This year started off with a bang, didn't it? Devastating floods, tragic shootings, snow storms. One catastrophe after another. I was reading about the floods in Brisbane, Australia and the article told the story of a 13yr old boy named Jordan who told rescuers to save his little brother first--and as a result, Jordan died. How exceptionally brave and selfless. I sat there crying as I read it and I'm crying now as I write this. I have already admitted freely that I cry a lot--especially over anything involving children. And there have been plenty of reasons to shed tears over the past 12 days alone. I am blessed to have not yet lost a brother or sister or parent. I can't even imagine how awful that must be. One reader commented on the article, saying, "2011 is going to be a bad year. That 2012 prediction may be right!"
Well, for one thing, I don't believe 2012 will be the year of the apocalypse. National Geographic on End-of-the-World. I really don't think anyone can predict when the world will end and besides, getting all in a tizzy over an event no one can do anything about isn't worth it. There are more immediate concerns--extreme poverty, warfare and disease in third world nations, the unfortunate plight of the mentally ill in GA, bailouts of entire countries in Europe. As for 2011 being a bad year...It depends. It depends on quite a few factors. For those struggling to survive after the earthquakes in Indonesia or caught in the midst of the never ending violent tension between Israel and Palestine, or dying of cholera in Haiti, it may be a bad year. For those who have lost loved ones in snow storms, and car crashes, and floods, it may be a bad year. But then, I have a friend who is planning a wedding and a move to Hawaii. It seems so strange to me, how one persons life can take a turn for the better while another life plummets downhill.When I was in Nassau on a missions trip, we walked past tiny, lopsided shacks with children wandering about barefoot and in rags on the ground strewn with broken glass. Just across the bridge loomed paradise, the grand resort Atlantis. It was unbelievable.
I'm reminded of a song by Dave Matthews, "Funny the Way It Is." Aside from being pretty great musically, the lyrics echo my own thoughts on the irony in living. My family has had a large serving of hard times over the years and on more than one occasion I've shouted "Enough already!" I told one of my co-workers that I realize that God has a plan and there are lessons to be learned in difficult situations, etc, but I really wish He would cut me some slack. She laughed with some surprise, probably hoping the lightning that was bound to strike me wouldn't bounce off and hit her too (okay, maybe that last part is an exaggeration). I know I'm not alone in wondering when, and if, things will get better. I was out Christmas shopping with my big brother and we were talking about our respective plans for the future. Soon, I'll be finished with nursing school and he's considering different job opportunities and as we're both young it seems like the sky's the limit. But we also both know all too well that plans don't always work out the way one hopes. He said, "Sometimes I think 'Wow, someday soon, I'll actually have a car that runs, and money saved up, and a job I love and life will be great!' But then I think 'What if nothing changes...I can picture myself, having to drive my wife to work an hour in the opposite direction because we only have one car that sort of works, and then that one breaks down and we have barely enough money to get by as it is....' I just wonder, will it always be like this?" I had to laugh because I feel the exact same way, hopeful, and at the same time a little panicked at the prospect of lifelong ickiness. And if that's how I feel, how must those living in misery in the Congo feel?
I read somewhere recently--I honestly can't remember where--that although those of us in the West pity the people in say, Afghanistan, they don't pity themselves. Life is what it is and they get by the best they can. Now, I cannot presume to speak for those people because I have never been in their shoes, but I can see how that might be true in a sense. Self-pity has no place when basic survival is at stake. And humans do survive. It's quite miraculous. Even when the world is falling apart, people still wake-up, find food, fall in love, have children. Think of the atomic bomb and it's after-effects on Hiroshima. And yet Hiroshima is a beautiful, thriving city today. Think of the Holocaust and the deplorable concentration camps. And yet there were many who did not succumb to the madness. I was in college when Hurricane Katrina hit and I went to Gautier, Miss. with a group to help out any way we could. One day, we were picking up the pieces of a family's life in a lot across the street from where their house used to stand. The elderly woman and her invalid husband were currently residing in a ramshackle building near their old house. I felt a bit guilty, gathering up socks, and trophies, and photographs, like I was invading their privacy. The woman said she would make us some banana pudding as a thank you gift. "No don't!" I thought, "You have nothing!" She made it and delivered it to the church where we were staying. All that was left of another house we went to was the foundation and the wooden frame. The owner worked tirelessly to repair it and we built scaffolding and hammered and nailed along with him. The question on everyone's mind was "why bother rebuilding when it would probably be easier to find a different home?" I guess he knew what we were thinking because one afternoon he said, "People wonder why I don't just leave. But my wife and I have lived here for 30 years. My children grew up here. This house has been torn apart before, more than once, and I rebuilt it then and I can rebuild it now."
