Shades of Gray
We say nothing is absolute
in this enlightened time,
morality is destitute
and not much is a crime.
We fail to see what's wrong or right
through conscience clouded haze -
we've done away with "black and white"
and substituted grays.
How easily the untrained eye
sees white blend into gray -
another drop or two of dye
and black's not far away.
Subtle differences in shade
require a contrast stark,
next to black dull gray will fade
and not appear so dark.
Now contrast that same muted tone
against a crisp white shirt.
Its darkness then is clearly shown
to be a smudge of dirt.
But many will avert their eyes
and thus ignore the grime -
or choose to don a gray disguise
and blend in with the slime.
The stuff composing all our brains -
gray matter, to be sure -
by our own choosing oft' refrains
from being clean and pure.
What we put in is manifest
by what we say and do,
our actions, be they cursed or blessed
from our gray matter grew.
We seem content to live in gray
with colours all around.
Why do we into shadows stray
when light can still be found?
I see the world in black and white
and multi-coloured hues;
some things are wrong, and some are right
and grays I will refuse.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - March 2007
Long before there was a book or a movie I was contemplating just how many shades of gray exist.
As a design school student, I learned how to paint a gray scale. White gradually becomes gray, which gradually becomes black as the individual drops of black dye are added and stirred. Our minds work more or less the same way. As we allow our darker thoughts to trickle in, and then stir them to blend with the rest of our ideals, we are left a darker mindset than we started out with. Anger darkens us, immoral behavior darkens us, unkindness darkens us, and learning to tolerate negative ideals darkens us too. In short - adopting negative beliefs and behaviors interferes with our ability to feel buoyant and light.
Darkness mutes colour. When I step into my garden on a very dark night, the flowers are still as vibrant as they were at noon. The dimness of the night sky has merely impeded my ability to see those rich tones. When our souls feel dark and heavy, the same thing has occurred. The world is still as bright and beautiful as it ever was - but our ability to perceive its brightness has changed.
Many may wonder how a movie like Fifty Shades of Gray can be so popular. I don't. While I have no interest in reading the book or watching the movie, the popularity of both doesn't surprise me at all.
Did you know that this series was inspired by another popular trilogy?
Several years ago, when the Twilight books were flying off the shelves, I had several friends recommend them to me. They were written by a good, church-going woman, and the lead characters stayed chaste until after marriage - so what was there to not like, right? Still, something about this series didn't sit right with me, and the more I heard teenaged girls rhapsodize over these books, the more I dug in my heels and refused to read them. I did, however, read several reviews of the books that reinforced my belief that they weren't all sweetness and light. The graphic scene describing the destructiveness of the half-vampire baby that Bella carried made me want to vomit. (The woman who quoted that part of the story in her review felt the same way.)
Fifty Shades of Gray began as online Twilight fan fiction. It doesn't surprise me that a book that oozed glittery vampire lust, aimed to set the hearts of teenaged girls pounding, inspired a book that is full of kinky sex aimed to titillate more sexually experienced women. Some might say that the lust isn't important - I mean, they stayed chaste - right? And yes, that bit of fan fiction soon disappeared from Stephanie Meyers' fan site - a good move on the part of one who obviously desires a squeaky clean image. Still, I don't think that encouraging hormonal teens to read stories rife with sexual longing is likely to further the cause of chastity.
There are similarities between the two books that may go unnoticed by diehard Twilight fans, who perceive one series as "clean" and the other as too dirty to read. I'm not arguing the fact that Fifty Shades is smutty - that's the author's whole point - to take the ramped up longing of Bella and Edward and translate it into a graphically sexual book that glamorizes S&M the way Meyers glamorized vampires. Nevertheless, if you read reviews by people familiar with both series, you'll find that many feel that they're essentially the same story, with Fifty Shades simply substituting kinky sex for sterilized vampire lore. Consider the following similarities:
1) Both books feature older, more experienced men (remember, Edward is ancient, in spite of his eternally youthful demeanor) who lust after young, innocent flesh. (Okay - so in Edward's case it's flesh and blood. That makes it all a lot more palatable, right?) Both have their "dark secrets" that they share with the female leads, who in spite of constant lip-biting, somehow manage to accept these creepifying oddities fairly easily. (Why both don't run screaming is beyond my comprehension!)
2) Both story lines feature vulnerable, subordinate women, who seem to innately understand - and accept - that there can be no lasting relationship with the man they want unless they completely recreate themselves. Bella can't have a lasting relationship with Edward without becoming a vampire herself. And in Fifty Shades, Ana, our (ahem) heroine knows that she has to adapt to her man's perverse tastes in order to stay with him. Why are women so quick to buy into the notion that they are the ones who have to become whatever their man wants in order to be loved? Is that really a message that we want to send out to the next generation?
3) In both series the men involved are a wee bit stalker-ish. When somebody breaks into your house to watch you sleep, it might seem like a romantic gesture, but really it's pretty scary behavior. How would you feel if your daughter told you her boyfriend broke into her apartment to watch her sleep? Would alarm bells go off? It seems obvious that if she wanted him to have unlimited access to her domicile she would have given him a key. It also seems to me that when someone tails you secretly it probably means they're controlling and don't trust you. And if they insist on trying to buy your way into college or a new job, you really ought to be concerned.
4) Both series encourage obsessive behavior. The males manipulate and control, but the females pine to the point of ill health when separated from them, uttering phrases along the lines of "I can't breathe when I'm away from him!" Small wonder both Meyers and James managed to establish such a crazed following for their books.
I may come under fire for bashing two series I didn't even read, and believe me, as one who had a lot of interaction with teenaged girls during Twilight's heyday, I know that any criticism of that fine literary work might irritate a few diehard fans. But I've read a whole lot of reviews and quotes from these books, and to me it seems obvious that both series reinforce negative gender stereotypes. I certainly read enough sappy romances in my youth to understand the basic formula that these and far too many other books follow - take a naive, innocent young woman and pair her up with a sophisticated and experienced older man who preys on her lack of confidence. These characterizations, which are grossly unflattering to both sexes, bother me more and more as I mature. Why do so many women in a supposedly enlightened generation still think it's "romantic" for a man to hold all the cards? And why should any man feel that it's his right to be the sole dealer?
It seems to me that once we embrace the sacrificial nature of Bella, our acceptance of Ana's "choices" and behavior may not be far behind. If it's okay for a woman to have to change her very essence for a man, then why isn't it okay for one to submit to behavioral changes and adapt her sexual palate for a man's satisfaction? Or to suppress her desires for romance and commitment? (I mean - the sex is all consensual - right?)
My point is this - women shouldn't have to be the ones to make all of the changes and sacrifices in relationships. When we send out the message to girls that that's okay, we do the opposite of empowering them. Furthermore, I know we all need to acknowledge the darkness within so that we can diminish it, but both of these series show the opposite happening. No matter how sparkly the movies portrayed them, vampires are dark. So obviously Bella chose the dark side. Ana chose the dark side too, when she signed away her innocence and inhibitions by contracting her body out to a sadistic control freak. Thus we see how the bewitching Twilight of obsessive yearning darkens to the hyper-sexualized midnight blackness portrayed in Fifty Shades of Gray.
Fifty Shades further compounds the negative messages already mentioned by adding whole new layers of unsavory ideas into the mix, like:
1) Stay with your abuser, ladies - you can change him! This is a horrible fallacy that too many women buy into. How many shelters are full of women who thought just that? Nobody "changes" anybody else. People make changes if and when they want to - and why would a man, who has seen a partner sacrifice everything for him, and change herself in unbelievable ways for him, bother to improve himself? Desire to improve is obviously diminished by overly compliant partners. Do I believe that even very jaded individuals can change? Sure, it's possible. But as a woman, would I become entangled with a man believing that I could miraculously "fix" him? No, I'm not nearly masochistic enough to put myself in that situation. Nor am I foolish enough to buy into such magical thinking.
2) No means no - sometimes. Well, I guess it doesn't if he can still have you begging for more after ignoring the fact that you said no and not listening to your safe word and...
3) Be dazzled by his position, power and money. Let him buy you expensive presents and fly you around on his private plane. (It's not like he expects anything in return - right?) Oops - I forgot that there's a whole lot of being awed by the rich guy and receiving big ticket gifts in Twilight too - my bad.
Every time we embrace stereotypes that negatively impact ideals and behaviors within our society, we admit a little more darkness into our lives and dim the vibrant hues of good judgment a little more.
A harmless little book - or movie. A harmless little attitude that we allow to creep into our head space. Go ahead girls - be weak and spineless and easily dazzled. Let the dark and brooding man tell you how much you need to change. And guys - remember how much girls love a "take charge" guy. Sure, she'll protest your high-handed tactics in the beginning, but keep reminding her that she's helpless and inept and buy her something nice. Eventually your investments will pay off, and she'll become whatever you want her to be.
Every little concession, or coercion, is just a drop of dye - right?
And black is nothing more than a drop, and another, and another...
Thursday, 19 February 2015
Friday, 30 January 2015
Scar Tissue - by Sharon Floof Kasenberg
Scar:
The scar on my face tells the story
of how at eleven years old
a beach-combing jaunt became gory -
my face was a sight to behold.
A rock left a gash, badly sewn up -
a seam down the bridge of my nose -
which bothers me less now I'm grown up,
although I still know that it shows.
It was a freak accident really -
when stone tossed aside by a friend
hit boulder and veered willy nilly
to scar up my face in the end.
I know where it hit was a blessing;
an inch to the left or the right
would damage in ways more distressing -
an eye likely would have lost sight.
In fact, my scar grants me perspective -
the incident could have been worse.
Though marred my face isn't defective -
I don't see my scar as a curse.
This small battle scar from my childhood
has taught me a lesson or two.
I've learned there are times I'll not look good
no matter what I try to do.
I view others' scars with compassion -
we're all marked by trials we face,
and through the solutions we fashion
we foster acclaim or disgrace.
Each wound brings fresh wisdom as we're taught
no matter how each scar arrived -
the mark left behind shows that we fought;
we took a few hits, but survived.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 2007
I can tell you a thing or two about scar tissue.
