Readiness to Change

I give my dad a lot of flack and some mild public flogging for the excessively rational manner in which he raised me.  My all time favorite thing to razz him about is the time he tried to coax a much younger me off the side of a mountain by telling me I could choose to stay there forever.  As an adult, I think back on this encounter and cannot believe someone would say something like that to a child.  However, it was so effective that I have since made it my goal to attempt this paradoxically supportive intervention.

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Several years ago I saw my first opportunity.  I was working with an oppositional 6 year old boy.  We had gone out to a special playground for the afternoon.  At some point in the day, he had managed to climb down into the middle of a cylindrical ladder and was pretending to be a caged prisoner.  When it was time to leave for the day, we cued all the children to line up.  After the chaos of transition, we counted all the little heads and determined we were one short. When I went to find him, he was claiming to be "stuck" inside the barred structure; citing fear to leave. I did what I could to support and encourage him, but it quickly became apparent that his "fear" was more related to a distaste for the end of play time.  So, I changed my tact.

"Look dude," I said. "The way I see it, you have two choices.  You could choose to stay out here forever, bu-"
"Fine," he cut me off.
Startled, I stammered "but, like, what if you have to go to the bathroom?"
"Okay," he said flatly. He was still fairly young and thus unconcerned with voiding outside a restroom.
"Um...who's going to feed you though?"
"I don't know," he said with a startling degree of ambivalence. The idea that someone might not was not a reality in his mind.

I attempted to persuade him into seeing that there were better choices available to him.  However, his developmental state did not allow for getting past the idea that he could choose to stay on the playground forever.  I had inadvertently given him permission to defy my expectations. We were screwed. Ultimately, I admitted defeat, and wound up calling my supervisor for back up. She came right out and began the slow but ominous count to three. Problem solved.

Lesson learned. The intervention is a particularly complex one that requires a significant degree of skill and the right kind of child to be able to hear the underlying message. So, I tucked it back into my memory and set it aside for refinement and later use.

Then the time came.

Not long ago, I found myself hanging out with a particularly anxious young woman who had recently learned of an upcoming transition. We sat together as she lamented the difficulty inherent in change.  I listened to her express fear of possible failure upon adjusting to something new.  I validated her feelings and praised her for past ability to manage herself; attempting to remind her this was not her first experience with change. She continued to evidence worries and concerns to the tune of "what if I can't do it?" "What if nobody likes me?" "What if it's hard?" "What if it's scary?" Allowing me to challenge her on all of these concerns but not yet feeling confidence in herself, she joking declared that she was going to wrap her arms around a nearby structural pillar and refuse to leave her present location.

"You could definitely try it," I smiled.
"Really?!" She looked at me with widened eyes, baffled by my response.
"In fact," I offered up. "let's do it together."  I stood up and started to walk towards the identified pillar.  My friend remained stationary; staring at me with a perplexed expression.
"But you know," I stopped and turned back toward her.  "What are we going to do when you get hungry?"
She shrugged.
"I mean, I guess we could probably arrange for someone to bring you food, but that's probably going to make you feel guilty.
No response, minus a slight smile.
"And, what about when you have to go to the bathroom?"
She knit her eyebrows and slumped her shoulders, an expression I had grown to recognize as irritation with a good point. So, I sat back down and continued in a playful manner.
"Even if we figure that out, eventually the paint on the building is going to chip. Then you're going to get paint chips in your hair, and the maintenance team is probably going to need to fix it, which will result in them trying to physically pry you off, and that sounds awkward."

Her affect started to brighten. Together we began to laugh and joke about the various different factors that would make her release her grip on the building.  As the conversation dwindled, I looked her in the eye and delivered the moment of insight I had come to after that cold day on the mountain so many years ago:

"My point is, no matter how bad you want to hang on, eventually something will happen and you will feel ready to let go. It may not be because you want to, and it may not be until after it happens, but eventually you're going to realize that you were ready for a change."

Automatic Answer Syndrome

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When I was little(r), I was somewhat of a know it all.  If I was comfortable, I could be quite the chatter box.  Any question pointed in my direction likely got a lengthy monologue in response. Sure, I was pretty cute, but even the cutest of little ones can exhaust the attention of those that love them.

After seemingly endless periods of squeaking my every thought and observation, I eventually encountered the much too advanced wisdom of my father.  I recall conversations in which he spoke at my wee tow-head about the concept of noise pollution.  Believing himself to be helpful, he explained that my excessive verbalization was just adding needless sound to the world.  He guided me through picturing what the air would look like if we could see sound, and insinuated that I was soiling breathable space with my desire to talk without purpose.

This was not as awful as it sounds.  Though my not yet fully formed brain was momentarily stifled by the all too scientific advice of my apparently heroic father, I didn't actually stop talking.  It's possible that I may have slowed down some in response, but historic reports of my family members would indicate the inaccuracy of this assumption. On and on and on I prattled; selfishly soaking up the sound space around my loved ones.

In particular, I loved to prove my intelligence to my father.  As you may have discerned from the above story, my dad was pretty clever himself.  I'm pretty sure that was always obvious to me.  I even imagine myself as an infant, craning in his arms, thinking "whoa! this dude is smart!" So, naturally I had to rise to the genetic occasion. As a bumbling tot trying to form my own understanding of the world, I assumed I had to prove my worth by immediately answering every question that even seemed meant for me.