Yes, I do wonder if things will get better. And perhaps, it's the "if" that's the key. You see, "if" implies a chance. The idea that maybe not, but then again maybe. It's the unknown that gives me hope. Not to say that I don't anticipate running to God in tears as the year progresses. I'm that chronic over-analyzer who gets depressed and overwhelmed by all of the problems in the world. And I'm tempted to sit in a corner rocking back and forth with my head between my knees. The point is, although I cannot fix everything, I can do something. I can sit and listen, I can make someone laugh, I can kiss my little brothers and sisters goodnight, I can sing the songs that are in my heart. I can show compassion, I can encourage, I can love. I can meet people where they are and do my best to address their medical needs. I am definitely no Pollyanna and as much as I dislike sounding like a "little Susy cream cheese" I would like to make life better for whomever I can. Hopefully this year will hold many adventures and wonderful surprises. Just because something begins badly, doesn't mean it won't end well. Will 2011 be a bad year? For me? Well, I'm still living it. Ask me when it's over.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Sunday, December 12, 2010
You catch more flies with honey...
...than you do with vinegar. My mother would always say this. Of course as a little girl I asked her what it meant, and of course she explained how it's much easier to get what you want when you are sweet and kind as opposed to bossy and rude. I remember pondering the all-important question, "Why would anyone want to catch flies?" I discussed this with my brothers and sisters and and we decided that there is no good reason to catch flies other than the fact that it proves you have some serious skills. When I was a child we caught all kinds of creepy-crawlies, most of which we kept in the basement. My mother was quite alright with our strange collection--she even assisted us in finding new creatures-- but she was less than thrilled with the tadpoles. She put her foot down when, upon venturing downstairs one morning, she discovered that the 50 tadpoles living in an old aquarium had sprouted legs and were leaping across the floor. My siblings and I were delighted and we happily (and without permission) dug a pond in our backyard, lined it with trash bags, and filled it with water. A lovely new home for our little froggy friends. I think my mom would have done well to remember another one of her sayings and let the incident "roll like water off a duck's back." :^)
Most of these colorful expressions were passed down from my granny, a native of Mississippi. As in Deep South, pluck your own chicken, slaughter the hog, dirt floor Mississippi. By the time my mother was born, number 10 out of 11 children, her family had moved up north to Wisconsin and my granny shed her southern accent. But behind that clipped Yankee voice was a clever Southern lady. The cooking nearly met a dead end with my mother. She never learned how to cut up a catfish or make fried chicken, or cook up chitlins, or a host of other southern dishes. Whole catfish are scary-looking, raw meat is not attractive and feels gross, and chitlins are, well, chitlins. I haven't shed any tears over our lack of chitlin cuisine. I've already mentioned the fact that I grew up with stir-fry, veggie burgers and soymilk. Somehow, though, collard greens and grits slipped through. And so did a long list of southern expressions, which I'm sure sound strange rolling off of my Yankee tongue.
I was born in Milwaukee, WI, the land of cheese and snow, and we moved to Connecticut when I was not yet two. Wisconsin + Connecticut + all of the Massachusetts side of the family left me with a very neutral, yet decidedly not Southern accent. People always ask me where I'm from--in part because they think I look foreign (Of course, my own mother thinks I look foreign. I'm not sure if people are really suggesting that I look odd. Hmm...) and in part because they cannot place my voice. Once, a woman asked me if I'm British. Ah, a dream come true! I so wish I had a British accent. But alas, I do not. And after all my years in the South (I've lived here for 16 years), I still say "DAL-ton" instead of "Dal'n." Contrary to popular belief, the Southern is in there somewhere and it pops out when I say someone is moving "slower than molasses in the winter time" or I hear of someone in trouble because they were hanging out with the wrong crowd and I can't help but shake my head and knowingly declare that "when you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas."