Sticks and stones can do damage, as proven by a scar I've worn down the bridge of my nose for more than forty years. I've also had a scar over my right eyebrow for the last seven years because I ran into my car door. As well as those two prominent facial scars I have a scar on my abdomen from surgery I had as an infant and another over my tailbone that I acquired sliding down some stairs as a child. (Splinters - ouch!) Of course, as a newlywed I jokingly told my husband that I was born with a tail that had to be removed. It made a much better story, and one that he passed on to our sons when they were young!
I've often joked that I could never get lost - I have too many distinguishing markings.
The scar on my nose started out really ugly. It was an inch long gash dead center between my eyebrows. The doctor on call made an unholy mess of sewing it up and the skin puckered and looked fierce and red for months. People stared and asked what happened. Sometimes they were tactless or even downright rude. More than one person wanted to know what was "wrong" with my face. After several months I toughened up and it bothered me less.
My friend who'd thrown the rock felt terrible. We both knew exactly how the accident had played out, and that she had most definitely not been lobbing stones at me. She had tossed the rock in the exact opposite direction, but it had glanced off a boulder and flown backwards to where I was seated about fifteen feet behind her I sometimes think about that day, and how frightened she must've been as she left me with her brother and raced down the beach to get help. I blacked out momentarily, then came to and saw a very white face hovering over me. It occurred to me that he'd perhaps thought the rock had killed me, and I reassured him that I was okay. Oddly, I felt quite calm; more bothered by the blood on my face and swimsuit than by the pain in my head. I very sensibly waded into Lake Superior and let the icy water wash me clean and slow the bleeding before the two of us headed down the beach towards my parents' cabin.
In truth, I think my friends were both more traumatized by the impact of that rock than I was. Certainly my friend flinched for a long time when she saw my scar, and often expressed hope that its appearance would improve, and over time it did - a little. I finally had laser surgery on it in my late thirties,which I was told would make it look about 20% better. I could've had honest to goodness plastic surgery on it, but it didn't bother me much by then. After that point everyone assumed it was just a wrinkle, which was slightly irksome.
The scar over my eyebrow was problematic too. My husband handily applied a butterfly bandage and staunched the bleeding, but I had a black eye for a week. Again I got stares and questions. This time around there were reactions from uncomfortable passers-by who clearly assumed I'd been assaulted. (Those who know me well cracked jokes about "the other guy" faring worse.)
Two nasty gashes on my face left scars. I know they're there, and anyone who gives my face more than a passing glance probably does too. But here's the thing - they're just little marks on the surface. They don't hurt me, and even when the wounds were fresh and people asked questions, made assumptions, grimaced and looked away - I knew I could cope.
When I've noted reactions to external scars I've wondered how well we'd all handle being able to see the invisible scar tissue that results from hurt and wounded feelings - from words that hurt more than sticks or stones and leave lasting damage to our self-esteem and our ability to trust others. I've learned that those scars heal slower and can cause a lifetime of pain.
My face healed faster than my friend's feeling of guilt - even though she had nothing to feel guilty about. I learned that we can spend our lives obsessing about what's on the surface and ignore deeper and more meaningful problems. I learned that sometimes people make really stupid assumptions about what caused the damage we wear on the outside - and needless to say the hurts we carry where nobody can see. I know there were teenaged boys - as well as gossipy girls - who thought my scar was ugly. I learned not to care. I learned that the discomfort of others usually has a lot more to do with them than me. I learned not to worry about seeking approval from those who couldn't see past visible flaws.
I mean, if someone was willing to disqualify me as a friend (or a potential date) because of a scar on my nose (which I couldn't do much to improve) then how would they ever be able to cope with the deeper scars I had? Would those people ever be capable of empathizing with me or understanding my insecurities? I doubted that they would, and thus my scar became a reliable litmus test. If a person could look me in the eyes and see past it, they were in. I learned the difference between those who asked about the scar to satisfy their idle curiosity, and those who asked because they genuinely cared about me and wanted to know what had happened.
Two nasty gashes healed - and left scars. What does a scar or two matter in the grand scheme of things? My first boyfriend asked about the scar on my nose, and then shrugged it off with a reassuring "I've got a few scars too - doesn't matter - we're both still good-looking!"
I adopted his laissez faire attitude and never looked back. There are scars on my face. I have a few scars inside too. I can accept these obvious imperfections. They're part of my history - they're part of my present. They are identifying characteristics, part of what makes me the person I am, but they don't define me.
Scars on the skin's surface are evidence that some sort of trauma was experienced, but healing took place. External scar tissue doesn't hurt.
It's the scars on the inside that cause us the most discomfort.
The scar on my face tells the story
of how at eleven years old
a beach-combing jaunt became gory -
my face was a sight to behold.
A rock left a gash, badly sewn up -
a seam down the bridge of my nose -
which bothers me less now I'm grown up,
although I still know that it shows.
It was a freak accident really -
when stone tossed aside by a friend
hit boulder and veered willy nilly
to scar up my face in the end.
I know where it hit was a blessing;
an inch to the left or the right
would damage in ways more distressing -
an eye likely would have lost sight.
In fact, my scar grants me perspective -
the incident could have been worse.
Though marred my face isn't defective -
I don't see my scar as a curse.
This small battle scar from my childhood
has taught me a lesson or two.
I've learned there are times I'll not look good
no matter what I try to do.
I view others' scars with compassion -
we're all marked by trials we face,
and through the solutions we fashion
we foster acclaim or disgrace.
Each wound brings fresh wisdom as we're taught
no matter how each scar arrived -
the mark left behind shows that we fought;
we took a few hits, but survived.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 2007
I can tell you a thing or two about scar tissue.
Sticks and stones can do damage, as proven by a scar I've worn down the bridge of my nose for more than forty years. I've also had a scar over my right eyebrow for the last seven years because I ran into my car door. As well as those two prominent facial scars I have a scar on my abdomen from surgery I had as an infant and another over my tailbone that I acquired sliding down some stairs as a child. (Splinters - ouch!) Of course, as a newlywed I jokingly told my husband that I was born with a tail that had to be removed. It made a much better story, and one that he passed on to our sons when they were young!
I've often joked that I could never get lost - I have too many distinguishing markings.
The scar on my nose started out really ugly. It was an inch long gash dead center between my eyebrows. The doctor on call made an unholy mess of sewing it up and the skin puckered and looked fierce and red for months. People stared and asked what happened. Sometimes they were tactless or even downright rude. More than one person wanted to know what was "wrong" with my face. After several months I toughened up and it bothered me less.
My friend who'd thrown the rock felt terrible. We both knew exactly how the accident had played out, and that she had most definitely not been lobbing stones at me. She had tossed the rock in the exact opposite direction, but it had glanced off a boulder and flown backwards to where I was seated about fifteen feet behind her I sometimes think about that day, and how frightened she must've been as she left me with her brother and raced down the beach to get help. I blacked out momentarily, then came to and saw a very white face hovering over me. It occurred to me that he'd perhaps thought the rock had killed me, and I reassured him that I was okay. Oddly, I felt quite calm; more bothered by the blood on my face and swimsuit than by the pain in my head. I very sensibly waded into Lake Superior and let the icy water wash me clean and slow the bleeding before the two of us headed down the beach towards my parents' cabin.
In truth, I think my friends were both more traumatized by the impact of that rock than I was. Certainly my friend flinched for a long time when she saw my scar, and often expressed hope that its appearance would improve, and over time it did - a little. I finally had laser surgery on it in my late thirties,which I was told would make it look about 20% better. I could've had honest to goodness plastic surgery on it, but it didn't bother me much by then. After that point everyone assumed it was just a wrinkle, which was slightly irksome.
The scar over my eyebrow was problematic too. My husband handily applied a butterfly bandage and staunched the bleeding, but I had a black eye for a week. Again I got stares and questions. This time around there were reactions from uncomfortable passers-by who clearly assumed I'd been assaulted. (Those who know me well cracked jokes about "the other guy" faring worse.)
Two nasty gashes on my face left scars. I know they're there, and anyone who gives my face more than a passing glance probably does too. But here's the thing - they're just little marks on the surface. They don't hurt me, and even when the wounds were fresh and people asked questions, made assumptions, grimaced and looked away - I knew I could cope.
When I've noted reactions to external scars I've wondered how well we'd all handle being able to see the invisible scar tissue that results from hurt and wounded feelings - from words that hurt more than sticks or stones and leave lasting damage to our self-esteem and our ability to trust others. I've learned that those scars heal slower and can cause a lifetime of pain.
My face healed faster than my friend's feeling of guilt - even though she had nothing to feel guilty about. I learned that we can spend our lives obsessing about what's on the surface and ignore deeper and more meaningful problems. I learned that sometimes people make really stupid assumptions about what caused the damage we wear on the outside - and needless to say the hurts we carry where nobody can see. I know there were teenaged boys - as well as gossipy girls - who thought my scar was ugly. I learned not to care. I learned that the discomfort of others usually has a lot more to do with them than me. I learned not to worry about seeking approval from those who couldn't see past visible flaws.
I mean, if someone was willing to disqualify me as a friend (or a potential date) because of a scar on my nose (which I couldn't do much to improve) then how would they ever be able to cope with the deeper scars I had? Would those people ever be capable of empathizing with me or understanding my insecurities? I doubted that they would, and thus my scar became a reliable litmus test. If a person could look me in the eyes and see past it, they were in. I learned the difference between those who asked about the scar to satisfy their idle curiosity, and those who asked because they genuinely cared about me and wanted to know what had happened.
Two nasty gashes healed - and left scars. What does a scar or two matter in the grand scheme of things? My first boyfriend asked about the scar on my nose, and then shrugged it off with a reassuring "I've got a few scars too - doesn't matter - we're both still good-looking!"
I adopted his laissez faire attitude and never looked back. There are scars on my face. I have a few scars inside too. I can accept these obvious imperfections. They're part of my history - they're part of my present. They are identifying characteristics, part of what makes me the person I am, but they don't define me.
Scars on the skin's surface are evidence that some sort of trauma was experienced, but healing took place. External scar tissue doesn't hurt.
It's the scars on the inside that cause us the most discomfort.
Friday, 16 January 2015
Turning the Tables on Labels - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Labeling:
"The pretty one, the pretty one" -
They said, "you'll be the pretty one."
Perhaps they said it all in fun,
but 'twas a label she would shun.
They said, "Don't waste your time with art -
you ought not scribble, you're too smart."
But she intoned, with all her heart,
"My passion is creating art."
They said, "My dear, you're too intense!
