Thank you to the woman in Central Square

I met a lovely young woman as I made my way to the Central Square T stop today.

She apologized as she approached me, though I wasn’t quite sure why.  Maybe she needed to ask for directions and was afraid she might be interrupting a conversation I was having with my friend?  She hesitated for a few seconds, smiled, apologized again, and then explained.

She recognized me!

It turns out that she had seen me on CCTV.  (I had been part of program featuring storytellers who gathered to remember Brother Blue.)

To the woman in Central Square,

Thank you. 

Thank you for a great example of stepping outside one’s comfort zone to approach someone they haven’t met before.  Thank you for saying Hello.  Thank you for your kind words.  Thank you for pointing out my blue sash (would you believe I hadn’t noticed it before?)

Your timing was absolutely perfect.  I had no idea how much I needed your words until the moment you gave them to me.

With much appreciation,

See me or Seymour?

Do you or someone you fancy think you look like someone famous?

The other day, I was asked the following question:  “Do you only recommend the movies that you’re in?”

The tone of voice, dripping with something too early in the morning for me to identify, surprised me just as much as the question.  I was intrigued. 

“Excuse me?”

At the sound of my voice, X realized that he had clearly mistaken me for someone else.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I thought you were Philip Seymour Hoffman.”

 

Okay, so I’ve never considered myself a beautiful woman.  But Philip Seymour Hoffman?  I had to get to the bottom of this.

After some nudging, X woke up long enough to realize how strange it had been for him to confuse the two of us.  “But you’re the reason I dreamt about him, anyway” he insisted, as he fell back to sleep.

I’m not sure how to feel about this.  Any suggestions?  :)

Singing support

Although I’ve never had a conversation with my mother’s father, I feel as if I know him.

Ever since I was young, my mother has shared what she remembers about her dad.  Her stories and recollections have implanted him firmly into my memory.

 

For example, I think of my grandfather whenever my mother sings.

My mom loves to listen to music and will often sing along.  (My dad, in response, will usually say something to the extent of “That’s an MP3 player you have there, not a Karaoke machine.”)

My grandfather used to ask, “¿Por qué estás llorando?”  (Why are you crying?)  My mother, taking him seriously, would go on to explain that she was singing, not crying.  I have no idea how old she was when she realized he was teasing her.

This week I learned that whenever my grandfather heard my mom stumble in a song – either by forgetting the words, or making up her own – he would console her with a conspiratorial “They don’t know the song, mija.  You do.”

Mad Magazine changed my life

Back when I was a kid, Mad Magazine supplied me with an unexpected life lesson wrapped in a multi-panel cartoon.

Here is what I remember -- a series of images depicting insincere conversations.  In each frame, two people stand, holding masks up to the sides of their head.  They face you, the audience; Their masks face each other.

One conversation takes place through the masks.  A completely different one takes place toward the audience.  I don’t remember the actual conversations, but I do remember the the gist of them.  The masked dialogues are cordial and caring.  But the truth comes out through what is said toward the audience. 

“I can’t stand this guy.”

I found the cartoon funny enough to read a number of times.  At the third or fourth perusal, a thought hit me.  Each person holding up a mask did so because they assumed the mask facing them was real.  A kind of obligation confined them -- “This person really seems to like me. I should go out of my way to pretend I like them too.”

It dawned on me that the masks were leading to a complete waste of time.  What’s the use of having an insincere conversation with someone?

I had a friend in college (let’s call him Ralph) who was lots of fun.  Occasionally, while hanging out with each other, we would run into someone on his I can’t stand this person list.

No matter who the person was or how high on the list they sat, Ralph would enter into a conversation involving statements like “I’m so happy to see you!” and “Why haven’t I heard from you recently?” Inevitably, as the conversation drew to a close, Ralph would add, “We should have lunch sometime.  Call me!”

Often this would lead to numerous phone calls that Ralph would then ignore.  “Why does this person keep bothering me?” Ralph would ask, clearly annoyed.

When I asked Ralph why he would request a call from someone he didn’t want to talk to, he explained that he was just trying to be polite.  “What, do you want me to be rude?”