Then there are times when I question the veracity of a tale and I insist, "tell the truth and shame the devil!"
Moving down South was like culture shock. For the first year or two I could barely understand what people were saying. And why does everyone move sooo sloooow...? And everyone we met wondered why we talked so fast. I still struggle sometimes if I happen to meet a true, deep South kind of person and I know they're probably wondering "What on earth is that little Yankee trying to say?" No worries, my Southern friends. We have common ground. I spend most of my days running around like a chicken with my head cut off and I know to fish or cut bait. You might find me sitting like a bump on a log or barking up the wrong tree. When two of my sisters were little they were like two peas in a pod. And I am often accused of getting too big for my britches. I wallow in self-pity for getting the short end of the stick even though I know better than to beat a dead horse One -up me with some bizarre news and I'll tell you .that takes the cake! Rush me and I'll tell you to hold your horses. I don't tolerate much carrying on and yes, I have put on some ugly clodhoppers when there's work to be done. Okay, so I've made a solemn vow to myself that I would never say something is so good it'll make you slap your mama (I just think that's weird) but hopefully that won't be held against me! And if it is, well, that's no skin off my nose. My goal is, by the time I'm old as dirt and have one foot in the grave, I'll have spread these lovely little sayings around the world :)
Most of these colorful expressions were passed down from my granny, a native of Mississippi. As in Deep South, pluck your own chicken, slaughter the hog, dirt floor Mississippi. By the time my mother was born, number 10 out of 11 children, her family had moved up north to Wisconsin and my granny shed her southern accent. But behind that clipped Yankee voice was a clever Southern lady. The cooking nearly met a dead end with my mother. She never learned how to cut up a catfish or make fried chicken, or cook up chitlins, or a host of other southern dishes. Whole catfish are scary-looking, raw meat is not attractive and feels gross, and chitlins are, well, chitlins. I haven't shed any tears over our lack of chitlin cuisine. I've already mentioned the fact that I grew up with stir-fry, veggie burgers and soymilk. Somehow, though, collard greens and grits slipped through. And so did a long list of southern expressions, which I'm sure sound strange rolling off of my Yankee tongue.
I was born in Milwaukee, WI, the land of cheese and snow, and we moved to Connecticut when I was not yet two. Wisconsin + Connecticut + all of the Massachusetts side of the family left me with a very neutral, yet decidedly not Southern accent. People always ask me where I'm from--in part because they think I look foreign (Of course, my own mother thinks I look foreign. I'm not sure if people are really suggesting that I look odd. Hmm...) and in part because they cannot place my voice. Once, a woman asked me if I'm British. Ah, a dream come true! I so wish I had a British accent. But alas, I do not. And after all my years in the South (I've lived here for 16 years), I still say "DAL-ton" instead of "Dal'n." Contrary to popular belief, the Southern is in there somewhere and it pops out when I say someone is moving "slower than molasses in the winter time" or I hear of someone in trouble because they were hanging out with the wrong crowd and I can't help but shake my head and knowingly declare that "when you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas."
Then there are times when I question the veracity of a tale and I insist, "tell the truth and shame the devil!"
Moving down South was like culture shock. For the first year or two I could barely understand what people were saying. And why does everyone move sooo sloooow...? And everyone we met wondered why we talked so fast. I still struggle sometimes if I happen to meet a true, deep South kind of person and I know they're probably wondering "What on earth is that little Yankee trying to say?" No worries, my Southern friends. We have common ground. I spend most of my days running around like a chicken with my head cut off and I know to fish or cut bait. You might find me sitting like a bump on a log or barking up the wrong tree. When two of my sisters were little they were like two peas in a pod. And I am often accused of getting too big for my britches. I wallow in self-pity for getting the short end of the stick even though I know better than to beat a dead horse One -up me with some bizarre news and I'll tell you .that takes the cake! Rush me and I'll tell you to hold your horses. I don't tolerate much carrying on and yes, I have put on some ugly clodhoppers when there's work to be done. Okay, so I've made a solemn vow to myself that I would never say something is so good it'll make you slap your mama (I just think that's weird) but hopefully that won't be held against me! And if it is, well, that's no skin off my nose. My goal is, by the time I'm old as dirt and have one foot in the grave, I'll have spread these lovely little sayings around the world :)
Saturday, November 20, 2010
fall leaves
perhaps it hung on spider's silk
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| photo by Rob McKay http://robmckayphotography.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/fall-leaves-falling-autumn-colors.jpg |
i gazed upon
a yellow leaf
twirling in the air
i couldn't help but wonder how it was
suspended
there
no branch to hold it up
disconnected
from a tree
perhaps it hung on spider's silk
free and yet
not free
A word (maybe more) of complaint
I haven't updated this blog in over a month--far too long I think. Quite a bit has happened since then and if I were to write about it all at once you would be reading for an awful long time. Therefore, I shall cover the events and my thoughts of the past few weeks in more manageable bites.