Obviously, I got a lot of questions wrong.  That's what happens when you increase the frequency of your attempts at anything, you increase the chances for error.  Eventually, as it always did in my family, my behavior led to another paternal teaching moment.  I recall a family dinner, with us all seated at the table discussing our days, and likely answering trivia questions to the key of "for an extra two points!"  I must have exhausted the patience of others with my interrupting and attempting to guess at things I didn't truly know, because my father finally spoke out against it.

"You don't always have to know the answer," he calmly stated.  "There's nothing wrong with saying you don't know."  He then guided us through acknowledging our ignorance, and confidently stating "I don't know."  From then on, both my parents would pause us when we demonstrated notable sensitivity to the unknown, and guide us through calling ourselves out.  We were repeatedly coached to practice alerting others to our dearth of knowledge.

I found this activity irritating for the vast majority of my childhood.  I hated telling people I didn't understand them.  I abhorred acknowledgement of my inadequacies in a public forum, and I resisted encouragement to lay it all out on the table.  Only recently have I realized that this ongoing tutelage actually took.

In my adulthood, my academic and professional careers have been marked by my insistent confession of inadequacies.  It is possible that I call out my lack of wisdom all too often.  However, I'm frequently praised by superiors for indicating that I have yet to glean what I need to.  Personally, I often attribute it to my sense of innocence and inexperience with all things "real world."  Though, I have started to notice my own frustration with colleagues and superiors who lack the strength required to assert their ignorance. I find myself often grunting vexation with "knowledgeable others" who automatically throw out suggestions unrelated to the questions I have asked.  My head spins with annoyance when I turn to seasoned professionals who attempt to guide me through basic responses to situations I am comfortable with, and ignore my pointed questions about how to deal with advanced complexities.

My initial assumption was that this played on my own inadequacies.  My primary response was to think "they must really think I'm stupid if think I've forgotten the basics," but then I realized it wasn't this at all.  Due to my own prior experience with automatic answer syndrome, I quickly understood that the truth was they don't have the answers either.  It is they who lacks the knowledge to further themselves. Because they never had support to build comfort with their own lack of understanding, they have habituated time-wasting discussions of things that don't matter.  They don't understand the utility of recognizing a deficit in order to build upon it.

Braggart Reform

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When I was younger I could be quite the know-it-all.  Teachers liked me, because I sat quietly in class, raised my hand, and answered the questions I  was asked. At home, I would jabber on and on about all the things I learned in school.  I would talk my parents' ears off as I described every accolade and academic triumph of the day.  I'd chatter away bragging about all of my skills and scholastic strengths until my dad would sigh with exasperation and declare,

"If you're really smart, you won't have to tell anyone."

As a small child this advice baffled me.  Of course I have to tell people, I thought to myself, how else will they know?  I truly believed that I had to prove my worth to others.  Because of this, I took my father's advice how I always did.  I ignored it.

I went on striving for perfection and asserting my value to all who mattered to me.  All the while, my father repeated his advice  every time he was subjected to my self-aggrandizing daily reports.  I'd roll my eyes, stomp my feet, and complain that I was merely trying to describe my day.

I never thought this advice effected me much, except to confirm that my dad could be rather insensitive.  However, as with all mild irritations that are set on repeat, I slowly internalized his words.  Without realizing it, I took on his meaning.  Before I realized it, I grew into a strong young woman who speaks to others in simple words while resisting the need to prove my intelligence.  I now equate my wisdom and skill with that of most people.  I recognize my competencies, but I see myself as no better or worse than any other person just with a different set of privileges.

Error-genic

"Parenting," as my father says, "is a job you can only do wrong."

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 It may seem overly cynical to say so, but I've had a variety of encounters throughout my life that would confirm this very belief. I have worked with and known parents who could be described with adjectives such as good, bad, perfect, mediocre, wonderful, awful, intense, amazing, and even crazy. No matter how I've come to know these parents, they all had one major thing in common. All of their children have had "issues."

In fact, that might just be the prevailing theme in life. Everyone has issues. We all have something we struggle with, some weakness that needs bolstering, and some sensitivities that need considering.  Babies are born into our world ripe for learning behaviors from their predecessors. Their brains are literally programmed to observe and mimic what they see. These learned behaviors impact thought development, which creates internalized responses, and before you know it there's a whole new generation of neuroses walking the earth.

It's an endless cycle that can only be circumvented with acceptance. This is our fate. Whether guarded, defensive, fearful, or reactive, we all have our vulnerabilities. Often times these issues have been selected from a preordained set of environmental, hereditary, and social dynamics. There's little anyone could do to avoid creating issues. It's possible that special focus and attention may have prevented development of a specific sensitivity.  However, it's more than likely that hyper-attentiveness in one identified area would actually create neglect in an another unrealized realm; causing a whole different set of difficulties.

This is not to say that we should all just throw up our hands and surrender to our flaws and shortcomings.  Truly what I point to is the opposite. I bring up our inevitably flawed experiences, in an attempt to point out that we're all striving for improvement.  This experience is not unique to any particularly sick set of people.  We're all working on change and betterment of ourselves, because the future depends on us.