So much emotion makes no sense."
And she replied, "In my defense
my feelings are of relevance."
They'll call you "silly", "loud" or "gay",
a "poor sport" when you will not play,
a "whiner" if things aren't your way;
"successful" when your life's okay.
Some labels stick, that's very clear,
but others simply won't adhere -
perhaps the wearer shows no fear
and strips them off when they appear.
No label easily defines;
each person many traits combines.
When strengths and talents one entwines
all labels fall - uniqueness shines.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 15, 2015
So what's wrong with being labeled "Pretty"?
Well, nothing - unless that's the only way you're perceived. But all too often, women (especially) are acknowledged to be "pretty" or "beautiful" and aren't allowed to be anything else. Society has a bit of a double standard where the sexes are concerned. A handsome man is more likely to be given credit for being intelligent than an attractive woman. Thus "pretty" can be a label that is as potentially limiting as it is complimentary.
As a small child I was cute. In my family I was perceived as "the cute one" - "the baby". For five and a half years I wore those labels. Then my baby brother was born, and whatever notions I had about my own cuteness quotient were blown to smithereens. He was, undoubtedly, far cuter than I was. His newborn rosy cheeked perfection couldn't be competed with. Furthermore, kindergarten had demonstrated that cute little girls were a dime a dozen. By the time I was six I knew that I'd need to be more than "cute" to make my way in the world. So, the way I see it, you'd have to be less self aware and more of a narcissist than the average six year old to be content to sail through life on your looks alone.
Labels - even those that are perceived as being complimentary - are limiting. There's no reason why the "smart" kid can't be the "nice" kid AND the "good-looking" kid. For that matter, that same "smart" kid may be a "troubled kid" too. We all merit more than a one word synopsis, but in our fast paced world we want to be able to take a quick look and categorize.
Negative labels are especially damning. In grade five I had a teacher who had me pegged as "a trouble-maker" from the get go. I had never been perfectly behaved, but I'd certainly never been seen as a disciplinary problem either. Still, Mr. "Snave" took one look at me and decided that I was a bad seed. I got detention after detention, which my parents found a little surprising. Since he was also the Vice Principal at my public school (which necessitated his being out of the classroom fairly often) the class could get pretty rowdy when his absences were prolonged. Somehow Snave could walk into a class of thirty kids, twenty-five of whom were talking, and only hear the same five voices every single time. (He even dubbed us his "After Four Club". Oddly, most of the kids who really did have disciplinary problems managed to not be in this "club" - go figure.)
The sad part of my story about Snave is that as my years of interaction with him went on I did become one of those kids with a bit too much attitude. His undeserved label actually became its own self-fulfilling prophecy. I figured that if I was going to be punished anyway, I might as well do something to deserve it from time to time! That's when I began to understand that people sometimes do live down to the negative expectations that labels place on them.
Labels stick. Consider what I'll call the "Parable of the Mean Dog".
Johnny sees a big dog that growls at him. (The dog actually growled at him because another kid, about Johnny's age, had hit it with a rock. But Johnny doesn't know this, and isn't well versed in animal psychology anyhow.) So he tells his friends that the dog is mean.
His friend Mike doesn't believe him, because he knows the guy who owns the dog. Johnny is upset about not being believed. He wants to be right! (Maybe it doesn't occur to Johnny that this is the case, but it is.) So he tells Mike to come with him after school and he'll prove that the dog is mean. Off they go after school. The dog is sleeping behind a chain link fence. Johnny yells to wake the dog up. The dog lifts a wary eye, and goes back to sleep. Johnny pokes the dog with a stick, and the animal shifts it's position. Johnny pokes the dog again - hard.
The dog wakes up and growls at the boys - and Johnny (now vindicated) says,
"See? I told you that dog was mean."
That's another problem with labels. None of us want to wear them, but most of us want to put them on others. Sometimes, like Johnny, we want to be perceived as someone who is good at labeling.
"I had him figured out the first time I met him" we'll say proudly.
If you're good at reading people I mean no insult. (I'm good at reading people too.) But the guy who takes pride in labeling won't just store gained perceptions in his or her brain. This individual will feel the need to share their labeling finesse with the general populace. If anyone disagrees that they "pegged it right" they will feel the need to prove themselves right. And in the process of "poking the dog" they might achieve the satisfaction of having some of their less flattering labels validated. Nobody likes to be poked, and if you weren't grumpy, mean or unkind before that label adhered, you just might be after the prodding takes place.
Then you'll have a hard time getting rid of the label. You can yank it off and toss it in the trash, but that glue really adheres, and try as you might you could be wearing the leftover sticky residue for a long time.
That gluey residue might make the child you decided was "the pretty one" feel that she has to work harder to be taken seriously and be seen as someone who has talents and thoughts and feelings.
The truth of the matter is that nobody deserves to be quickly summarized, or to have a label slapped on their back. Every one of us is an individual comprised of all kinds of traits, experiences and abilities. People don't need to be neatly sorted into categories like "attractive" or "intelligent" or "amusing", let alone boxed in negatively by the words " mean" or "fat" or "stupid". I'd even take it so far as to say that none of us should be seen as merely "gay" or "straight" or "Catholic" or "Mormon".
As for race, I've had the experience where some over-the-top politically correct person has described every single feature of a person in order to avoid telling me the individual was black. And when I finally figured out who they were talking about I thought, "Why didn't you just make it easy and say he was black, since he's the only black guy in the room?" I'm just practical that way. Besides, I have no objection to being referred to as white, or a redhead. Those are obvious physical traits, not affixed labels. Still, I completely agree that nobody should be stigmatized on the sole basis of skin color or hair color (and as fair haired person I can say I don't appreciate blond jokes at all).
We are all more than how we look.
We are all more than our greatest talent and more than our biggest failing.
We are all more than how we acted during our most negative exchanges, or during our standing ovations.
We are all more than "smart" or "funny" or "kind" or "difficult".
Describing someone is one thing, but sticking them with a single, one word summary is another.
Put away that DYMO label-maker, and dig a little deeper to see just how many wonderful, terrible and amazing experiences and characteristics make up the people around you. You'll be surprised.
We are all more.
"The pretty one, the pretty one" -
They said, "you'll be the pretty one."
Perhaps they said it all in fun,
but 'twas a label she would shun.
They said, "Don't waste your time with art -
you ought not scribble, you're too smart."
But she intoned, with all her heart,
"My passion is creating art."
They said, "My dear, you're too intense!
So much emotion makes no sense."
And she replied, "In my defense
my feelings are of relevance."
They'll call you "silly", "loud" or "gay",
a "poor sport" when you will not play,
a "whiner" if things aren't your way;
"successful" when your life's okay.
Some labels stick, that's very clear,
but others simply won't adhere -
perhaps the wearer shows no fear
and strips them off when they appear.
No label easily defines;
each person many traits combines.
When strengths and talents one entwines
all labels fall - uniqueness shines.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 15, 2015
So what's wrong with being labeled "Pretty"?
Well, nothing - unless that's the only way you're perceived. But all too often, women (especially) are acknowledged to be "pretty" or "beautiful" and aren't allowed to be anything else. Society has a bit of a double standard where the sexes are concerned. A handsome man is more likely to be given credit for being intelligent than an attractive woman. Thus "pretty" can be a label that is as potentially limiting as it is complimentary.
As a small child I was cute. In my family I was perceived as "the cute one" - "the baby". For five and a half years I wore those labels. Then my baby brother was born, and whatever notions I had about my own cuteness quotient were blown to smithereens. He was, undoubtedly, far cuter than I was. His newborn rosy cheeked perfection couldn't be competed with. Furthermore, kindergarten had demonstrated that cute little girls were a dime a dozen. By the time I was six I knew that I'd need to be more than "cute" to make my way in the world. So, the way I see it, you'd have to be less self aware and more of a narcissist than the average six year old to be content to sail through life on your looks alone.
Labels - even those that are perceived as being complimentary - are limiting. There's no reason why the "smart" kid can't be the "nice" kid AND the "good-looking" kid. For that matter, that same "smart" kid may be a "troubled kid" too. We all merit more than a one word synopsis, but in our fast paced world we want to be able to take a quick look and categorize.
Negative labels are especially damning. In grade five I had a teacher who had me pegged as "a trouble-maker" from the get go. I had never been perfectly behaved, but I'd certainly never been seen as a disciplinary problem either. Still, Mr. "Snave" took one look at me and decided that I was a bad seed. I got detention after detention, which my parents found a little surprising. Since he was also the Vice Principal at my public school (which necessitated his being out of the classroom fairly often) the class could get pretty rowdy when his absences were prolonged. Somehow Snave could walk into a class of thirty kids, twenty-five of whom were talking, and only hear the same five voices every single time. (He even dubbed us his "After Four Club". Oddly, most of the kids who really did have disciplinary problems managed to not be in this "club" - go figure.)
The sad part of my story about Snave is that as my years of interaction with him went on I did become one of those kids with a bit too much attitude. His undeserved label actually became its own self-fulfilling prophecy. I figured that if I was going to be punished anyway, I might as well do something to deserve it from time to time! That's when I began to understand that people sometimes do live down to the negative expectations that labels place on them.
Labels stick. Consider what I'll call the "Parable of the Mean Dog".
Johnny sees a big dog that growls at him. (The dog actually growled at him because another kid, about Johnny's age, had hit it with a rock. But Johnny doesn't know this, and isn't well versed in animal psychology anyhow.) So he tells his friends that the dog is mean.
His friend Mike doesn't believe him, because he knows the guy who owns the dog. Johnny is upset about not being believed. He wants to be right! (Maybe it doesn't occur to Johnny that this is the case, but it is.) So he tells Mike to come with him after school and he'll prove that the dog is mean. Off they go after school. The dog is sleeping behind a chain link fence. Johnny yells to wake the dog up. The dog lifts a wary eye, and goes back to sleep. Johnny pokes the dog with a stick, and the animal shifts it's position. Johnny pokes the dog again - hard.
The dog wakes up and growls at the boys - and Johnny (now vindicated) says,
"See? I told you that dog was mean."
That's another problem with labels. None of us want to wear them, but most of us want to put them on others. Sometimes, like Johnny, we want to be perceived as someone who is good at labeling.
"I had him figured out the first time I met him" we'll say proudly.