October 13 was the day I dreaded. It was the day four classes were scheduled to begin. Not that I haven't had four classes in one semester before, back when I was in undergrad. However, I had yet to take four classes all at once while in nursing school. Research and Technology = yuck. I never had to take this course before because as a science major it was understood that I would have to use the Internet, write papers, make slide presentations, etc. But no, that does not count at my new school now so here I am, "learning" how to use Microsoft Word, and PowerPoint and search engines.
Then there's U.S. History. I apologize in advance to history lovers but this is not my cup of tea. I know that as an American citizen I should be well-informed about my nation's past and as a friend of mine said "you have to learn history so that you won't repeat it" and so on. It's not that I don't care about it in general. I love to read about about historical characters and events. This may seem morbid, but I am fascinated with the Holocaust and both World Wars in general--but I'll delve into that topic in another post sometime. I love learning abut my family's heritage (and the more I learn, the more I realize how strange it is). I love all these things and yet, the sad truth remains, I have absolutely no interest in presidents, and dates and this law and that speech. The very thought makes me cringe. I tried to recite the list of U.S. presidents a short while ago, just to test my knowledge. I think I was able to name 8. Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Carter, Bush (times 2) and Clinton. And there was some debate over whether Grant was a president or a Confederate general. That's tragic.
Of course, I am the girl who couldn't remember if Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1462 or 1492. I've since resolved these perplexing history mysteries, but there are hundreds more which I will never figure out. And I won't lose any sleep over it. Now, literature is quite a different story. I wish I was taking another literature class so I could analyze poems and write stories and read Beowulf and Byron, Poe and Eliot, Hawthorne and Shaw, the Canterbury Tales...Not that I can't read them on my own, but if I must take a class I would much rather it be something I actually enjoy.
Perhaps it is not fair to say that all of the material is dull. I do my homework properly and turn it in on time and occasionally learn something :) One of the issues is that I am in school to become a nurse and uninteresting requirements outside of that take up too much valuable time and brain space. OK, the real issue is that after being in school year round, I am rather burnt out and some things lend themselves well to abuse.
October 13 was the day I dreaded. It was the day four classes were scheduled to begin. Not that I haven't had four classes in one semester before, back when I was in undergrad. However, I had yet to take four classes all at once while in nursing school. Research and Technology = yuck. I never had to take this course before because as a science major it was understood that I would have to use the Internet, write papers, make slide presentations, etc. But no, that does not count at my new school now so here I am, "learning" how to use Microsoft Word, and PowerPoint and search engines.
Then there's U.S. History. I apologize in advance to history lovers but this is not my cup of tea. I know that as an American citizen I should be well-informed about my nation's past and as a friend of mine said "you have to learn history so that you won't repeat it" and so on. It's not that I don't care about it in general. I love to read about about historical characters and events. This may seem morbid, but I am fascinated with the Holocaust and both World Wars in general--but I'll delve into that topic in another post sometime. I love learning abut my family's heritage (and the more I learn, the more I realize how strange it is). I love all these things and yet, the sad truth remains, I have absolutely no interest in presidents, and dates and this law and that speech. The very thought makes me cringe. I tried to recite the list of U.S. presidents a short while ago, just to test my knowledge. I think I was able to name 8. Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Carter, Bush (times 2) and Clinton. And there was some debate over whether Grant was a president or a Confederate general. That's tragic.
