Parallel threads

The other day, while browsing through stationary at Papyrus, I came across a Chinese proverb that I was immediately drawn to.

With time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown.

Wow, huh? Or, at least, I think so. But why is this so compelling to me?

This quote touches on two parallel but distinct story threads that have been calling to me more and more lately. I think of the first as the "Phoenix thread" and the second as the "Stranger Than Fiction thread".

Stories that belong to the first thread touch on the concept that the death of an old self must come before the new self can rise up. Typically these stories reiterate that you cannot tether yourself to some safe, known base; You have to let go of the bird in the hand for a shot at the two in the bush. Caterpillars transform into butterflies, victims bitten by dracula become vampires themselves, water is able to transport itself across the desert -- but only after a scary and sometimes painful transformation.

Stories that belong to the second thread touch on the concept that we can sometimes indirectly contribute to meaningful and substantial change in the world. These stories exemplify the fact that not everyone has to be in the spotlight to have an impact. Who taught the prince how to slay the dragon? Who forged his sword?

Noticing that this proverb struck a chord with me helped me realize that these two threads are running in the background. There are lessons in each that I am trying to learn, lessons I hope I am better poised to take in and absorb than I may have been during previous phases of my life.

But now I wonder. What other threads are back there? And, if I were to weave them all together, what kind of fabric would they make?

The gift of attention

When I was about 6 or 7, I was sent to a week-long, overnight camp along with my three sisters. Immediately upon our arrival to Camp Jo Jan Van, we were separated into our respective age groups. I'm guessing this was the first time we experienced that type of separation from our parents without our grandparents stepping in as surrogates.

There was a crack-of-dawn flag ceremony activity every morning. At lunch we were "encouraged" to eat at least 3 spoonfuls of everything on our plate. At night, we were told stories that involved creepy little girls and hatchets and we sung songs like "The Second Story Window" and "Shaving Cream".

There was a girl we all kept hearing about that was having a miserable time. It seemed that everyone's misfortune was consoled with a one-upper story about this poor girl. Chigger bite? She was covered in chigger bites AND it turned out she was allergic to them! Bug bite? She got stung by a scorpion! Hay fever? She has asthma and can't breath at night!

At the end of the week I learned this girl was not a story made up to make everyone feel better -- she was one of my sisters.

Many of these camp memories are likely based more on the stories my sisters and I told each other after we got back home than on direct recall, but there is one camp memory that is definitely my own. I had forgotten about it completely -- until something this last week dislodged it from the nook it had been hiding in.

A night or two before we were scheduled to go home, I lay in bed and cried; I just couldn't seem to stop myself. Since I was not the kind of girl that got homesick -- a fact I pointed out to my bunk mates through my non-stop sobs -- I clearly was not crying for that reason. But then why was I crying? The only explanation that made sense to me was that I was crying "for no reason at all". How remarkable! Note: this remarkable revelation didn't stop even a single tear.

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Last Friday, I found myself explaining that I was feeling melancholy "for no reason at all". This happens sometimes -- hormones, sleep deprivation, low blood sugar, etc... can cause a temporary dip in ones mood.

I'd always considered it a strength to have the ability to recognize this type of mood dip and keep oneself from finding unhappy facts to slap these faux feelings onto. Yay me, right? Not really. It turns out that, this time at least, I was actually just being an out-of-touch idiot.

My sister Sonia was in town last week. (She had made a point of coordinating her trip to coincide with my birthday!) A friend she traveled with made deep fried pickles for my birthday dinner appetizer and Sonia made deep fried Oreos for my birthday dinner dessert. She got to meet some of my friends and we got to celebrate together. We hung out and laughed and laughed and talked and laughed. It was absolutely great to spend time with her.

She left Friday afternoon.

How could I have thought I was feeling sad for no reason? I was missing my sister. Clearly, I was homesick.

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Have I been doing this my entire life?

Looking back to my time at camp, I think the possibilities offered did not jive with the image I had of myself. And perhaps what I was experiencing felt different than how I had imagined "homesick" would feel.

To give myself credit, I am often pretty on top of how I am feeling. But sometimes I get it wrong. Sometimes I am too invested in who I think I am to notice who I am today. Sometimes I am too proud to admit I have a petty side to me. Sometimes I am too self-critical to acknowledge I have an admiral side. Sometimes, in other words, I get in the way of my own seeing.

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I'd like to make sure I am not leaving something overlooked out of laziness or worse, out of a fear of what that something would say about me (or how much work accounting for that something would require).

But how?

For one thing, I can drag my river of "unresolved issues" a bit more deeply and without predictions regarding what I will (or will not) find. If something is fished out, I can gently check its fit against my Cinderella foot of a feeling. And, if I come up empty-handed, I can go about my business but check the shore on occasion to see if anything new has come to the surface.