Pandora

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Those who truly know me, know that I'm not afraid of crying. Yet, I don't do it much. I may be a sensitive person, but I'm pretty tough emotionally. I can handle seeing and hearing about most things. In fact, I've been a direct witness to a lot of the really tough shit in this world. So, imagine my dismay when I found myself crying...in a session.

I was sitting on the floor with a  fragile-looking little girl suffering from a deep chest cold. She didn't feel well, and I too was suffering from my own physiological malady. I had brought some magazine clippings and a shoebox into the room. Calmly and with frequent interruptions to sympathize with her productive cough, I explained that our purpose for the day was to cover this box in happy thoughts. She nodded in understanding, and we quietly set out to find her happy thoughts. It was a low-key moment. Neither of us said much. Side-by-side we combed through images; silently passing them back and forth. Fatigue was high, and words were sparse.

Several minutes into the activity I realized my attempt to help was impeding the process. After all, the images were supposed to make her feel good, not me. So, I sat back and watched this tiny thing rake through piles of glossy paper. The only sounds were sniffles and shuffling. Her kind yet guarded eyes remained turned down except to seek out clean tissues. Despite her clearly ailing body, she was completely engaged in this activity.

For all intents and purposes, this was a breakthrough. It was the most open this overly regulated and compliant child had ever been in my presence. I should have been ecstatic. The pride I should have felt at having finally gotten through to this child should have been overwhelming. Instead, I remembered why we were doing this.

I was helping this child create a vessel for her abundance of private worries. I was assisting in the construction of a safe place to release her very serious and realistic fears.

For a moment, I tried to imagine myself making a similar box for my worries. I saw a towheaded Little Min sit in front of me. I thought of the things she might put in her box. Only, I couldn't think of what would have been serious enough to require such an action. What is this girl going to put in her worry box? I wondered innocently.

That's when the triggering thought sauntered through my mind: Someone hit this child.

I welled up. My eyes filled to the brims with fluid, and I quietly swallowed a lump. This would have been fine, but my brain continued thinking.

I had no idea what it was like to be this girl. I had never in my life experienced anything like she had. My own childhood was safe and secure. My worries were sweet, chaste, and age-appropriate. I knew what to do with them. My family was reliable, and trustworthy. I could turn to my parents whenever I needed. When I did, I always found support, and I frequently got answers that explained every perplexing struggle. I was so lucky.

Juxtaposing my free and secure Little Min with the girl earnestly seeking to suppress the evils in world before me, I lost my composure. My eyes overfilled, and tears silently rolled down my cheeks.

Fortunately, she was so engrossed in her activity, that my sorrow for her went unnoticed. I turned my head and wiped my tears so as not to burden her with my own trivial sense of guilt for having a wonderful family.

This very uncharacteristic moment of emotionality passed rather quickly. However, I suspect this is not my last confrontation with guilt-ridden sorrow for others.

Epic Tails

You should know that I believe in the power of fables.  I think that metaphors are a great tool for understanding the world.

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Human history is rich with examples of us exploring our purpose as a species through story telling. People have always been able to extrapolate powerful meaning from mythologies. This is a pattern that continues to this day. If you are paying attention, you'll be surprised to find many of life's little lessons in the most unexpected places. Epic poems, novels, comic books, and even movies are filled with profound insight. I am a firm believer that "all of life's riddles are answered in the movies," and in the best children's stories as well.

So today, when I went to see a movie based on a novel, I wasn't surprised to discover the entire story had been leading to moment of allegorical clarity. However, I was surprised to find out that the lesson to be learned from this particular tale was one I had already learned. Even more startling was the awareness that this very specific lesson was one I had  taught myself. I had even passed this bit of knowledge on recently.


It was this past summer, and I had (as I often do) accompanied my parents to a bike race. I was standing in the official's box in the infield of our friendly neighborhood velodrome. I was talking to my father, as the child of a family friend sat next to us eating a type of sweet treat that I have since forgotten. The brawny little boy sat atop a tall stool wearing a content expression as he munched on his snack. He innocently kicked his dangling legs back and forth in the sunlight. Watching him sit there as his father attended to something elsewhere,  I felt a kinship with this boy who was sharing my childhood experience. I smiled at him as I recalled my own childhood sitting in that very spot.

Then, I noticed what looked like a scrape on his knee. Though the scab was small, I figured it had come from one of his rough and tumble adventures, and I wanted to know the story. So, I asked him. "How'd you scrape your knee?"

He squinted his eyes into a perplexed expression as he looked up from underneath a pile of the most golden blond hair. "It's paint," he said reaching down to scratch part of it off.

It seemed so obvious after hearing that. The kid had, after all, spent the afternoon with both of our fathers repainting lines on the track. However, I felt somewhat unsatisfied with his answer. So, as someone who has been repeatedly complimented for her sensitivity in dealing with children, I told him how I felt.

"Oh," I shrugged. "Well, that's kind of boring."
"Yeah," my dad chimed in. "Next time someone asks you that, you should come up with a better story."

The child looked at us, confused.

"I think you should tell people you wrestled a tiger," I said "It's more exciting."
"Yup, tigers are much cooler," my dad concluded.
 "But, it's just paint," He told us. The boy still looked puzzled, but one corner of his mouth had flipped up into a smirk.
"I know! I can say the tiger had a paint brush in his mouth," he added, clearly missing the point.
"I guess that will work," I responded suddenly feeling disappointed in myself for having told a small child to lie for no good reason. But, it was too late.