Of course, I am the girl who couldn't remember if Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1462 or 1492. I've since resolved these perplexing history mysteries, but there are hundreds more which I will never figure out. And I won't lose any sleep over it. Now, literature is quite a different story. I wish I was taking another literature class so I could analyze poems and write stories and read Beowulf and Byron, Poe and Eliot, Hawthorne and Shaw, the Canterbury Tales...Not that I can't read them on my own, but if I must take a class I would much rather it be something I actually enjoy.
Perhaps it is not fair to say that all of the material is dull. I do my homework properly and turn it in on time and occasionally learn something :) One of the issues is that I am in school to become a nurse and uninteresting requirements outside of that take up too much valuable time and brain space. OK, the real issue is that after being in school year round, I am rather burnt out and some things lend themselves well to abuse.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Acrophilia and other extremes.
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| This picture is originally from http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/38224278/ |
Check out this story on two--possibly crazy--men who are planning to make a supersonic jump. Literally. Felix Baumgartner, a 41 yr old Australian and Michel Fournier, a 66 yr old Frenchman are each attempting to be the first to skydive from 120, 000 feet, as in the edge of space, and break the sound barrier on the way down. Personally, I'm rooting for Fournier because he is clearly the underdog with much less funding and support. He's been working towards this feat for about 20 years, 5 times as long as Baumgartner who is backed by Red Bull. Not that I have anything against Baumgartner. Au contrair, anyone who seriously plans to take that kind of risk deserves some kudos. I've leapt off of 50 foot high platforms and fallen backwards out of trees, but all while secured to ropes and a harness. Sure that rather flimsy looking carabiner could break but what are the chances? These guys will have some fancy suits and hi-tech parachutes, but no ropes or harnesses. Pretty much just them and the open air. No one is quite sure what the effects of falling from that height will be. Other people have tried descending from lesser heights and sadly lost their lives. I expect that these supersonic jumpers will black out at some point during the fall--hopefully not at the parachute opening point.
Most of us will never do anything this extreme, but I can understand ( a little) why one would try. I think back to the time when I leapt off of my friends dock into the 30ft deep lake below. Did I mention that I cannot swim? And there were no life guards in site? And the water was quite murky so if I sank like a rock, it's highly unlikely they'd be able to see me? Oh and I was an adult who fully understood cause and effect, (diving into deep water + not knowing how to swim = DROWNING). This is not on nearly the same level as falling through the sound barrier and obviously I didn't drown. My self-preservation skills kicked in and you'd better believe I swam. I even jumped in again. But why did I do it? 1. The common sense section of my brain frequently takes a break 2. Because I was curious to find out what would happen 3. The adrenaline rush is pretty amazing. Plus it makes a great story. People may look at you like you're crazy but deep down I know they are in awe of your daredevilishness and wish above all else that they could be so cool. Maybe. This article in PsychologyToday offers some explanations for why we take risks http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/200910/risk.
The research implicates that the drive to take high risks is "hard-wired". In other words. risk-taking may be be a genetic, biological thing. The average, middle and upper class American lives a relatively safe, and dare I say, dull, life so many people--especially men--engage in risky behaviors like extreme sports to fulfill their thrill-seeking needs. Not that women can't be thrill seekers--many are. The biological truth of it is that women are the ones who bear children and throughout history have invested a majority of their time raising them. Risk taking simply is not conducive to motherhood. In the past, and today in hundreds of communities around the world, men are expected to provide for their families by travelling long distances, hunting for food, and fending off wild animals and violent people. This of course involves a great deal of risk taking. The article notes that men and women living in war-torn or poverty-stricken areas aren't exactly looking to take unnecessary risk; their lives are risky enough already.
Both Baumgartner and Fourtnier have done some extreme stuff in the past so they're certainly not strangers to the adrenaline high. And in many people there's a natural drive to test your limits, to see what you're really made of. Unfortunately, not everyone who finds themselves in a seemingly impossible predicament volunteered for it. I read an interesting book on a related subject, called "Surviving the Extremes: A Doctor's Journey to the Limits of Human Endurance" by Dr. Kenneth Kamler . Kamler is vice president of the Explorer's Club and he was actually part of the tragic 1996 Mt Everest Expedition and treated the survivors. The book details stories of human survival in a variety of extreme environments--the desert, the open seas, the Amazon Jungle. Kamler doesn't overwhelm you with medical jargon, which is nice. I actually mentioned this book in one of my first posts back in March. Well, we'll see who makes history with the first space jump, Mr. Red Bull or the underdog. Either way, it will be super impressive and something I will most likely never, ever try...P.S. I still can't swim.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
O blush not so!