If you're good at reading people I mean no insult. (I'm good at reading people too.) But the guy who takes pride in labeling won't just store gained perceptions in his or her brain. This individual will feel the need to share their labeling finesse with the general populace. If anyone disagrees that they "pegged it right" they will feel the need to prove themselves right. And in the process of "poking the dog" they might achieve the satisfaction of having some of their less flattering labels validated. Nobody likes to be poked, and if you weren't grumpy, mean or unkind before that label adhered, you just might be after the prodding takes place.
Then you'll have a hard time getting rid of the label. You can yank it off and toss it in the trash, but that glue really adheres, and try as you might you could be wearing the leftover sticky residue for a long time.
That gluey residue might make the child you decided was "the pretty one" feel that she has to work harder to be taken seriously and be seen as someone who has talents and thoughts and feelings.
The truth of the matter is that nobody deserves to be quickly summarized, or to have a label slapped on their back. Every one of us is an individual comprised of all kinds of traits, experiences and abilities. People don't need to be neatly sorted into categories like "attractive" or "intelligent" or "amusing", let alone boxed in negatively by the words " mean" or "fat" or "stupid". I'd even take it so far as to say that none of us should be seen as merely "gay" or "straight" or "Catholic" or "Mormon".
As for race, I've had the experience where some over-the-top politically correct person has described every single feature of a person in order to avoid telling me the individual was black. And when I finally figured out who they were talking about I thought, "Why didn't you just make it easy and say he was black, since he's the only black guy in the room?" I'm just practical that way. Besides, I have no objection to being referred to as white, or a redhead. Those are obvious physical traits, not affixed labels. Still, I completely agree that nobody should be stigmatized on the sole basis of skin color or hair color (and as fair haired person I can say I don't appreciate blond jokes at all).
We are all more than how we look.
We are all more than our greatest talent and more than our biggest failing.
We are all more than how we acted during our most negative exchanges, or during our standing ovations.
We are all more than "smart" or "funny" or "kind" or "difficult".
Describing someone is one thing, but sticking them with a single, one word summary is another.
Put away that DYMO label-maker, and dig a little deeper to see just how many wonderful, terrible and amazing experiences and characteristics make up the people around you. You'll be surprised.
We are all more.
Monday, 5 January 2015
Changing Winds - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Changing Winds (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Jan. 3, 2015)
The winds of change
are sure to blow
and rearrange
the life you know.
A gentle breeze
may bring fresh hope
as on the seas
of life you cope.
Kind winds prevail
just as you need
to lend your sail
a little speed.
But when a gust
a gale becomes
you may be thrust
in wind that numbs.
All winds change course,
blow cold or warm -
or gain in force;
become a storm.
And each fierce blast
will test your skill -
can you hold fast
when winds blow ill?
All sailors learn
to weather storms -
for wind they yearn
in all its forms.
The calm, I'm told,
can be far worse -
sails don't unfold
and sailors curse.
All on the seas
must learn to row
when there's no breeze
the ship to blow.
Unhappy men
take up the oars -
wind blows again;
morale soon soars.
Too many days
I've had to row
while singing praise
to status quo.
Sails that were still
as I stood by
now catch and fill
so I can fly.
"Nothing endures but change"
- Heraclitus
Change is inevitable. We may grow very comfortable with the way things are, but that doesn't mean those things won't change tomorrow. Change will occur, and we may balk all we want, but eventually what changes around us will motivate us to adapt.
I'm not a person who ordinarily relishes change, but there are times when comfortable old routines get stale, old stand-by recipes grow unpalatable, and my favorite old jeans just plain need to be thrown out. There are times when I crave something different - a new taste on my tongue, a new style of clothing, a change of pace or fresh scenery.
On the other hand, better opportunities will sometimes present themselves in new locations whether or not you like where you are, and children will grow up and leave home whether or not you're ready for them to go. The daily wear and tear that your home and furnishings experience will require you to make changes - to replace favorite items, to add fresh paint and renovate. Appliances will give up the ghost, and your trusty ride will one day betray you. Probably most of these things will occur when you have the least inclination toward making major changes of any kind.
Life's like that. Change will occur, whether you want it to or not.
"Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change"
- Tony Robbins
Sometimes we can see how doing the same old things day in and day out, while expecting new and exciting outcomes, is driving us a bit crazy. When life in the land of "Stalledandstuck" becomes unbearable, and we've moved on to the less magical, but more satisfying town called "Progress!" we might feel the need to continue a personal pilgrimage. (If you are unfamiliar with these two towns, let me direct you to my first post of 2014 - "Progress - A Sharp Right Turn Before Stalledandstuck") This continuing trek is sure to take us through a valley called "Change". And the thing about that valley is that it just isn't ever an easy place to be. It isn't comfortable. It is seldom welcoming or accommodating.
"Change" is the place where you need to stop because your engine died. It's like the diet you're forced to go on by the doctor with the disapproving look on his face. It feels like the aches your underused muscles will have to endure on their way to becoming strong and healthy. Nope - no matter how much you know you need to get into that valley, "Change" isn't going to provide you with warm fuzzy feelings and visions of pink unicorns grazing under sunny skies.
In his book, The Stand, Stephen King says "No one can tell you what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don't."
When I read this quote it really resonated with me, because even some of the best changes that occurred in my life had their hellish aspects. I remember how nervous/excited I was about becoming a mom; how sleep deprived I was in the beginning, and how often I doubted my ability to parent well. I have great memories of my sons as brilliant and lovable tykes, but I also remember the not so great feelings I sometimes had - like when I felt less than brilliant as a mom. Too often I felt frustration - with them when they misbehaved, and with myself when I lost patience. There were "blue and lonely sections of hell" en route from my days as an irresponsible and single twenty-something to my days as a thirty-ish mother of two young sons.
I knew marrying and having kids would change me, but I was lonely and ready for change. In my case the pain of staying single, of not sharing my life with someone else and not having children, would have been greater than any pain that would ensue from taking the plunge into the unknown waters of marriage and motherhood.
"If we don't change, we don't grow. If we don't grow, we aren't really living."
- Anatol France
Not all of the change I've experienced has given me as much joy as motherhood. Many years ago my family moved to another province. My husband was offered a good opportunity to advance his career, and the two of us were excited by the prospect. (Excitement didn't stop either of us from crying like babies when we said good-bye to our first house or the little town we'd grown so fond of.) Our sons were less than thrilled about leaving friends and familiar surroundings, but we assured them everything would be fine. They'd make new friends and this would be a great adventure!
We were wrong. It was a three year period of mostly misery for all of us. We all tried, but realized that we'd landed in a pretty inhospitable climate. The kids in the neighborhood had a tight little clique, and few friends were made by any of us. Even the job was a bit of a disappointment, and as beautiful as our new neighbourhood was, I got tired of exploring and admiring it alone.
That experience changed all of us. I can't speak for the rest of the family, but I know I grew from it. I learned that I need friends more than pretty scenery. I learned that I wasn't immune to depression. I learned that I could be a ferocious mama bear when my kids' happiness was at stake. I learned that my husband and sons were the three people I could always count on. I learned that I could survive my own disappointment, but my kids' disappointment felt insurmountable.
I didn't enjoy learning any of the lessons I gained from that experience, but I know that it made me a better person. I grew - became more self-aware, more grateful and more courageous. I grew more determined to find happy moments in difficult circumstances.
"A bend in the road is not the end of the road...Unless you fail to make the turn."
- Helen Keller
There will be times in any life when transformations we've undergone won't be well received by others. They may not come right out and say it, but their message will clearly be "I liked you better the way you were before."
Sometimes the changes people make feel like the "end of the road" for those around them.What they may need to remember is that your journey isn't the same as theirs - and perhaps that bend in the road is going to make you better, happier or stronger in ways that they can't even imagine. They might be surprised to eventually learn that they prefer "the new you" to the previous version.
The bully won't appreciate the kid who finds a voice and yells, "Leave me alone!" (But he might eventually come to respect the fact that this is one kid he can't mess with.)
The hovering parent will feel affronted the first time their child says, "I want to do it myself!"(But she/he will come to appreciate the importance of having a more confident child.)
The friends who liked you - because they thought you felt the same way about a whole lot of things - won't like knowing that their opinions of you were based more on their own assumptions than any real knowledge of who you are. They will be unhappy when you begin to say, "I just don't see it that way." So you might want to soften that statement by adding - "But that doesn't mean that I don't love you."
That's the beauty of it. I change, you change, circumstances change - but when it comes to those we truly love and respect the road never ends.
It might feel kind of disappointing to have someone criticize you, or fail to appreciate your transformation just as you feel that there's a nice wind filling your sails. You don't need to feel discouraged. Nobody else was with you when you entered the Valley of Change - it's a place we all visit alone. Nobody knows how much your arms ache from rowing your own boat through calm and stagnant waters, or against the currents of popular opinion. And nobody else has to live with you as constantly as you have to live with yourself.
"All is in flux, nothing stands still."
- Plato
Life will throw you curve balls. Scientific discoveries will force you to embrace change. Pluto was a planet, then it wasn't. (Now I'm not too sure how Pluto gets categorized.) Everyone accepted that the world was flat, until a few heretics came up with the theory that it wasn't. Every day the universe changes, circumstances change and ideas change. You will change your clothes and change your mood and change your status (and not only on Facebook!). Opinions will change, moods will change, climates will change, and yes, we will change too. One day we'll be caterpillars trudging along on a hundred legs, and the next day we'll inexplicably take to spinning, then crawl into cocoons and emerge without a single leg to stand on.
Change is hard, but it isn't all bad. To add to a famous quote by Mahatma Gandhi, I believe it is possible to "Be the change that you wish to see in the world."
Rumi put it this way, "Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself."
As of now, I have adopted the words of George Bernard Shaw as my new personal motto:
"Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything."
The winds of change
are sure to blow
and rearrange
the life you know.
A gentle breeze
may bring fresh hope
as on the seas
of life you cope.
Kind winds prevail
just as you need
to lend your sail
a little speed.
But when a gust
a gale becomes
you may be thrust
in wind that numbs.
All winds change course,
blow cold or warm -
or gain in force;
become a storm.
And each fierce blast
will test your skill -
can you hold fast
when winds blow ill?
All sailors learn
to weather storms -
for wind they yearn
in all its forms.
The calm, I'm told,
can be far worse -
sails don't unfold
and sailors curse.