The boy had started to get the idea. With our assistance, he had concocted an epic tale of an invisible paintbrush wielding tiger that had scratched him once, because it turns out he did have a cut on his leg (a small freckle-sized scab on one ankle underneath his sock). And, for the rest of that evening, when we told people to ask him about the paint on his knee, the macho boy responded with pride, "I wrestled a tiger."


I guess the point I was making, that was echoed months later in this movie, was that sometimes how you got to where you are is not important. Life can be intense and complicated. We move through it compiling data for complex tales, some of them gloriously exciting, incredibly tragic, or unbelievably mundane. We all have epic journeys to report. In doing so, it's easy to become fixated on how it all happened. When we do that we can forget the most important details. That is, we often neglect to acknowledge that, no matter how we reached our current states, we survived.

So, next time you feel the need to dwell on your past, take a tip from me. Tell the story with a tiger. It'll sound more impressive.

"Van Gogh would’ve sold more than one painting if he’d put tigers in them." - Calvin 

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Focal Points

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One of the first things they teach in dance classes is how to spot your turns. "Find a speck on the wall, and stare at it," said every dance instructor ever. "When you're ready," they explained. "Let your head go first. Find the spot with your eyes, and your body will follow."

I remember, as a little girl, spending hours identifying a single fixed point on an adjacent wall. Staring at that spot, I would rise to my tippy-toes, lift one leg, and whip my head around as fast as I could. Each time I hoped that my eyes would remain fixed on that preselected speck, but frequently they wouldn't. I failed often as I attempted to learn this skill. I would lose my balance, teeter, and tip over. Understandably, I found this frustrating.

Eventually, I figured out that focusing on one spot in a semi-distant space was actually serving a purpose. Steadying my gaze seemed to give me balance. That provided the stability required for movements. However, having that down isn't enough. Whipping my head around with no continued focus, left me without direction. My brain lacked proper input to tell my body where to go. I could balance, but I would veer off randomly. I had to know where I was going before making the shift.

Later in life I learned to drive, and dealt with a similar issue. Petrified over the responsibility of operating heavy machinery, I focused my attention on the front of the car. Hoping never to strike anything, I sputtered through this learning process. I zigged through parking lots, and zagged down neighborhood streets. Slowly careening around isolated areas, I thought I'd never make it to a real road.

My steadfast parents however, knew otherwise. They ignored my teenage melodrama, and repeatedly reminded me to shift my gaze further down the road. This made no sense to me at the time. I often wondered how I was to get anywhere without knowing what was directly in front of me. So, imagine my delight when I discovered that they actually did know what they were talking about. Watching the road ahead informed my driving. It allowed me to see where I was going, and told me what was headed my way.

As I have illustrated, this bit of advice is reiterated frequently:

Head up. Keep a weather eye the horizon. Look ahead.

It's all very useful advice. The body follows the eyes. Looking down the road prepares you for what is to come. Although, it is pretty easy to forget this. The present is more immediate. It is, after all, happening now and it seems as though you must deal with it as it comes to you, but having a goal is important.

You must identify where you are going in order to get there. You have got to look ahead, and prepare before you take your steps. Focusing on the distant future gives you the guidance required to maneuver this world. It's a practice that affords you the balance to deal with what's in front of you while also helping steer your life in the right direction.

Rising Above It

This past week I experienced  the worst customer service and business transaction of my life. After a week of red flags, ambiguous responses, and unreturned phone calls, I repeatedly gave this small business the benefit of the doubt. 

Ultimately they failed to follow through with their commitments. They did not arrive to help me move. Then they suddenly stopped answering my calls. Understandably, I flew into problem-solving mode. I tried to contact them repeatedly to no avail. Finally, they responded to my attempts to call from an unrecognized number. I informed them that their business practice was unacceptable. At this point, the employee began to yell at me for not being an understanding person, and attempted to explain how things sometimes don't go as planned.

Although I was strongly compelled to match this person's volume and emotionality, I resisted the urge to explain my work history and the litany of evidence that directly contradicted the assumptions about my lack of patience and empathy. I calmly stuck to the facts at hand, and explained the recent events that led to my frustration. The individual, interrupted me, and escalated further. Feeling my own will to be rational begin to fade, I quietly stated "I am not going to argue with you about this. I've contacted the proper authorities, and I'm done now. Have a nice evening." I promptly hung up, and called a different company to assist me with my needs.

I spent the rest of the evening filing formal complaints with all of the involved agencies. I took special precautions not to let my emotional reaction infect my appeals. I composed, edited, and recomposed several letters that objectively listed the facts as they applied to the improper business conduct. I repeatedly read my letters aloud, and adjusted elements to insure that I came off as professional and competent.

Insuring that I remained mature and adult about this process aided in the alleviation of my distress only slightly. It did feel nice to know that I had not sunk to the irrational level of the individual I was speaking with. However, sitting amongst my uprooted possessions, I still had a highly unsettled feeling about what had occurred. Yes, I was happy that someone would be contacting this business about the impropriety of their service, but I was still somewhat uncool about the whole thing.