Id-i-o-syn-cra-sy, noun, : a peculiarity of constitution or temperament; an individualizing characteristic or quality). The truth is, sometimes I am. Embarrassed, I mean. Someone was riding in my car with me and the radio was playing the last station I left it tuned to. It's a station that plays random old songs, and obscure songs, and some mainstream stuff mixed in with some not quite mainstream (which somehow makes it way cooler). After a few moments, the rider asked me "Is this the kind of music you listen to?" The tone wasn't rude, but slightly incredulous. And immediately I was embarrassed and tried to brush it off with "What is this station? I'm not even sure what I left it on. I mean, sometimes I listen to this stuff because, you know the other stations all play the same thing..." I wish I was one of those people who manage to always seem unfazed, but alas, my emotions are forever on display.
One of my friends described my expressions as "so cliche'". At first I wasn't sure whether or not I should take offense to that. Who wants to be cliche'? What he meant was, my facial expressions and even the way I move, are practically textbook examples of what emotions should look like. For example, startle me and I'll jump, and gasp, and clutch at my heart, and give you the classic look of wide-eyed, open-mouthed, surprise. People, particularly children and guys, figure that out quickly and think it's hilarious and are constantly sneaking up behind me. After nearly giving me a heart attack, a friend of mine in college said he would relish my reaction for the rest of his life. Great. And it's the same for anger, sadness, happiness, confusion, disappointment....Not that I know what I look like. I usually don't even realize I'm making a face until someone mentions it. "Omigosh, look at your face! It's sooo extreme!" The truth is, my emotions are pretty extreme. When I'm happy, I'm not just happy I'm OVERJOYED. When I'm sad I'm not just sad, I'm absolutely devastated. When I'm embarrassed, of course I'm utterly mortified. And it all shows up on my face. I have a book all about the human face [The Face: A Natural History by Daniel McNeill]. Well, it's really about more than just the face. The author goes into detail about why we look the way we look, act the way we act, say the things we say. I don't agree with everything in the book, but I do agree with most of the information. According to the author, most researchers agree on five or so basic expressions; anger, surprise, fear, happiness, and sadness. These are recognizable around the world. In fact, babies born deaf and blind have the same facial expressions as anyone else. (Side note: Helen Keller is of course the most well-known deafblind person, but she is certainly not the only one. Check out this website, created by a deafblind man in the UK A-Z to Deafblindness).
Picking up on my obvious embarrassment, my passenger quickly reassured me that it was okay. Then I felt embarrassed for being embarrassed. It's a vicious cycle. The worst is when I can feel myself blushing. Yes, yes, dark-skinned people can blush. If I was a shade or two darker no one would ever notice...How I envy my chocolate brown friends. I'm not at all pale, but when I blush it's obvious. There's no mistaking that tingling, uncomfortable heat spreading across my face and I find myself praying that no one points it out. When someone does, I just want to run and hide under a table. Actually, I should be putting my red cheeks on display. Blushing has a purpose. When you make a mistake or do something humiliating, that awkward flush literally softens people's feelings toward you. Because blushing is completely involuntary it shows the poor blusher to be sincerely embarrassed. Someone who says something dumb and then blushes is more likely to be forgiven than someone who says the same thing blush-less. This article on why we blush is a good one. My search on the web also led me to a poem by John Keats, Sharing the Apple, better known as "O Blush Not So!" Perfect, don't you think? Ok, so the poem is also a little risque'.