All on the seas
must learn to row
when there's no breeze
the ship to blow.
Unhappy men
take up the oars -
wind blows again;
morale soon soars.
Too many days
I've had to row
while singing praise
to status quo.
Sails that were still
as I stood by
now catch and fill
so I can fly.
"Nothing endures but change"
- Heraclitus
Change is inevitable. We may grow very comfortable with the way things are, but that doesn't mean those things won't change tomorrow. Change will occur, and we may balk all we want, but eventually what changes around us will motivate us to adapt.
I'm not a person who ordinarily relishes change, but there are times when comfortable old routines get stale, old stand-by recipes grow unpalatable, and my favorite old jeans just plain need to be thrown out. There are times when I crave something different - a new taste on my tongue, a new style of clothing, a change of pace or fresh scenery.
On the other hand, better opportunities will sometimes present themselves in new locations whether or not you like where you are, and children will grow up and leave home whether or not you're ready for them to go. The daily wear and tear that your home and furnishings experience will require you to make changes - to replace favorite items, to add fresh paint and renovate. Appliances will give up the ghost, and your trusty ride will one day betray you. Probably most of these things will occur when you have the least inclination toward making major changes of any kind.
Life's like that. Change will occur, whether you want it to or not.
"Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change"
- Tony Robbins
Sometimes we can see how doing the same old things day in and day out, while expecting new and exciting outcomes, is driving us a bit crazy. When life in the land of "Stalledandstuck" becomes unbearable, and we've moved on to the less magical, but more satisfying town called "Progress!" we might feel the need to continue a personal pilgrimage. (If you are unfamiliar with these two towns, let me direct you to my first post of 2014 - "Progress - A Sharp Right Turn Before Stalledandstuck") This continuing trek is sure to take us through a valley called "Change". And the thing about that valley is that it just isn't ever an easy place to be. It isn't comfortable. It is seldom welcoming or accommodating.
"Change" is the place where you need to stop because your engine died. It's like the diet you're forced to go on by the doctor with the disapproving look on his face. It feels like the aches your underused muscles will have to endure on their way to becoming strong and healthy. Nope - no matter how much you know you need to get into that valley, "Change" isn't going to provide you with warm fuzzy feelings and visions of pink unicorns grazing under sunny skies.
In his book, The Stand, Stephen King says "No one can tell you what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don't."
When I read this quote it really resonated with me, because even some of the best changes that occurred in my life had their hellish aspects. I remember how nervous/excited I was about becoming a mom; how sleep deprived I was in the beginning, and how often I doubted my ability to parent well. I have great memories of my sons as brilliant and lovable tykes, but I also remember the not so great feelings I sometimes had - like when I felt less than brilliant as a mom. Too often I felt frustration - with them when they misbehaved, and with myself when I lost patience. There were "blue and lonely sections of hell" en route from my days as an irresponsible and single twenty-something to my days as a thirty-ish mother of two young sons.
I knew marrying and having kids would change me, but I was lonely and ready for change. In my case the pain of staying single, of not sharing my life with someone else and not having children, would have been greater than any pain that would ensue from taking the plunge into the unknown waters of marriage and motherhood.
"If we don't change, we don't grow. If we don't grow, we aren't really living."
- Anatol France
Not all of the change I've experienced has given me as much joy as motherhood. Many years ago my family moved to another province. My husband was offered a good opportunity to advance his career, and the two of us were excited by the prospect. (Excitement didn't stop either of us from crying like babies when we said good-bye to our first house or the little town we'd grown so fond of.) Our sons were less than thrilled about leaving friends and familiar surroundings, but we assured them everything would be fine. They'd make new friends and this would be a great adventure!
We were wrong. It was a three year period of mostly misery for all of us. We all tried, but realized that we'd landed in a pretty inhospitable climate. The kids in the neighborhood had a tight little clique, and few friends were made by any of us. Even the job was a bit of a disappointment, and as beautiful as our new neighbourhood was, I got tired of exploring and admiring it alone.
That experience changed all of us. I can't speak for the rest of the family, but I know I grew from it. I learned that I need friends more than pretty scenery. I learned that I wasn't immune to depression. I learned that I could be a ferocious mama bear when my kids' happiness was at stake. I learned that my husband and sons were the three people I could always count on. I learned that I could survive my own disappointment, but my kids' disappointment felt insurmountable.
I didn't enjoy learning any of the lessons I gained from that experience, but I know that it made me a better person. I grew - became more self-aware, more grateful and more courageous. I grew more determined to find happy moments in difficult circumstances.
"A bend in the road is not the end of the road...Unless you fail to make the turn."
- Helen Keller
There will be times in any life when transformations we've undergone won't be well received by others. They may not come right out and say it, but their message will clearly be "I liked you better the way you were before."
Sometimes the changes people make feel like the "end of the road" for those around them.What they may need to remember is that your journey isn't the same as theirs - and perhaps that bend in the road is going to make you better, happier or stronger in ways that they can't even imagine. They might be surprised to eventually learn that they prefer "the new you" to the previous version.
The bully won't appreciate the kid who finds a voice and yells, "Leave me alone!" (But he might eventually come to respect the fact that this is one kid he can't mess with.)
The hovering parent will feel affronted the first time their child says, "I want to do it myself!"(But she/he will come to appreciate the importance of having a more confident child.)
The friends who liked you - because they thought you felt the same way about a whole lot of things - won't like knowing that their opinions of you were based more on their own assumptions than any real knowledge of who you are. They will be unhappy when you begin to say, "I just don't see it that way." So you might want to soften that statement by adding - "But that doesn't mean that I don't love you."
That's the beauty of it. I change, you change, circumstances change - but when it comes to those we truly love and respect the road never ends.
It might feel kind of disappointing to have someone criticize you, or fail to appreciate your transformation just as you feel that there's a nice wind filling your sails. You don't need to feel discouraged. Nobody else was with you when you entered the Valley of Change - it's a place we all visit alone. Nobody knows how much your arms ache from rowing your own boat through calm and stagnant waters, or against the currents of popular opinion. And nobody else has to live with you as constantly as you have to live with yourself.
"All is in flux, nothing stands still."
- Plato
Life will throw you curve balls. Scientific discoveries will force you to embrace change. Pluto was a planet, then it wasn't. (Now I'm not too sure how Pluto gets categorized.) Everyone accepted that the world was flat, until a few heretics came up with the theory that it wasn't. Every day the universe changes, circumstances change and ideas change. You will change your clothes and change your mood and change your status (and not only on Facebook!). Opinions will change, moods will change, climates will change, and yes, we will change too. One day we'll be caterpillars trudging along on a hundred legs, and the next day we'll inexplicably take to spinning, then crawl into cocoons and emerge without a single leg to stand on.
Change is hard, but it isn't all bad. To add to a famous quote by Mahatma Gandhi, I believe it is possible to "Be the change that you wish to see in the world."
Rumi put it this way, "Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself."
As of now, I have adopted the words of George Bernard Shaw as my new personal motto:
"Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything."
Friday, 26 December 2014
It's All about Pacing Yourself -By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Last night as we were getting ready for bed, my husband thanked me for a lovely Christmas. Not that most of our Christmases haven't been great, but yesterday had a certain calmness about it - in spite of the fact that I'd slept miserably the night before. I didn't whine about being tired, but I did preempt any criticism that might come my way by warning my menfolk that I'd been awake since 4:00 am.
"Just for today, everything I do is awesome" I told them."I'm really tired, but I'll do my best."
And I did - and everything was great.
It's been a less frenzied holiday season than usual since I retired "Holiday Dreams Sharon". There's been no mad dash to meet self-imposed deadlines. The cards went out later than usual, and I shrugged it off. When I couldn't find the scotch tape to wrap gifts, I used a roll of painter's tape. On Christmas Eve when my rolls came out of the oven a little darker than they could've been, I let it go. I'm still breaking in the new oven, and forget sometimes that it runs hotter than my last. No big deal.
Instead of racing through my holiday checklist, I opted to pace myself. Every day I assessed my schedule to determine what I could realistically accomplish. If I had to miss a trip to the gym to finish up some task, it wasn't the end of the world. When I got off my treadmill I cooled down by watching my favorite home show and wrapping gifts. I made cookie dough earlier in the day and put batches in the oven while I was cooking supper. I made small changes in my habits, and bigger changes occurred in my attitude. Gradually I found myself doing more that I wanted to do, and less that I felt I had to do. I was more serene - and happier.
I took every chance I could find to admire Christmas lights and I went caroling. I decorated my house once - no fine tuning of the Christmas trees or moving stuff around. It was fine as it was.
On Christmas Day I didn't complain about being stuck in the kitchen, because I didn't consign myself to the role of scullery maid for a solid block of the day. We ate breakfast, then put in the turkey. We opened gifts. My mom and I played Rummikub and perused new books while my husband and sons watched television. The veggies got peeled, the salad got made. Treats got arranged on a platter for dessert. A chore was done here and there in the midst of our relaxing. I took it all in stride without stressing over the potatos getting a bit cool while we waited for the obstinate bird to cook. I reminded myself that there was no hard and fast time that supper had to be on the table.
I paced myself. I consulted no checklists, and everything was great largely because I didn't expect one single thing to be perfect.
A few weeks before Christmas, when the idea of "listing" was very much on my mind, I found a poem I'd started to write a few years back...
My List: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (January 2010)
I view my list of things to do
with much less than delight -
in fact it leaves me feeling blue
and makes my muscles tight.
Sometimes it seems that what gets done
is only what I must -
more complicated tasks I'll shun
until list gathers dust.
When my surroundings grow unkempt
and chaos rules the day
I'll once more make a brave attempt
to clear debris away.
Still other times, consumed by guilt
I'll formulate a plan -
then get to work and go full tilt
to finish all I can.
Yet even then it seems that list
is never quite complete.
I'm bound to note some item missed
and slump in self defeat.
...and that's where the poem fizzled out, with me being annoyed with myself for not doing everything I thought I needed to do. I had left more room on the page, expecting more inspiration to come to bring said poem to some satisfactory conclusion. But instead it stopped right there - an unfinished poem about list items that never get checked off. A sad and dreary little ode that, like "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needed to be given a happier twist.