Then, while browsing the Better Business Bureau website to obtain information about the complaint process, I ran into a link for complimenting a company. That's when it hit me. Despite my resistance, all of this negativity had still infected me, my mood, and my actions. I had accidentally neglected to acknowledge the impeccable response I got from the gentlemen at an additional moving company. He registered no offense that I had not hired him first, and immediately offered to pick up the slack at very short notice. He provided me with assurance and understanding when I was distressed, and was even grateful that I called him at all. It was remarkable, and, once I acknowledged it, restored my faith in humanity. So, I clicked on that link, and spent just as much time composing one compliment for him as I did on all of my complaints for the other company. After hitting submit I noticed something incredible. I felt better. I felt lighter and reassured.

Now, I'm not publishing that whole story to remind everyone how great I am. I know there was a lot in there about how I stayed calm and collected. There was also a great deal of boasting about my mature response under pressure. All of that sounds like one giant disorienting pat on the back, but I assure you it's not. I provided those details to explain that, despite responding to the conflict in a sophisticated and composed manner, I still felt unease. While proud of my response, it still left me uncomfortable and feeling somehow responsible for my contributions. It was not until I stopped capitulating to the negativity that I finally gained the resolve to move past it.

Once again, this life lesson reminds me of something my parents told me often throughout my childhood. Whenever I became upset about some argument or unfair situation, they would tell me to "just rise above it." I had always translated that to not sinking to low levels, staying cool, and avoiding the pull to engage in anything akin to a fight. While I'm sure that has always been part of the advice, a bigger part of me thinks the lesson actually called for me to walk away from a bad situation and enter into a positive one.

Lost, But Not Forgotten.

Somewhere, in one of the numerous places I store my belongings, is a picture of my dad. I have several pictures of him; most of happy times. I can feel my face mimic his as I look into his own smiling eyes frozen in time; enjoying that moment forever. This other picture is different. It was not a happy time, and though he may be trying, he does not appear to be smiling.

My father is the only person in this lost photograph. He's propped up on a hospital bed with tubes connected to his body. He's awake and alert, but it's clear he's in pain. This picture was taken after one of only a few times I've known my dad to fall off his bike. He slipped down the banking of the velodrome, and hurt himself so badly that an ambulance was called. That's a big deal for my dad. He doesn't do ambulances. He's a "walk it off" "you'll be fine" type of guy.

Though I was around, I have no memory of this tragic collapse. I couldn't have been older than five at the time. At such a young age, most of the experiences I had have begun to fade to fleeting sentiments. However, I have a very significant recollection of seeing him in his hospital room. I don't know if I had been prepped for the sight of him or how much I even understood of his injuries. Regardless, I couldn't handle it. I burst into tears as soon as I walked into the room.

There was no space in my tiny little head for an injured conceptualization of my daddy. As far as I was concerned, this man was as strong as they come. He could do anything, and typically did...with flare. He didn't fall, and he definitely didn't get hurt.

With no frame of reference for how this circumstance had come to be, I had absolutely no clue what it meant about the future. I know that my parents were perplexed by my reaction. They consoled me appropriately, but, at that point in time, I had no faith in their assurances. Though they never promised this, I trusted that they would both be okay forever, and I had been wrong. I just couldn't get over that.

A year or two later I stumbled upon the polaroid of my punctured father. Not knowing why, I stole it from the drawer of family photos and tucked it into a jewelry box in my room. I kept that picture in my nightstand, and never told anybody it was there. As I grew up and struggled with understanding my continuously challenged conceptions, I looked at this picture regularly. It never gave me any answers and it always recreated that same distraught sentiment I had as child, but somehow the memory seemed important to me. I clung to that photo because of the lesson I knew I would get from it one day.

Even now, though I have left it behind somewhere I am uncertain of, I think of it frequently. Sometimes when I'm upset and unsure why, I imagine myself, alone in my adolescent bedroom, opening that stowed away box and trying to sort out the message from the memory.

Two Years Ago

Two years ago the world became a confusing place.
Things I thought I knew were wrong.
What I trusted had failed.
What I relied on was lost.

Two years ago was a scary time.
Things I thought would always be were gone.
What I expected came into question.
What I wanted didn't matter.

Two years ago my hero fell.
Things I thought were strong had faults.
What I thought would last had worn.
What I cared about was wounded.

Two years ago I wasn't prepared.
Things I thought were distant came close.
What I realized was scary.
What I learned I valued.

The Advice That Never Stuck

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The first joke I remember telling happened when I was very young. I couldn't have been older than five. I vaguely recall hearing it on my favorite show, but I don't even know what character said it. I honestly can't remember which of my felt friends shared this comedic gem with me, but I do remember thinking that it was amusing enough to share.

Not long after that, I was strapped up in the back seat of PeeWee, our family mini van. My dad drove while I yammered on about each and every thought that crossed my mind. Knowing me, I probably shared everything I observed from peering out my window, asked a few questions about the nature of the world (seriously), and described the dramatically complex life of my invisible friend Little Min (I'm telling you that girl should have had her own blog). After ignoring my father's sarcastic comments (likely intended to teach me the conversational art of filtering) and only partially absorbing his developmentally advanced scientific answers to my queires, I finally saw my chance.