Anyway, to summarize: Idiosyncrasy is a cool word, I'm embarrassed about being embarrassed, blushing is actually socially beneficial, and John Keats was a poet. The end.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
How to be
I am on a self-improvement kick. Hm, well maybe I need clarify that. "Self-improvement" has unpleasant connotations of poor self-esteem (which used to plague me and occasionally I relapse) and short-lived cycles of sacrificial dieting (which I never do) and brutal exercise (see comment after sacrificial dieting). What I mean by self-improvement is really a conscious effort to live a productive life. Various events over the course of my almost 25 years of existence--particularly those in recent months--have pushed me to reexamine my goals. I am one of those people who have always had some idea of what they want to do and, being ridiculously stubborn, once I have my mind set on something, I will pursue it until it becomes literally impossible or God tells me no. And usually God tells me no by making whatever I'm trying to do literally impossible. I've already said I'm a restless sort of person and to be doing nothing would be, well, miserable. I'm working toward these big goals that I've had for years and yet it's not enough.
One Sunday, the pastor preached on the difference between being satisfied, dissatisfied, and unsatisfied. I've always thought that to be satisfied was the goal. You know how people say that good Christians should be content, and at peace, and so on. I assumed that meant I must always feel perfectly satisfied and I felt rather guilty about not feeling that way. In fact, it's a chronic condition for me. But the pastor went on to say that being satisfied can be a bad state if it means that you think you've "arrived", that you have become all you want to be, and now are under no obligation to contribute to anything else. I'm sure others figured out long ago that contentment is not the same as ceasing to strive but for me it was a revelation. The American Sign Language sign for "understand" is a closed fist held up beside the forehead, palm facing in, and then you flick the first finger up like a light bulb coming on. I always imagine hearing a loud "ding!" at the same time. Of course, two seconds later, I began to worry. The next point was about dissatisfaction. If I wasn't smugly satisfied, I thought, then I must be dissatisfied. Yuck. I know dissatisfied people. Heck, not too long ago, I was one of those people. Bitter, grumpy, complaining, critical. We are all unhappy with this and that every now and then, but for that to be my general attitude?! I pictured those who fit the description and they are so unpleasant to be around. I pictured myself and thought about how unpleasant it must be to spend time with me when I'm like that. Thankfully, before I sunk into the depths of despair, we moved on to the next point. Unsatisfied. Right. Doesn't that mean the same as dissatisfied? Apparently not. A person can be satisfied or dissatisfied but not unsatisfied. You see, unsatisfied refers more to a need or an expectation that goes unfulfilled, the feeling of needing more (according to the thesaurus and daily writing tips online). It is perfectly alright to be unfulfilled when it leads you to seek more out of life, out of yourself. When it leads you to seek God's will, and to live up to your full potential. That struck a chord in me. I know I am not satisfied, I have been making a conscious effort for some time not to be dissatisfied, but this whole concept of unsatisfied ...What a novel idea! Ha, well clearly that is what the Apostle Paul was saying when he wrote Philippians 3.
I realize now why working to achieve "big" goals was not enough. I make good grades in school, I'm learning the medical skills, so I could be a competent nurse. I love children, I have spent most of my life working with children, children seem to like me, so I will probably do well in the area of pediatrics. When it comes to traveling, I'm not particular about housing or transportation--the more unusual the better-- and I'm not a picky eater. I get along well with most people, and I'm quite willing to learn a new language, so traveling shouldn't be a problem. If life continues on as it has so far, I'll eventually be what I want to be. But I've recently had to stop and try a new perspective. I can go through the motions and maybe be "successful". However, I realized lately that instead of focusing on what I want to be and do, I need to be contemplating who I want to be. What kind of character do I have now and can I see myself continuing on this way? What about the little things, like how I handle my money, how I organize my time whether or not I clean that blasted room of mine. Those things say alot about me. Am I patient with the little ones in the family? Do I respect my other siblings? Do I respect my mother? Am I a hypocrite? How often do I make promises that I don't keep...How often do I gossip?? And what about my interests. Do I take the time grow and improve on a personal level? I love to sing, but I rarely sing with people or for people anymore. The violin is my favorite instrument but I've almost convinced myself that I'll never learn o play. I am interested in martial arts and I was good at it but it's been a while since I've pursued it. I enjoy drawing and painting, but how often do I pick up a brush? I adore the theater, and museums, and dancing but when do I go? And most importantly, what is the quality of my time in prayer or in the Bible. Am I so distracted that I can't even hear God's directions? I know that sometimes I get so caught up in trying to make things work the way I think they should, that I don't recognize how much of a mess I'm making. I just don't want to look back on my life and say "I have no idea who I am?" When I look at those around me and see the decisions they've made and the consequences--good or bad--it makes me wonder about my own choices and where they will take me and how they will affect those around me. I don't expect to magically transform into Ms. Perfect. I do, however, want to be heading in the right direction.