I've come to realize that nobody has higher expectations of me than me. My husband and sons are usually pretty happy with my efforts. I don't get a lot of complaints about the quality of meals I serve or the state of the house. My time is pretty flexible - I get to choose what I do when. Nobody berates me when I don't accomplish everything I've put on my checklist for that day, or that week, or even that year - except me.
And nobody can change that behavior but me. So a few weeks ago, after I'd decided to re-brand my holiday persona, I found that poem and finished it like this:
But then I cut myself some slack -
that list is just a guide;
suggestions to keep me on track -
I'll take it all in stride.
And if today I need some fun
because I'm overtaxed,
tomorrow more things will get done
when I feel more relaxed.
As January nears, many of us will be setting goals for 2015. I'm sure I will make a few lists of my own, but I will keep in mind that these jottings are "just a guide" - some suggestions to myself about what I might want to work on. Nothing is written in stone, and the vast majority of "to-do" items on any list I write don't have to be completed by a set date. Probably most of your goals have some flexibility too, so cut yourself some slack. Strive for a realistic pace.
This will be the year I remember that everyone navigates the world differently, and that I too will need to adjust my gait on a daily basis. Some days I'll run, and others I'll rest.
Stride: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Some trudge, some tramp, some toddle,
some tread at plodding pace -
and there are some who dawdle
while others always race.
Some stroll or strut or sidle -
some saunter and some stalk;
still others just stand idle,
preferring not to walk.
Some limp, shuffle or hobble -
their movement isn't swift;
and some from drink may wobble -
may teeter or may drift.
Some march like they're on parade,
goose-stepping to a beat;
others gad and promenade
and flutter on their feet.
Some adopt an easy gait,
some set off at a clip -
not content to sit and wait
'til someone cracks the whip.
Perambulations vary.
At times we leap and bound,
but there are days we tarry;
we loll and laze around.
As we step our way through life
we must adjust our speed -
circumnavigate the strife
and pause to beauty heed.
Jogging, dashing, making haste;
always in a hurry.
So much energy we waste
when like mice we scurry.
En route to a distant place
we'll falter, slip and slide -
and lament our lack of grace
until we hit our stride.
Life isn't a race, or a series of mazes we need to run ratlike through in order to win a prize. Our days are a series of events - some requiring a speed and others testing our endurance. Some days very little will be required of us except our presence. I vow I will aim to be more present in my life; to live each moment more mindfully and to pay more attention to "here and now", and to who is here, now. I'm not going to beat myself up for walking a leg or two of what seems like an epic marathon, for not making the best time or winning a big trophy. I'm not going to worry about who is faster or has better form.
I'm learning the importance of pacing myself, and this just might be the year I hit my stride.
"Just for today, everything I do is awesome" I told them."I'm really tired, but I'll do my best."
And I did - and everything was great.
It's been a less frenzied holiday season than usual since I retired "Holiday Dreams Sharon". There's been no mad dash to meet self-imposed deadlines. The cards went out later than usual, and I shrugged it off. When I couldn't find the scotch tape to wrap gifts, I used a roll of painter's tape. On Christmas Eve when my rolls came out of the oven a little darker than they could've been, I let it go. I'm still breaking in the new oven, and forget sometimes that it runs hotter than my last. No big deal.
Instead of racing through my holiday checklist, I opted to pace myself. Every day I assessed my schedule to determine what I could realistically accomplish. If I had to miss a trip to the gym to finish up some task, it wasn't the end of the world. When I got off my treadmill I cooled down by watching my favorite home show and wrapping gifts. I made cookie dough earlier in the day and put batches in the oven while I was cooking supper. I made small changes in my habits, and bigger changes occurred in my attitude. Gradually I found myself doing more that I wanted to do, and less that I felt I had to do. I was more serene - and happier.
I took every chance I could find to admire Christmas lights and I went caroling. I decorated my house once - no fine tuning of the Christmas trees or moving stuff around. It was fine as it was.
On Christmas Day I didn't complain about being stuck in the kitchen, because I didn't consign myself to the role of scullery maid for a solid block of the day. We ate breakfast, then put in the turkey. We opened gifts. My mom and I played Rummikub and perused new books while my husband and sons watched television. The veggies got peeled, the salad got made. Treats got arranged on a platter for dessert. A chore was done here and there in the midst of our relaxing. I took it all in stride without stressing over the potatos getting a bit cool while we waited for the obstinate bird to cook. I reminded myself that there was no hard and fast time that supper had to be on the table.
I paced myself. I consulted no checklists, and everything was great largely because I didn't expect one single thing to be perfect.
A few weeks before Christmas, when the idea of "listing" was very much on my mind, I found a poem I'd started to write a few years back...
My List: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (January 2010)
I view my list of things to do
with much less than delight -
in fact it leaves me feeling blue
and makes my muscles tight.
Sometimes it seems that what gets done
is only what I must -
more complicated tasks I'll shun
until list gathers dust.
When my surroundings grow unkempt
and chaos rules the day
I'll once more make a brave attempt
to clear debris away.
Still other times, consumed by guilt
I'll formulate a plan -
then get to work and go full tilt
to finish all I can.
Yet even then it seems that list
is never quite complete.
I'm bound to note some item missed
and slump in self defeat.
...and that's where the poem fizzled out, with me being annoyed with myself for not doing everything I thought I needed to do. I had left more room on the page, expecting more inspiration to come to bring said poem to some satisfactory conclusion. But instead it stopped right there - an unfinished poem about list items that never get checked off. A sad and dreary little ode that, like "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needed to be given a happier twist.
I've come to realize that nobody has higher expectations of me than me. My husband and sons are usually pretty happy with my efforts. I don't get a lot of complaints about the quality of meals I serve or the state of the house. My time is pretty flexible - I get to choose what I do when. Nobody berates me when I don't accomplish everything I've put on my checklist for that day, or that week, or even that year - except me.
And nobody can change that behavior but me. So a few weeks ago, after I'd decided to re-brand my holiday persona, I found that poem and finished it like this:
But then I cut myself some slack -
that list is just a guide;
suggestions to keep me on track -
I'll take it all in stride.
And if today I need some fun
because I'm overtaxed,
tomorrow more things will get done
when I feel more relaxed.
As January nears, many of us will be setting goals for 2015. I'm sure I will make a few lists of my own, but I will keep in mind that these jottings are "just a guide" - some suggestions to myself about what I might want to work on. Nothing is written in stone, and the vast majority of "to-do" items on any list I write don't have to be completed by a set date. Probably most of your goals have some flexibility too, so cut yourself some slack. Strive for a realistic pace.
This will be the year I remember that everyone navigates the world differently, and that I too will need to adjust my gait on a daily basis. Some days I'll run, and others I'll rest.
Stride: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Some trudge, some tramp, some toddle,
some tread at plodding pace -
and there are some who dawdle
while others always race.
Some stroll or strut or sidle -
some saunter and some stalk;
still others just stand idle,
preferring not to walk.
Some limp, shuffle or hobble -
their movement isn't swift;
and some from drink may wobble -
may teeter or may drift.
Some march like they're on parade,
goose-stepping to a beat;
others gad and promenade
and flutter on their feet.
Some adopt an easy gait,
some set off at a clip -
not content to sit and wait
'til someone cracks the whip.
Perambulations vary.
At times we leap and bound,
but there are days we tarry;
we loll and laze around.
As we step our way through life
we must adjust our speed -
circumnavigate the strife
and pause to beauty heed.
Jogging, dashing, making haste;
always in a hurry.
So much energy we waste
when like mice we scurry.
En route to a distant place
we'll falter, slip and slide -
and lament our lack of grace
until we hit our stride.
Life isn't a race, or a series of mazes we need to run ratlike through in order to win a prize. Our days are a series of events - some requiring a speed and others testing our endurance. Some days very little will be required of us except our presence. I vow I will aim to be more present in my life; to live each moment more mindfully and to pay more attention to "here and now", and to who is here, now. I'm not going to beat myself up for walking a leg or two of what seems like an epic marathon, for not making the best time or winning a big trophy. I'm not going to worry about who is faster or has better form.
I'm learning the importance of pacing myself, and this just might be the year I hit my stride.
Thursday, 11 December 2014
Alcoholic "Christmas Cheer"? - Not Here! by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Candy is Dandy, Thanks!
If liquor is quicker
it still makes you sicker
and candy won't judgment impair -
for those who go drinking
do not do much thinking
'til they're too hungover to care.
For me candy's dandy
and I keep some handy
to give sagging spirits a lift.
It might make me rounder
but my mind stays sounder
and rational thought is a gift.
I won't take up boozin' -
it's not of my choosin',
I like knowing what I did when.
And if I act crazy
but mind is not hazy
I'll likely NOT do so again.
You might think I'm hasty,
but sugar is tasty
while liquor offendeth the tongue -
and I like to know
when I'm ready to go
I'll leave with the person I brung!
While I don't mean to trash
our old friend Ogden Nash,
I'd rather a good sugar buzz.
Choc'late's serotonin
will not leave me groanin'
and I'll always know where I was.
Now I'm done explaining
my views on abstaining -
I clearly don't sit on the fence.
This poem is ending
without more amending -
my reasons? They're just common sense!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (June 2007)
I don't drink - never have and never will. Alcohol smells gross and makes people act stupid, which I manage well enough when I'm stone cold sober. It gives people headaches and makes them sick, and I hate feeling crummy. It is expensive and caloric, and I'm a weight-watching cheapskate.
That's all the explaining I should ever have to do on the subject. But in a society - and especially in a season - where so many can't grasp the simple fact that celebrating does not equal alcohol, and that "a little Christmas Cheer" doesn't have to mean a good stiff drink, I often find myself having to offer explanations for the stand I take.
Many oversimplify my choice. They assume that because I grew up in a home where drinking was "against our religion" that I simply chose blind obedience to a church edict. I won't deny that it was easier for me to refrain from drinking in my teens because my parents didn't drink, but really there was enough rebellion in my soul that if I'd ever been tempted to drink I probably would have. I simply never felt the slightest urge to take even a sip, and my own childhood observations had a whole lot to do with that lack of desire.