"Hey Dad," I called out.
"You don't have to say that every time," he responded. "I'm right here."
"Why did the chicken cross the playground?" I asked, unfazed by his remark.
"Why?"
"To get to the other slide!"

*Rimshot.*

*Pause for raucous laughter*

No, but seriously now... I obviously didn't split anyone's sides with this witty and inventive play on words. However, I did make my dad smirk, and I'll never forget his response.

"That's pretty good Min," he commended me. "Where did you learn that?"

"Sesame St," I replied honestly.

"That's great, but next time someone asks you that, tell them you made it up yourself."

My precocious little brain was completely bewildered by this advice. I know I understood the point, because I remember thinking that it would be more impressive if I had made it up myself. Nevertheless, I couldn't reconcile that thought with my need to tell the truth. In fact, the very next time I told this joke, I voluntarily admitted everything.

"My dad says I should tell you I made that up," I explained. "But I really just heard it on Sesame St."

I just couldn't do it. I could not take credit for another person's work. It felt wrong. Still does. To this day, whenever I tell that joke (and you'd be surprised how often that is), I follow it up with this back story. Although, despite the contradictory logic, I somehow think I got the right message. What do you think?

Some Assembly Required

Throughout my childhood, whenever my family obtained something that required assembly the task was given to my father. He would don a self-impressed grin and sarcastically declare "this is a job for someone with a penis!"

That may seem rather chauvinistic, but I never took him at his words. It was clear that he was mocking conventional gender roles and his intended message was that a penis was not necessary. Er... um... perhaps a more eloquent explanation is that I always understood the graphic humor to be his way of saying that I could do anything I wanted.

My interpretation was evidenced by my routine tendency to follow him into whatever room the shiny new thing was placed, and assist in its construction. My job was usually to sit by, watch as he grunted out "man sounds" (think Tim "The Toolman" Taylor), and hand him the pieces as needed.

Inevitably, I'd revert to my faithful standby behavior of incessantly asking questions. Maybe I'd find a piece I couldn't recognize. I might have wondered how things fit together. Regardless of my reasons, I was typically always curious what the next step was, and what happened when we were done. These curiosities often left me waiting for my seemingly omnipotent father to provide me with the answers. Which he often did, in his own special way.

When he didn't know, or he was running out of patience, he'd finally declare:

"RTFM."
"What's that mean?" I'd ask innocently.
He'd smile and explain, "read the manual."

You'd think, with the number of times this happened in my life, I would have figured it out without needing to ask each time, but you'd be wrong. This came up every time we worked on a project together, and I was frequently left confused, wondering what the F stood for. On some level I must have known, because I never asked him. I faithfully accepted that he would have included it if it was important.

All of those years spent pondering the F out of it resulted in two very apparent lifelong instincts:

The first (and most trivial) is that now, whenever I see the letter F in an acronym, I assume it's an expletive. Then I giggle like that 8 year old girl watching her goofy father run wires along the back of a new computer desk.

More importantly, I come back to this advice often. I think of it when I don't know how to fix a problem, when I'm not sure what to do, and when I can't determine how to go on. When I find myself stuck and incapable of determining my next move, I see my dad behind a cabinet, or under a table, encouraging me to use my eyes and find the answers that have been provided for me.

Sunrise, Sunset

Sometimes when I lie in bed at night I close my eyes and make believe I'm in my old room.

I pretend that I am a little girl at home and everything else has been a dream. The train in the distance sounds the same as it did back then. The approaching whistle blows as it pulls into town; enveloping me in a tranquility that makes the rest easy to imagine.

The thud from above is not my upstairs neighbor moving around. It's my brother shifting in bed one room over. The door slamming just below, on the second floor, is actually my dad taking out the trash. The footsteps in the hall don't belong to visiting strangers. They are my mom's as she comes to announce lights out.

When I wake up, the train is gone. I keep my eyes closed and savor the silence. That's when I slowly begin to realize that my neighbors aren't actually taking a break from their raucous morning lawn mowing, because my next door neighbors don't have a lawn anymore. Then I open my eyes and survey my reality.

Somewhere between watching the night sky, and hiding from the morning light the windows changed, and I grew up.

Breaking Away

Today is the day, she thought to herself. One way or another I'm going to learn how to ride that thing.

It didn't really seem possible. They had spent hours together repeating the same moves. Her saddled across this weird unstable structure, him running alongside with one hand on the seat post. They must have worn tracks in that two block stretch by the house going back and forth.

Back and forth. Over and over again.

She tried as hard as she could to learn this new skill, but it just didn't make any sense. How was it supposed to stay upright without those two extra wheels? Sure, every now and then he'd let go, and she would glide along for a foot or two, but then she fell over. Every time.

Oh, and she hated falling. Falling was the most painful reminder that you failed. That you can't do this. That you suck. Then, if that's not enough, sometimes you actually get hurt!

Well, that's it. She had made up her mind. She wasn't going to fall anymore. Not if I have anything to say about it.

So, this particular day they set out to do it. With a change of scenery in mind, she grabbed her bike, and he shouldered a pair of roller skates. They climbed the hill to the local elementary school. Quietly they cut a diagonal across the soccer fields. Then, there they were. This particular school had a small banked inline skating track. It seemed perfect for learning to ride your bike. Or so he told her.