One Sunday, the pastor preached on the difference between being satisfied, dissatisfied, and unsatisfied. I've always thought that to be satisfied was the goal. You know how people say that good Christians should be content, and at peace, and so on. I assumed that meant I must always feel perfectly satisfied and I felt rather guilty about not feeling that way. In fact, it's a chronic condition for me. But the pastor went on to say that being satisfied can be a bad state if it means that you think you've "arrived", that you have become all you want to be, and now are under no obligation to contribute to anything else. I'm sure others figured out long ago that contentment is not the same as ceasing to strive but for me it was a revelation. The American Sign Language sign for "understand" is a closed fist held up beside the forehead, palm facing in, and then you flick the first finger up like a light bulb coming on. I always imagine hearing a loud "ding!" at the same time. Of course, two seconds later, I began to worry. The next point was about dissatisfaction. If I wasn't smugly satisfied, I thought, then I must be dissatisfied. Yuck. I know dissatisfied people. Heck, not too long ago, I was one of those people. Bitter, grumpy, complaining, critical. We are all unhappy with this and that every now and then, but for that to be my general attitude?! I pictured those who fit the description and they are so unpleasant to be around. I pictured myself and thought about how unpleasant it must be to spend time with me when I'm like that. Thankfully, before I sunk into the depths of despair, we moved on to the next point. Unsatisfied. Right. Doesn't that mean the same as dissatisfied? Apparently not. A person can be satisfied or dissatisfied but not unsatisfied. You see, unsatisfied refers more to a need or an expectation that goes unfulfilled, the feeling of needing more (according to the thesaurus and daily writing tips online). It is perfectly alright to be unfulfilled when it leads you to seek more out of life, out of yourself. When it leads you to seek God's will, and to live up to your full potential. That struck a chord in me. I know I am not satisfied, I have been making a conscious effort for some time not to be dissatisfied, but this whole concept of unsatisfied ...What a novel idea! Ha, well clearly that is what the Apostle Paul was saying when he wrote Philippians 3.
I realize now why working to achieve "big" goals was not enough. I make good grades in school, I'm learning the medical skills, so I could be a competent nurse. I love children, I have spent most of my life working with children, children seem to like me, so I will probably do well in the area of pediatrics. When it comes to traveling, I'm not particular about housing or transportation--the more unusual the better-- and I'm not a picky eater. I get along well with most people, and I'm quite willing to learn a new language, so traveling shouldn't be a problem. If life continues on as it has so far, I'll eventually be what I want to be. But I've recently had to stop and try a new perspective. I can go through the motions and maybe be "successful". However, I realized lately that instead of focusing on what I want to be and do, I need to be contemplating who I want to be. What kind of character do I have now and can I see myself continuing on this way? What about the little things, like how I handle my money, how I organize my time whether or not I clean that blasted room of mine. Those things say alot about me. Am I patient with the little ones in the family? Do I respect my other siblings? Do I respect my mother? Am I a hypocrite? How often do I make promises that I don't keep...How often do I gossip?? And what about my interests. Do I take the time grow and improve on a personal level? I love to sing, but I rarely sing with people or for people anymore. The violin is my favorite instrument but I've almost convinced myself that I'll never learn o play. I am interested in martial arts and I was good at it but it's been a while since I've pursued it. I enjoy drawing and painting, but how often do I pick up a brush? I adore the theater, and museums, and dancing but when do I go? And most importantly, what is the quality of my time in prayer or in the Bible. Am I so distracted that I can't even hear God's directions? I know that sometimes I get so caught up in trying to make things work the way I think they should, that I don't recognize how much of a mess I'm making. I just don't want to look back on my life and say "I have no idea who I am?" When I look at those around me and see the decisions they've made and the consequences--good or bad--it makes me wonder about my own choices and where they will take me and how they will affect those around me. I don't expect to magically transform into Ms. Perfect. I do, however, want to be heading in the right direction.
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