Our next door neighbour was an alcoholic - a sloppy, "fall-down-comatose-and-get-carried-home" kind of alcoholic. I have vivid memories of playing in the yard with my older brother and a bunch of other kids and seeing a taxi pull up. The driver got out and asked my brother to help him carry this man into his house. (This happened more than once.) I remember thinking that if too much alcohol could do that to a person, I could happily live without it. That same neighbour fell on the ice multiple times trying to stagger home from "The Rosie" (a bar around the corner from my house). A few times concerned passers-by spotted him collapsed on the sidewalk and dragged him home. Once, someone pounded on our door and asked my parents to assist with this chore. "Marvin" (I'll call him) suffered head injuries after one bad fall. He lost his driver's license, barely kept a job, and died alone in his house, surrounded by beer cans. A concerned co-worker found him after he hadn't shown up at work in several days. His life was a perfect example to me of how not to live, and I knew I'd never fall into that kind of lifestyle if I never took a drink.
As a child, when I attended social events with my parents where alcohol was being served, I saw people behaving crudely and saying stupid things. It wasn't behavior I wanted to emulate.
When I was a teenager, I couldn't walk past the pool hall or bars on Gore St. without some tipsy Lothario giving me a leer and a "Hey Bay-beee!" (I'd often choose to walk blocks out of my way rather than pass the places where those buffoons loitered out front.) Throughout high school, I saw kids get wasted and act like idiots. I heard them talking about their drunken antics over the weekend and the hangovers that followed. I saw kids barfing into toilets at school dances and witnessed drunken brawls that nobody could explain afterward. None of these things managed to convince me that I was missing a thing by not drinking.
The funny thing is, all through my youth I was warned about peer pressure, and how other kids would try to make me drink (or smoke or try drugs), and I never experienced it at all. My friends accepted my choice to not drink and always had pop on hand to offer me. My friends could handle having an abstainer in their midst. Nobody ever twisted my arm or even offered a second time once I told them I didn't drink.
Since I've been an adult that's changed. I've been chided and treated as an oddity. I've had people try to "talk me into seeing reason" on the subject - asking "How is having a drink or two going to make any difference?" I've wondered why these adults are so much less mature and tolerant than the kids I hung around in high school, who were quick to understand that my most basic reason for not drinking has always been this - I simply don't want to. I've had to dispose of alcohol that came in "Christmas bonus" packages from my husband's employers, in spite of the fact that he's never had a drink either. (And in the politically correct time that we live in, I've wondered at the lack of wisdom shown in "gifting" people with booze when they could have a preexisting medical condition that makes drinking unwise, or have a family member battling alcoholism within their home.)
I've had people ask for a drink in my home, or ask if they could "bring their own". Both requests offend me. Am I really such bad company that a social lubricant is required to ease our interaction? Or are you simply so socially inept and alcohol-dependent that you don't know how to have fun without it? Can't you manage to abstain for a few hours while visiting the home of an abstainer?
You may try to brush off your request for a drink as a joke, but I'm not laughing. Nobody in this house thinks your request is funny. You have no idea how alcoholism has shaped our lives as we've seen its effects on someone close to us.
Over the years I've done a bit of research on alcohol, and learned enough to be absolutely convinced that abstinence was the best choice for me. Did you know that children of alcoholics are four times more likely to become alcoholics themselves? (My husband and I both have alcoholics in our family trees, so we shared this statistic with our sons at an early age.)
Did you know that recent studies have shown that a single drink can render you unfit to drive if you're over the age of fifty-five? (Google it.)
Do you ever read news stories about drunk drivers - and how many lives are lost because people hopped behind the wheel when they thought they were okay to drive home?
Do you know how many lives and families are destroyed by alcohol?
Do you know how much alcohol-related illnesses and accidents cost our health care system?
Do you still need to ask me why I choose not to drink?
I'm not going to criticize you or tell you I think you're morally or intellectually inferior because you enjoy a social drink now and then. I know many very fine people who don't share my views on the use of alcohol. What you choose to do within your house is your business, as is your choice of beverage when you eat out or go to a bar. As long as your drinking doesn't affect me in any way I can live with it. Just don't offer me a ride when you've been drinking, don't belittle me for not drinking, don't assume I'll find your drinking antics amusing, and don't ever expect me to offer you alcohol.
If you're looking for a bit of Christmas cheer I have plenty to offer. I'll pull out a platter of cookies and put on some awesome Christmas music. We'll laugh together and enjoy good conversation. If you want to be sipping a drink while we do this we'll meet up at a restaurant.
But if your definition of "Christmas Cheer" is an alcoholic beverage, you won't find it here.
If liquor is quicker
it still makes you sicker
and candy won't judgment impair -
for those who go drinking
do not do much thinking
'til they're too hungover to care.
For me candy's dandy
and I keep some handy
to give sagging spirits a lift.
It might make me rounder
but my mind stays sounder
and rational thought is a gift.
I won't take up boozin' -
it's not of my choosin',
I like knowing what I did when.
And if I act crazy
but mind is not hazy
I'll likely NOT do so again.
You might think I'm hasty,
but sugar is tasty
while liquor offendeth the tongue -
and I like to know
when I'm ready to go
I'll leave with the person I brung!
While I don't mean to trash
our old friend Ogden Nash,
I'd rather a good sugar buzz.
Choc'late's serotonin
will not leave me groanin'
and I'll always know where I was.
Now I'm done explaining
my views on abstaining -
I clearly don't sit on the fence.
This poem is ending
without more amending -
my reasons? They're just common sense!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (June 2007)
I don't drink - never have and never will. Alcohol smells gross and makes people act stupid, which I manage well enough when I'm stone cold sober. It gives people headaches and makes them sick, and I hate feeling crummy. It is expensive and caloric, and I'm a weight-watching cheapskate.
That's all the explaining I should ever have to do on the subject. But in a society - and especially in a season - where so many can't grasp the simple fact that celebrating does not equal alcohol, and that "a little Christmas Cheer" doesn't have to mean a good stiff drink, I often find myself having to offer explanations for the stand I take.
Many oversimplify my choice. They assume that because I grew up in a home where drinking was "against our religion" that I simply chose blind obedience to a church edict. I won't deny that it was easier for me to refrain from drinking in my teens because my parents didn't drink, but really there was enough rebellion in my soul that if I'd ever been tempted to drink I probably would have. I simply never felt the slightest urge to take even a sip, and my own childhood observations had a whole lot to do with that lack of desire.
Our next door neighbour was an alcoholic - a sloppy, "fall-down-comatose-and-get-carried-home" kind of alcoholic. I have vivid memories of playing in the yard with my older brother and a bunch of other kids and seeing a taxi pull up. The driver got out and asked my brother to help him carry this man into his house. (This happened more than once.) I remember thinking that if too much alcohol could do that to a person, I could happily live without it. That same neighbour fell on the ice multiple times trying to stagger home from "The Rosie" (a bar around the corner from my house). A few times concerned passers-by spotted him collapsed on the sidewalk and dragged him home. Once, someone pounded on our door and asked my parents to assist with this chore. "Marvin" (I'll call him) suffered head injuries after one bad fall. He lost his driver's license, barely kept a job, and died alone in his house, surrounded by beer cans. A concerned co-worker found him after he hadn't shown up at work in several days. His life was a perfect example to me of how not to live, and I knew I'd never fall into that kind of lifestyle if I never took a drink.
As a child, when I attended social events with my parents where alcohol was being served, I saw people behaving crudely and saying stupid things. It wasn't behavior I wanted to emulate.
When I was a teenager, I couldn't walk past the pool hall or bars on Gore St. without some tipsy Lothario giving me a leer and a "Hey Bay-beee!" (I'd often choose to walk blocks out of my way rather than pass the places where those buffoons loitered out front.) Throughout high school, I saw kids get wasted and act like idiots. I heard them talking about their drunken antics over the weekend and the hangovers that followed. I saw kids barfing into toilets at school dances and witnessed drunken brawls that nobody could explain afterward. None of these things managed to convince me that I was missing a thing by not drinking.
The funny thing is, all through my youth I was warned about peer pressure, and how other kids would try to make me drink (or smoke or try drugs), and I never experienced it at all. My friends accepted my choice to not drink and always had pop on hand to offer me. My friends could handle having an abstainer in their midst. Nobody ever twisted my arm or even offered a second time once I told them I didn't drink.
Since I've been an adult that's changed. I've been chided and treated as an oddity. I've had people try to "talk me into seeing reason" on the subject - asking "How is having a drink or two going to make any difference?" I've wondered why these adults are so much less mature and tolerant than the kids I hung around in high school, who were quick to understand that my most basic reason for not drinking has always been this - I simply don't want to. I've had to dispose of alcohol that came in "Christmas bonus" packages from my husband's employers, in spite of the fact that he's never had a drink either. (And in the politically correct time that we live in, I've wondered at the lack of wisdom shown in "gifting" people with booze when they could have a preexisting medical condition that makes drinking unwise, or have a family member battling alcoholism within their home.)
I've had people ask for a drink in my home, or ask if they could "bring their own". Both requests offend me. Am I really such bad company that a social lubricant is required to ease our interaction? Or are you simply so socially inept and alcohol-dependent that you don't know how to have fun without it? Can't you manage to abstain for a few hours while visiting the home of an abstainer?
You may try to brush off your request for a drink as a joke, but I'm not laughing. Nobody in this house thinks your request is funny. You have no idea how alcoholism has shaped our lives as we've seen its effects on someone close to us.
Over the years I've done a bit of research on alcohol, and learned enough to be absolutely convinced that abstinence was the best choice for me. Did you know that children of alcoholics are four times more likely to become alcoholics themselves? (My husband and I both have alcoholics in our family trees, so we shared this statistic with our sons at an early age.)
Did you know that recent studies have shown that a single drink can render you unfit to drive if you're over the age of fifty-five? (Google it.)
Do you ever read news stories about drunk drivers - and how many lives are lost because people hopped behind the wheel when they thought they were okay to drive home?
Do you know how many lives and families are destroyed by alcohol?
Do you know how much alcohol-related illnesses and accidents cost our health care system?
Do you still need to ask me why I choose not to drink?
I'm not going to criticize you or tell you I think you're morally or intellectually inferior because you enjoy a social drink now and then. I know many very fine people who don't share my views on the use of alcohol. What you choose to do within your house is your business, as is your choice of beverage when you eat out or go to a bar. As long as your drinking doesn't affect me in any way I can live with it. Just don't offer me a ride when you've been drinking, don't belittle me for not drinking, don't assume I'll find your drinking antics amusing, and don't ever expect me to offer you alcohol.