They immediately got to work, going about the same motions they had repeated for the last few weeks. Only this time it was different. He was on skates, right beside her, and she...She wasn't falling as much.

Slowly, she began to glide further and further. Eventually she gained the confidence to pedal a few strokes. Before she even knew it, she could ride one whole stretch without veering to the grassy infield to tip over. Am I actually doing this? She thought.

Then came the rain. And this wasn't the type that creeps up on you; slowly trickling a few drops before the downpour. It was like a giant bully in the sky suddenly sped in on his black-cloudmobile and began pelting them, rapid-fire, with giant icy water balloons. They had to go, and fast.

He told her it would be faster if he left his skates on, and that she would have to ride the bike home. Downhill the whole way? She hadn't even mastered the banked corners of the track yet, but it had only been 60 seconds and they were already soaked to their cores. Her bones were getting cold.

She mounted the bike for the last time that day, and went back across the now marshy soccer fields.   

It's just like the straight part of the track. Only the ground is softer now, she told herself.

They passed through the opening in the fence, and that's where it began. The road was shiny with rainwater, and the hill seemed so much steeper atop her precarious little contraption. She looked to her right. He offered some encouragement; then snaked down the road like a professional.

Here it comes, she thought, the big one. She anticipated this fall would hurt worse than all the others, but her arms were cold, the bully in his dark cloud was hitting her so hard it made her skin sting, and her dad...Her dad was just ahead, gaining speed, and zig-zagging recklessly down the road. She had no choice but to keep up, and brace herself for the fail she knew was coming.

It was halfway down the second (and biggest) decline just after the plateau with the blind intersection that she began to realize it. She wasn't falling, and she wasn't going to. She was in control, and she could do this.

Young "Love"

I met him at school. In the fifth grade. He sat on the other side of the room, but his piercingly bright eyes caught mine. He had freckles like me, and there was something about his quiet demeanor that drew me in. Only...I kept my distance.

In my mind, we were together all the time. We were closer than anyone has possibly ever been with another human being. In reality, I had no idea who he was. I'd never even heard his voice.

How does a 10 year old girl deal with this kind of fantasy? It's so logical. Obviously, she writes a note to the girl who sits in front of her, folds it up in an intricate pattern, hides it in the pencil sharpener that they share, and passes it forward.

My memory isn't strong enough to recall what the note said, but it must have been something like:

"♥ I think Brandon is the cutest boy in the whole world!!! Please don't tell anyone!!! If you do I'll just die!!!!♥" 

Roughly translated, according to the social structure of preadolescence girls, this meant: "please make sure everyone knows this so I don't actually have to do any of the work myself."

It worked like a charm. By the end of the day, my cheeks had taken on a deep shade of red that was beginning to seem permanent, but he knew about my feelings. I sat forward in my desk, back straight. I knew I was being watched, but I refused to give in. I had to pretend I was clueless. After school, my sharpener-sharing friend let me know she had also given him my phone number. I reacted as though I was mortified, but inside I was exhilarated.

Sometime later, I received a phone call. A mile between us, we sat together in silence. We held the phones to our ears, and relished in the perpetual quiet. Every few minutes one of us would briefly describe something that had just happened, but no actual conversation occurred. The call ended when one of our families explained it was meal time.

Just before hanging up he asked, "will you be my girlfriend?"
My response was a deeply profound, "I guess so."

You'd think this experience would have changed our relationship, but you'd be wrong. The rest of the school year went on like this. The two of us avoiding one another like the plague, pretending we were unaware that anything had happened. Our classmates teased us for being "boyfriend and girlfriend." Then we would go home, call one another on the phone, and sit together in awkward silence for hours. Occasional, innocent gifts and self-made cards on notebook paper were exchanged with flushed faces and a deliberate absence of eye contact. Mostly, nothing happened.

Then, one day, between long periods of quiet, he asked me to go to the movies with him. My mom drove me there with a friend. We sat next to one another in uncomfortable and forced poses attempting to convey nonchalance.  After the credits rolled, we said goodbye and ran towards our family cars.

Summer came and went, and we were 6th graders before we knew it. Our classes were on opposite ends of the new school. We never saw one another, but still the title remained. Our phone calls continued, though with decreasing frequency. It was becoming increasingly clear that I didn't know who this boy was. Like, at all. Never did.

All the same, he was my "boyfriend." We had decreed it, and so it must be.

Finally, one day I received a phone call. I sat on the floor in the dining room, doing my homework, listening to this complete stranger breathe. In the background, I heard one of his parents call him to dinner. He explained that he needed to go, but first he wanted to tell me something. My heart inexplicably skipped a beat.

"Okay?" I encouraged.
"Um..." he stalled. Then he took a big breath and quickly sputtered out, "I don't like you no more."
"Oh," I responded, somewhat bewildered. "Okay."

Then we hung up. I stared at the phone for a few minutes, confused. This was it. My first break-up, and I had been dumped. I should be sad, I thought to myself. Except, I wasn't. I was a little disappointed that I hadn't thought of it first, but mostly I was amused.

Slowly, I got to my feet, and walked into the kitchen where my mom was preparing dinner. I must have looked dazed, because she asked "what's up?"

"Brandon just broke up with me," I explained, trying to force tears, but failing.

My mom put down what was in her hands to ask how I felt about it.