I restrained from pulling up my mask when responding.

Isn’t ignoring a requested call rude?  And what’s so terrible about being attentive and polite during a conversation, but ending it with something like “It was good talking to you” or “Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime”.  Period.

Misleading others is inconsiderate.  Wasting someone’s time is insensitive.  Taking a gift that could have instead gone to someone appreciative is thoughtless and selfish.

“Has it ever occurred to you that this person who is ‘annoying’ you is only doing so because you led them to believe you wanted their attention?  The time they are wasting on you would be better spent on someone who would appreciate their effort.”

Years later, Ralph thanked me for this conversation.

Perhaps we need to put on a brave face.  Maybe we are afraid that if a dear friend understood the sacrifices we were making they would stop accepting our help.  For these and plenty of other reasons, there are times in which donning a mask is the right thing to do. 

But more often than not, a mask is an entirely unnecessary shield between ourselves and the outside world.  It keeps others from knowing us, and it keeps us from knowing others. 

According to Francis Bacon:

“The worst solitude is to be destitute of sincere friendship.”

This sounds just about right to me.  I believe that one has to put their mask down in order to discover and cultivate this kind of connection.

For this reason, I kindly ask that you take off your mask.  Know me and be known.

A different kind of post

 

When was the last time you received personal correspondence hand delivered by your local mail carrier?

For many folks, it’s been too long!  But that’s okay, I think I can help.

I have a stack of postcards.

If you would like one mailed to you along with a personal note,  contact me.  Let me know who you are, what address I should mail it to, and anything else about yourself that you would like me to know.

Eep! Eep!

The first conversation of my day went something like this:

he:	Eep!  Eep!
me:	What?
he:	Would you like me to throw up in your mouth?
me:	What?!
he:	Zzzzzz….
me:	(to myself upon realizing he was asleep) Hmm… I think he was being a bird!

 

The second conversation of my day went something like this:

me:	Do you remember what you asked me this morning?
he:	What?
me:	“Would you like me to throw up in your mouth?”
he:	What?!
me:	Yeah.  You started off with “Eep!  Eep!”
he:	Ha ha!  I remember now. I think I was being a bird.

The Golden Rule, revisited.

The elders in my childhood had a number of sayings they often repeated.  “Your face is going to freeze like that” and “If your friends were jumping of a bridge, would you jump too?” are a few that come to mind. 

Maybe it’s a cultural thing, or maybe I was just a very inconsiderate kid who needed consistent reminding, but I could swear that most of my childhood experiences elicited one of their favorites -- the golden rule.

For those of you unfamiliar with this, tsk tsk to your elders, but here it is:

“Do Unto Others

As You Would Have Done

Unto You”

I heard this guide line so often that it clogged my every pore – eventually it sunk in.  As a teen and young adult, I tried my best (which isn’t always that good, mind you) to incorporate this rule into my life.

And then I realized it was completely wrong.

Many years ago, I went out with two friends to catch a movie.  In my mind, the best seat is the seat between two friends -- I can engage with both and feel like I’m right in the middle of things.

This particular night, I noticed that one of my friends seemed down.  Oh!  What a great golden rule moment, I thought.  I offered her the BEST SEAT and thought I was being considerate for having suggested it.

While I was out of the room making a popcorn run, the down friend turned to my other friend and complained about the seat I had placed her in.  “I prefer the aisle seat,” she stated glumly, annoyed that I had taken it from her.  My other friend, who knew me better, was able to explain that I had actually given away the seat I preferred the most and that I would happy to swap back. 

By the time I got back with treats from the lobby, everything was all sorted out.

It probably took more than a dozen incidents like this – some big, some small – to make me realize that I seriously needed to rethink this whole golden rule thing.

Now, if you’re going to cross-stitch anything for my kitchen – it should read more like this:

 

Yes, it can take a substantial amount of work to even come close to understanding how someone else would like to be treated.  There are books you can read, there are questions you can ask, there are stories you can listen to… 

But the first step, the biggest one in my opinion, is to recognize that not everyone thinks, feels, or makes decisions exactly like you do.  How lucky for you, that just by having read this, you’ve pretty much made that first step?