If you're looking for a bit of Christmas cheer I have plenty to offer. I'll pull out a platter of cookies and put on some awesome Christmas music. We'll laugh together and enjoy good conversation. If you want to be sipping a drink while we do this we'll meet up at a restaurant.
But if your definition of "Christmas Cheer" is an alcoholic beverage, you won't find it here.
Monday, 1 December 2014
Holiday Serendipity - Or How I'm Learning to Desist with Lists (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
Listing
Each year just as November's done
I sit with pad and pen -
prepared to make the perfect plan -
it's Listing Time again!
I start by listing all the lists
that I will need to make
to get me through 'til end of year
when I can take a break.
I make a list of what I'll need
so that I can prepare,
and itemize small chores to do
in moments that are spare.
I make a list of treats to bake
and how I'll tins disperse.
I make a list of who likes what
since tastes are quite diverse.
I make a list of cards to mail
and emails to send out.
(But somehow I'll forget someone,
of this I have no doubt.)
I make up lists of odds and ends;
of errands to be run.
I spend the season making lists
and miss out on the fun.
I make a list of things I want
to help the fam'ly shop -
by then I'm sick of making lists,
but don't know how to stop.
And once festivities commence
I'm listless, one could say -
and Christmas finds me all a-tilt
as I list through the day.
I check last items off last list
and heave a weary sigh.
My perfect plan somehow fell flat -
I have an inkling why.
That's why this year I'll take some risks
and leave more things to chance.
I'll formulate no perfect plan
and fly by seat of pants.
If I break down and write a list
it will look more like this:
- Give gifts of love (and worry less)
- Buy mistletoe and kiss!
- Admire the lights on moonlit walks,
- Enjoy the carols sung;
- Make time for silliness - and friends!
- and DON'T come all unstrung!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 30, 2014)
I love Christmas, but almost without fail my perfectionism around the season yields a minor meltdown. By mid-November that perfect plan is taking shape in my obsessive noggin. I have dates circled on my brain's calendar (the one that doesn't exist anywhere else - the one I know is utterly ridiculous in its optimism.) Rational me knows meeting these deadlines is impossible, but there's this other, more manic side of me that shows up around this time of year who I'll call "Holiday Dreams Sharon". She doesn't always see things terribly rationally. (She's kind of like those fluffed up holiday fashion dolls, but in her case it's not her proportions that are out of whack - just her expectations.)
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" comes with reams of paper and a full box of pens because she's always making lists. She also comes with an apron so that she won't get too mussed up when she bakes her countless tins of cookies. And she comes with kleenex boxes that are very useful when the imaginary circled dates come and go and her lists have too many unchecked items on them and her cookies burn or get dropped on the floor. I fear "Holiday Dreams Sharon" is a tad unstable, and next year she may be available with a new accessory - a wee bottle of Xanax. That is, if she doesn't get a complete redesign between now and then.
I think maybe "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needs to be re-branded. Maybe she should become just "Holiday Sharon", who comes with a tin of cookies and some dancing shoes. Maybe she should come with a down-filled jacket and a good set of walking boots for those chilly nights when she'll walk under the stars to admire the Christmas lights. Maybe she'll come with a sprig of mistletoe and a "come hither smile"? (Unlikely, as she'd have to figure out how to make "the smile" look like it suggests something other than slight craziness.) I'm just throwing out options and trying to make the point that "Holiday Dreams Sharon" could possibly benefit from a make-over.
This year "Holiday Sharon" is going to get a pull cord installed that says "Falalalalaaa" and "Hohoho" when she drops a tray of cookies instead of the kind of nasty words a nice doll shouldn't utter. She's going to conveniently forget to make endless lists. She's going to forgive herself for not sending a card to someone, or for sending all of her cards out late, and for over- (or under-) cooking the turkey and for sitting in a chair listening to John Rutter's Christmas carols when she should be doing something "useful". She's going to laugh more, and let her picture be taken, even though the camera adds twenty pounds that are hard on her flagging self esteem. She's going to stop nagging. She's going to stop stressing over the minutia, and start celebrating the marvelous.
Perfect holidays are serendipitous. They don't happen because every item on your list has been checked off and your cookies are perfectly decorated. Perfect gifts are the ones that amaze you because you had no idea that something so lovely could be associated with you in someone's mind. They are incredibly intuitive - the giver found something you absolutely love but never realized you wanted. Perfect gifts are practical and useful. They are frivolous and amusing. They are tangible, and intangible. Perfect gifts are phone calls you didn't expect, guests you wanted to see, but didn't invite and stars you forgot were so bright. Perfect gifts are hugs and kisses, and all the words that express appreciation and love.
Perfect gifts were never on your list at all.
Perfect days are full of unexpected wonder - you could never make them happen - they just do.
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" is about to be retired, before someone needs to add that bottle of Xanax to her accessory package. She's forgetting about deadlines and making shorter lists - and those only because her middle aged brain really does require a nudge or two. She's focusing more on hopes than dreams this year. She's hoping that she'll be kinder, happier and less inclined to grumble. She's hoping to be hospitable and helpful. She's hoping to become less rigid and more forgiving. She's hoping she manages to give some perfect gifts, and to be part of someone's perfect day.
Merry Christmas to all of you from Sharon and her gloriously imperfect muse. May you enjoy the peace that comes from hope and the goodwill that springs from true optimism. May you all enjoy a generous dose of serendipity and be part of someone's perfect day.
Each year just as November's done
I sit with pad and pen -
prepared to make the perfect plan -
it's Listing Time again!
I start by listing all the lists
that I will need to make
to get me through 'til end of year
when I can take a break.
I make a list of what I'll need
so that I can prepare,
and itemize small chores to do
in moments that are spare.
I make a list of treats to bake
and how I'll tins disperse.
I make a list of who likes what
since tastes are quite diverse.
I make a list of cards to mail
and emails to send out.
(But somehow I'll forget someone,
of this I have no doubt.)
I make up lists of odds and ends;
of errands to be run.
I spend the season making lists
and miss out on the fun.
I make a list of things I want
to help the fam'ly shop -
by then I'm sick of making lists,
but don't know how to stop.
And once festivities commence
I'm listless, one could say -
and Christmas finds me all a-tilt
as I list through the day.
I check last items off last list
and heave a weary sigh.
My perfect plan somehow fell flat -
I have an inkling why.
That's why this year I'll take some risks
and leave more things to chance.
I'll formulate no perfect plan
and fly by seat of pants.
If I break down and write a list
it will look more like this:
- Give gifts of love (and worry less)
- Buy mistletoe and kiss!
- Admire the lights on moonlit walks,
- Enjoy the carols sung;
- Make time for silliness - and friends!
- and DON'T come all unstrung!
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 30, 2014)
I love Christmas, but almost without fail my perfectionism around the season yields a minor meltdown. By mid-November that perfect plan is taking shape in my obsessive noggin. I have dates circled on my brain's calendar (the one that doesn't exist anywhere else - the one I know is utterly ridiculous in its optimism.) Rational me knows meeting these deadlines is impossible, but there's this other, more manic side of me that shows up around this time of year who I'll call "Holiday Dreams Sharon". She doesn't always see things terribly rationally. (She's kind of like those fluffed up holiday fashion dolls, but in her case it's not her proportions that are out of whack - just her expectations.)
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" comes with reams of paper and a full box of pens because she's always making lists. She also comes with an apron so that she won't get too mussed up when she bakes her countless tins of cookies. And she comes with kleenex boxes that are very useful when the imaginary circled dates come and go and her lists have too many unchecked items on them and her cookies burn or get dropped on the floor. I fear "Holiday Dreams Sharon" is a tad unstable, and next year she may be available with a new accessory - a wee bottle of Xanax. That is, if she doesn't get a complete redesign between now and then.
I think maybe "Holiday Dreams Sharon" needs to be re-branded. Maybe she should become just "Holiday Sharon", who comes with a tin of cookies and some dancing shoes. Maybe she should come with a down-filled jacket and a good set of walking boots for those chilly nights when she'll walk under the stars to admire the Christmas lights. Maybe she'll come with a sprig of mistletoe and a "come hither smile"? (Unlikely, as she'd have to figure out how to make "the smile" look like it suggests something other than slight craziness.) I'm just throwing out options and trying to make the point that "Holiday Dreams Sharon" could possibly benefit from a make-over.
This year "Holiday Sharon" is going to get a pull cord installed that says "Falalalalaaa" and "Hohoho" when she drops a tray of cookies instead of the kind of nasty words a nice doll shouldn't utter. She's going to conveniently forget to make endless lists. She's going to forgive herself for not sending a card to someone, or for sending all of her cards out late, and for over- (or under-) cooking the turkey and for sitting in a chair listening to John Rutter's Christmas carols when she should be doing something "useful". She's going to laugh more, and let her picture be taken, even though the camera adds twenty pounds that are hard on her flagging self esteem. She's going to stop nagging. She's going to stop stressing over the minutia, and start celebrating the marvelous.
Perfect holidays are serendipitous. They don't happen because every item on your list has been checked off and your cookies are perfectly decorated. Perfect gifts are the ones that amaze you because you had no idea that something so lovely could be associated with you in someone's mind. They are incredibly intuitive - the giver found something you absolutely love but never realized you wanted. Perfect gifts are practical and useful. They are frivolous and amusing. They are tangible, and intangible. Perfect gifts are phone calls you didn't expect, guests you wanted to see, but didn't invite and stars you forgot were so bright. Perfect gifts are hugs and kisses, and all the words that express appreciation and love.
Perfect gifts were never on your list at all.
Perfect days are full of unexpected wonder - you could never make them happen - they just do.
"Holiday Dreams Sharon" is about to be retired, before someone needs to add that bottle of Xanax to her accessory package. She's forgetting about deadlines and making shorter lists - and those only because her middle aged brain really does require a nudge or two. She's focusing more on hopes than dreams this year. She's hoping that she'll be kinder, happier and less inclined to grumble. She's hoping to be hospitable and helpful. She's hoping to become less rigid and more forgiving. She's hoping she manages to give some perfect gifts, and to be part of someone's perfect day.
Merry Christmas to all of you from Sharon and her gloriously imperfect muse. May you enjoy the peace that comes from hope and the goodwill that springs from true optimism. May you all enjoy a generous dose of serendipity and be part of someone's perfect day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)