Sounds doable, right? Cross your fingers for me, I'm diving in.

If you want to then !

Today I went to see Jane Yolen speak at Porter Square books.

I was impressed with how she handled children's questions. She respectfully, playfully, and creatively re-stated each question until the child reflected satisfaction that she understood what they had asked. She augmented each question's answer with what the child most likely wanted to know.

She offered three pieces of advice for writers:

1. Read!
2. Write!
3. Don't let critics keep you from writing.

I've been thinking about #2 a lot. It seems obvious, doesn't it? If you want to do something you have to actually do it. There's really no way around it. (Thank you Jane for reminding me out of my over 2 week writing hiatus!)

Jane Yolen has over 280 PUBLISHED books under her belt. Isn't that nuts? Isn't that great?! Although I feel a tinge of sadness that I was not exposed to her books as a child, I am delighted to have access to them now.

 

 

 
 

 

Coincidence

I admit it. Sometimes I take completely separate incidents and assume they are related due merely to their coincidence. The results are mixed.

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A number of years ago, I worked at a company where the owner regularly brought her dog in to work. He was an adorable dachshund that was introduced to all new employees (and all visiting clients) with a warning -- "Keep your food out of reach!"

Like a little security guard, Cutter would make daily rounds. However, instead of patrolling the outside of the building, he scoured the inside perimeter along the walls and under desks. You could tell if someone had had yogurt that day if you saw Cutter walking around with a creamy ring around his yogurt-container-sized muzzle.

One morning, I brought in a homemade cinnamon roll wrapped in tin-foil. As I prepared to head out at noon I quickly glanced over my desk -- next to my keyboard was my much-anticipated after-lunch snack. Next to that was a document my manager had mentioned he wanted to borrow while I was at lunch.

When I returned to my office, I noticed two things. As expected, the document was gone. But strangely, the tin-foiled package had been unwrapped -- my cinnamon roll was gone as well. My first thought? "Why would my manager also take my cinnamon roll?"

It took me only a few more seconds to unwrap my faulty logic. But I was surprised by how my mind seemed to automatically look for a connection between those two incidents.

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According to Josh Tenenbaum, an MIT cognitive scientist, our minds are wired to notice coincidence and for good reason. Quoted in a July/August issue of Psychology Today, he explains:

"Coincidences drive so many of the inferences our minds make. Our neural circuitry is set up to notice these anomalies and use them to drive new learning."

Co-authors Tom Griffith and Josh Tenenbaum begin the paper "From mere coincidence to meaningful discoveries" with two examples of individuals noticing a coincidence and assuming causality. In the first example, the assumption led to an important scientific discovery (cholera is spread via contaminated water). The assumption made in the second example was just plain incorrect.

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This makes me feel better. At least a tiny, little bit.

Let's take a lifetime to say

For some reason, one line of "For all we know" by the Carpenters has been bubbling around in my head an awful lot lately:

"Let's take a lifetime to say 'I knew you well'..."

Out of the blue, I find myself humming this to myself. I have no idea why. In fact, I don't even know how I know this song. Regardless, it's had me thinking about how there is always something more to learn about someone you may have been positive you know completely.

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Growing up, my mother always reminded me to leave the curtains drawn. I always thought it had to do with the intense Texas sun being in direct conflict with efficient air conditioning. It wasn't until a few years ago that I learned the real reason -- my mom dislikes natural light. What?! I don't remember how it came up, but when it did I couldn't understand how it had never come up before then. I have missed out on years and years of teasing her about being a vampire just because I assumed everyone else must naturally love the same things I do.

....

I've known my friend Anna for years now. Again, I don't know how it came up in conversation but I remember her asking "Did I tell you about the time I had to walk on people to get to work?" What?! How could this have not come up before? Could it be because a few others of the thousands and thousands of stories that accumulate during a lifetime were queued up in line ahead of this one detail?

....

Today I asked Ruth if her husband of many years (Brother Blue) ever still managed to surprise her. Her answer was an immediate yes. Recently, they were watching the Olympics together and Blue was commenting on the divers' style, form, and general performance. When she asked how he learned to critique diving, he explained that he used to be a diver himself. That was a surprise to her.

Someone listening in on the conversation asked Ruth how long she and Blue have been married. Ruth's answer was "long enough that I should have known that." :)

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I am beginning to believe there is an asymptotic curve toward knowing someone thoroughly. Somewhere along that curve, around the place where you've learned enough to decide whether you want to continue on the curve or just hop off, is the space where you might be able to say "I know you well".

I hope you remember to add, "but I can know you better."