Have a nice walk!

Some might call this TMI.

I debated about writing this post.  After some thought it struck me that my hesitation was just another example of this silliness.  Although people normally don’t talk about this sort of thing in such a public manner, I would be fooling myself to think that this part of me is in any way secret… :)

A good friend recently had surgery -- the type that depends on the use of friendly intimate apparel during recovery.   On a search for something soft, supportive, and easy to put on I took her to Lady Grace,  a store that specializes in “intimate apparel”. 

As luck would have it, one of the store clerks on duty had had a similar surgery 5 years back.  As this woman offered advice about what garments to consider, she and my friend entered into a far more necessary conversation.  What was your experience like?  How did you respond to the treatment?  How do you feel now? Do you think I’ll be okay? …

To make more room for this discussion, I stepped back and began to browse.

Eventually, I made my way to the area where “my size” was located.  I flagged down a free, petite store clerk as she walked past and asked her if a style I liked was available in “my size”.

After a quick glance in my direction, she turned around and began walking away at a fast clip.  I stood there, dumbfounded.  Noticing that I hadn’t moved, she called out to me over her shoulder and demanded that I follow suit.  She marched me straight through the aisles, past the back of the store, and into the fitting room area.

“Knock knock!” she called out as she opened a fitting room door.  I stepped in after she motioned for me to do so and was a little surprised that she walked in right behind me and shut the door.

“Knock knock!” she called out again, standing squarely in front of me.

Once again I was dumbfounded.  Clearly she expected something from me, but I had no idea what that something was.

“Knock knock.” she repeated, nodding at me encouragingly.  Eventually she figured out that she needed to use more words to help me understand what she wanted.  I don’t think I would ever have been able to guess on my own that “knock knock” could also mean “please remove your shirt …. in front of a total stranger”.

 

Years ago I read that some huge percentage of women wear the wrong size.  As much as I did not want this to be true for me, deep down I knew that it was.  It had been years since I had last been measured.  There was no way that “my size” could still be accurate since I had gained plenty of weight since then.

As disheartening as it was to hear this woman practically recite the alphabet as she figured out my “correct size”, I have to admit that I walked out of that store a little perkier.

Is there a draft in here?

I may seem a little quiet to those of you who regularly follow this blog.  Although things I want to write are still swirling about in my head and my fingers are still capable of typing, a fraction of my brain has been given over to a slightly more pressing and urgent issue.  Which means that although my mind still works, less of it is available to tackle what the whole thing used to take care of before.

Lately, when I approach my computer to write, my awareness that it will take me longer than usual (which was already long) to form a coherent sentence has created an aversion to my keyboard.  Knowing that I will not finish even a first draft in one sitting has made me not want to sit.

I think that’s nuts. 

To work myself out of this, I am going to lean toward sharing half drafts with you.  Because of this, you will get likely get a glimpse of the skeletons my thoughts attach themselves to.  They may come in the form of an overheard snippet of conversation without commentary, a random image out of context, or a note to myself to explore a particular concept – who knows. 

It’s my hope that re-teaching myself that even the pieces are worth sharing will make the “getting down to business” side of me more likely to honor the process required to enable the whole to emerge.

Wish me luck!

Friday Fiction: "Start"

I found this tucked into my notes sometime back.  Perhaps a page was missing?  This will get some attention in the future, especially if you remind me.

Her father warned her this would happen.  Hair matted, clothing torn, she mustered her remaining strength to take in her surroundings. 

It was a world of concrete.  There was no dirt to be seen, only line after line of white markings.  A thread of rigs parked in a row gave the impression of a metallic wall -- but was it keeping her in or the others out?

A breeze washed over her, causing a chill and reminding her that her skin was damp.  Beyond the rigs, she could see a structure -- a rest stop?

As she struggled to her feet, she noticed a figure, close to the ground, running toward her.

Defeated, she sank back to her knees muttering to herself.  "Well, I hope it likes ketchup".

http://www.whoelsa.com