the advice or platitudes that others feel obliged to pass on to us. I’m talking about the real lessons learned – the ones that result from both the missteps and the great successes, from the awkward moments as well as the triumphant ones and from the poor decisions and the lucky breaks.
These are the lessons we wish we could pass on to future generations, but we just can’t. Life lessons can’t be captured in a simple list of rules to live by. They reflect the unique path each of us has followed based on our flaws, strengths and desires. They reflect who we were and who we’ve become. And they reflect the beauty of aging.
So, now that I’ve reach that time in my life when I’m neither old nor young, I feel like I’m standing halfway up a mountain. I can look down and see an amazing view and the long, winding and sometimes very steep path I took to get here. And I can slow down a bit just to appreciate it. Then I can look up and see there’s still a path ahead of me, and I know the views are going to be even more spectacular. I also know that even though the path may be steeper, the climb is going to be a bit easier because I’ve got a guidebook of life lessons to help me. And, along the way, I know even more lessons are going to be added to it.
Based on that, I think I’m really going to like being middle-aged.
Just So You Know 