Something I love

I guess you'd say I have an ethnically ambiguous look. For as long as I can remember, people have made a point of guessing at, asking about, or telling me my ethnic origins. When I was three, these words made their way to my mother:

How kind of you to have adopted a Vietnamese refugee.

This is actually one of my favorite stories. However, it highlights the dilemma I had growing up. My mother is Hispanic. So is my father, both sets of grandparents, and a huge percentage of the population in my hometown. As a kid, all I wanted to do was fit in. As you can probably guess by the above sweet stranger's compliment to my mother, my look didn't allow for it. On a daily basis, every feature that distinguished me from those around me was pointed out and pointed at.

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I find it interesting that something that used to bother me enough to bring me to tears as a kid is now something I cherish and enjoy as an adult.

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Last weekend I was at the National Storytelling Conference in Tennessee. Sure as ever, folks approached me throughout the weekend to guess, ask, or tell.

Hawaiian, right?

Where are you really from?

What's your specific tribal affiliation?

People will linger after a workshop to walk with me on my way out. They wait for a lull in an on-going conversation to introduce themselves. They approach me out of the blue with a smile. Even people who look like they normally wouldn't approach a total stranger can't seem to help themselves.

I love this.

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Yes, I stand out a little. And, as long as you do so kindly, you are welcome to come over and tell me all about it.

 

http://www.whoelsa.com

Reading what I want into it

For quite some time now, I've been ready to try something different. (Back in June I wrote about feeling that I was holding myself back.) Yesterday, after months of prepping, I made my move.

The moment of transition and the subsequent flurry of activity brought on an adrenaline rush I was not exactly expecting. Running around with a grin on my face, I tied up loose ends. But, just as I was heading toward my car to make my way back home at the end of a long day, the tiredness of an adrenaline crash began to seep in.

I sat in my car for a few minutes, dreading the hour long drive.

Willing myself into action, I started the car and began my commute. The clouds must have shifted a bit as I made my way. I made it onto the highway via its curved on-ramp -- and noticed that directly ahead of me was a clear, vibrant rainbow. And, guess what? I was driving straight toward it.

Leaving Room for Magic

Anyone who knows me knows this -- I'm really bad when it comes to the kinds of gifts you're supposed to give. Birthdays, weddings, housewarmings, you name it... To me, the best kind of gift is an inspired one. Picking something that "will do" merely because it's time to pick something drives me nuts! On top of that, I prefer gifts that are personal in nature. A gesture is often more meaningful to me than something I could purchase in a store.

Which means that I often fall way behind on the gifts I am obligated to give. Take Christmas for example. I have been as much as three years behind on gifts to my immediate family.

One holiday season, I must have spent the entire plane flight home racking my brain for gift ideas for my mom. In the middle of this painful exercise, a thought occurred to me -- "How about going to church for a year?" Despite the fact that I knew my mom would really like that, I immediately -- and I mean immediately -- dismissed it.

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My parents did their best to raise me Catholic -- they took me to church every weekend and sent me to Sunday school every Sunday. I have nothing bad to say about the behavior they modeled. But, I was an inquisitive kid growing up and it seemed to me that every question I asked during class was ignored or met with a curt "be quiet".

"If Adam and Eve could talk, how come cavemen couldn't?" I'm not saying the questions I asked would have spurred me toward Nobel Peace prize winning research. But being dismissed over and over really put me off.

Week after week I would ask for permission to not participate. Week after week my mother would say that I could do as I pleased once I was an adult. Until then, I had to continue going to church and Sunday school.

Guess what the first act of freedom I relished as an "adult" in college was?

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Happy to be home and even happier to see my family waiting for me at the airport, I swept the gift idea dilemma -- the one that just moments before had been causing me such stress -- out of my mind.

Temporarily, at least.

At some point during my visit, two of my sisters pulled me aside. When they asked if I had thought of a gift for Mom, my heart sunk. I hadn't, and now I had even less time to come up with something. They looked at each other and seemed unsure about how to proceed.

I hadn't been the only one struggling for gift ideas. After thinking about this on their own for some time, they decided to put their heads together. To their surprise, it turned out that the same thought had independently occurred to each of them. "How about going to church for a year?"

It was a surprise to me, too.

They originally intended to convince me this would be a nice gift for Mom, but upon seeing the look on my face they realized they didn't have to. Understandably, given my background, they had expected more resistance from me. After I explained that I had had the same idea, they decided to get in touch with our oldest sister.

When it turned out that the thought had occurred to her as well, the decision was made.

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When I see a magic show, there is a part of me that wants to understand the trick behind the illusion. But there is also a part of me that wants to be in awe of the illusion. If only I could both know and not know.

I am aware that if I dissect the story and think about it hard enough, I can come up with an explanation regarding how and why all four of us came up with the same idea within approximately the same time frame. But in this case, what would I gain by knowing?

And what is the harm in leaving a little room for magic?


As an aside -- this was probably one of the best gifts I have ever given my mom. I used the hour per week to reflect and come to terms with my mother's illness so it turned out to be a gift for myself as well. No, I didn't pick up religion by way of this exercise -- but I did pick up more tolerance for religion, which is something I hadn't managed to do when the act of going to church was involuntary.

You never run out of the number seven

My guess is that it was October 24th of my sophomore year in college, some time after trying to call a friend for her birthday and discovering the number I dialed was incorrect. I called her mother in search of updated contact information.

Somehow this quick check-in with my friend's mom morphed into the kind of exchange that requires temporarily suspending your personal beliefs. Although I love these types of conversations and take most opportunities to engage in them, I was surprised by this conversation's development. But, even more surprising than its development was the profound impact it ended up having on me.

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I have no idea how the topic came up, but my friend's mother spoke to me of her religion. She started off by stating that she believes most people interpret the whole bit about man being made in god's likeness backwards. Her point was followed up with some very human characteristics commonly attributed to him, such as jealousy and rage. In her opinion, god is omniscient and omnipresent, not bound by mass. He is infinite goodness, such as infinite peace, infinite kindness, infinite joy, and infinite love. I liked her definition of infinite:

"You can use it, but you can't use it up. Like the number 7."

She wrapped her logic all together in one neat bundle. "If man is made in god's likeness, wouldn't it stand to reason then, that man has an infinite capacity for peace, for kindness, for joy, and for love?"

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I have a thing for thought experiments. When you take an idea or belief that's different from your own and try it on for size, you shift some of your framework around and shake things up a bit. Whatever is worth believing will settle in comfortably while whatever is tenuous or unnecessary will be dislodged and eventually flushed out.

I tried this thought on. To be honest, I didn't try on the whole thought as I was still a little too agnostic to be open to it all. Instead, I tried on the part about man having infinite capacity for all these positive things. As I turned the thought over and inspected it, I found myself taken with the idea. It made complete sense to me. Where in my body is the switch that says "Ooops! Too much love here! Gotta stop now."?

This little thought experiment led to self made mantras that helped me make it through college.

I have an infinite capacity for knowledge...an infinite capacity for patience...an infinite capacity for humility...

I'm almost embarrassed to admit how long that list of mantras got. Whatever virtue I needed, I imagined I had an infinite capacity for it and reminded myself that there was no physical limitation keeping me from achieving it. I endured countless all-nighters, ego-crushing problem sets, and assignments that seemed to require more than I had to offer with more grace than I could have mustered without this insight. Even now, on occasion, I find a mantra bubbling up inside of me when I need it. I guess you could say that, among other things, I have an infinite capacity for mantra creation.

Sometimes We Are the Entertainment

I once dated a guy who, in my opinion, was overly concerned with how other people perceived him. This concern wasn't limited to people in a position to offer him a job or people he may have had a crush on at some point. In fact, it didn't seem limited at all.

This was hard for me to relate to. Not that I don't ever care what people think of me. It's just that more often than not I don't think to think about it.

When it comes to complete strangers, the kind who will likely never ever see me again, I am typically fine looking the anonymous fool -- especially in those cases where being seen in an unflattering way has little or nothing to do with my actual character.

Don't get me wrong -- I do feel embarrassment. But I also realize I am not the center of the universe. Most folks who are around when I'm making a mistake in public won't even see me! Think about it -- how many people do you pass by every day? How many do you notice? And of those that you do notice, how many are you critically judging? (Now that I think of it, the ex was very critical of even strangers. Perhaps it makes sense that he assumed the whole world was judging him just as harshly?)

OK. Sometimes we flub up BIG TIME. And sometimes people can't help but laugh or think we're total idiots. But, in my opinion, they're not responding to me as a person; they are responding to my role as some extra in the background of their personal movie. I'm just the comedic relief whose name (if they bothered to scroll the credits) they would never manage to match up to the dunce I am playing.

What's wrong with being the entertainment in those cases? What's wrong with providing the stranger that happened to witness your belly flop, or skirt flipping up, or spinach sticking in your teeth, or toilet paper trailing down your pant leg a great punch line to use at dinner some evening?

I've been in these situations. Sometimes, in the middle of it all, I begin to imagine the story that someone might end up telling as a result of my misstep. Often the story tickles me so much that I begin to laugh. Then, I imagine that story ".... and then, get this, she just starts laughing..." which makes me laugh more "... like she's nuts or something..." and more "... and then tears are streaming down her face..." until all I am is a gift of laughter ready to be unwrapped.