I shook my head and told her, "he said: 'I don't like you no more!'"  I stopped to let out a quiet chuckle. Then I continued, "What a moron! He can't even string together a decent sentence!"

"THAT'S MY GIRL!" I hear my dad call from a nearby room.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Image found here

This post began as a laborious rant about how the universe was out to get me today. I intended to tell the tale of how my afternoon was filled with neurotic episodes of ignorance and uncertainty. I planned to depict the histrionic periods of despair I experienced over my inability to function without my parents. I wanted you to feel my pain as I described the moment I stood (surrounded by busy holiday shoppers) outside the mall food court, and felt so alone while I suppressed tears at the thought that one day I will actually have to deal with this concern. Then, I was going to make you laugh as I explained the circumstances that led to my melodramatic melancholy. I wanted you to be humored and sympathetic over the story of how I locked my keys in my car, left my wallet at the movie theater, broke my really nice earrings, and had to park three blocks from the grocery store on a day I chose to wear heels.

However, it wouldn't come out right. I wrote the whole thing two or three times, and it was enough to exhaust any loyal readers away. It filled too many pages, and sounded increasingly absurd and peevish.  What am I even doing here?! I thought. Then, for the third time today, I cried. 

Torn between anger and amusement at my inability to control my emotions, it all came back to my parents, as I suddenly remembered a childhood interaction with my dad.

I can't recall what had led up to the conversation. It was most likely some inane series of events not unlike those I experienced today. It's not really important. What matters is that I had become upset over something that, in the grand scheme of things, did not really matter. I had found myself sobbing on the floor at the corner of the staircase. I was hysterical, and my father had somehow been tasked with pulling me out of it. So, he pulled out one of his infamous pep-talks.

"Really Mindy? This is what you're crying about?" he said. "This is not even a big deal.  You're wasting your tears over nothing. What's going to happen when something really serious happens? Like when you break your leg, and find out you can’t cry anymore because you used it all up over this? Imagine how you'll feel then."

Not necessarily the most helpful advice to give a little girl on the brink of adolescence, but sooner or later I got the message.

So, I'm going to take a page from my past. I'm putting my big girl pants back on (which is funny because this whole thing began when I tried to get my pants hemmed). I've had myself a good cry, or three, and I'm done now. I’m going to save the rest of my tears for the day when I really need them.

Scylla or Charybdis?

 I did a lot of skiing as a child. Every winter I followed my family up the mountain, and chased them back down.  Being the youngest and smallest, I often found myself at the top of a hill I wasn't quite ready for. Sometimes I'd refuse to do it, and we'd find an alternative. However, a startling number of times, I wound up debating my descent, while the rest of my family slipped right on down.  In these moments, I'd try to be brave and tackle the hill head on. 
That never lasted long.  I'd make a couple of really pathetic turns; get myself just far enough down that I couldn't go back up. Then I did what any logical human being would...

I froze. Bent over my pie-pointed tips like a gaper, I'd start to quiver. In most instances, my mother was near by.  She'd try to coax or encourage me, but it wouldn't work.  My early on-set neuroses had taken over.  This was it. The end was near. I was glued to those hills, and in my mind there was no successful way out.

After awhile, my dad would defy convention, and climb back up to me.  We'd find ourselves across from one another, my exceptionally small stature frozen in an awkward attempt to remain upright, and my dad casually resting with his poles propped under his armpits. Then he'd do what my father always did when I became emotional. He'd reason with me. He'd apply exaggerated logic to pull things into perspective and illustrate the simplicity of the situation. The most memorable and representative of these pep-talks went something like this:

"The way I see it you have two choices. You can stay up here forever.  It won't be very comfortable, and it's probably going to get really cold.  But, I guess we might be able to get someone to bring you food every now and then.  I'm not quite sure what you'll do about going to the bathroom though...  OR you can come with me, and we'll ski down to the bottom."

Oh! Of course! It was SO clear. How did I not see it before?!

There's no reason why a speech like that should ever convince a little girl to do something she didn't want to do! But here I am, miraculously not a mountainside resident. I was presented with choices. I weighed my options, and I rejected the one with the least desirable outcome.

If you think about it, this is really what life is all about. It's a series of choices. Some days you'll be picking between bunny runs and a green circles. Other times it will be a rope-tow or blue square afternoon. But, you will also have days that aren't so great.  Days when the snow snakes are abundant, the hills are steep, and the choices seem low.

When this happens you will try to get through it. You'll slow down to think through every turn. But regardless of your preparations, the storm clouds will gather, and fog-up your goggles. Before you know it you will be caught between a double black diamond and a "no way out" sign.

You will feel like you're out of options, but remember that you're not. Despite how it may seem, there is always a choice to make.

Officially Unnoticed

Here I am, crossing the finish line, going entirely unnoticed.

As I have mentioned, I had a unique upbringing rife with dudes in lycra costumes atop various versions of an odd two-wheeled contraption.

My parents are ACTIVELY involved in the cycling community. They're famous even. As a result, we were always at bike races. They were so common place to me, that I thought all sports had a bell lap, and I didn't realize most men don't shave their legs until I was in middle school. I can barely remember a spring or summer that didn't include me going to a bike race.

I had a brief period in high school when I was "too cool" to hangout with my parents. When that stage hit, I opted to stay at home during several of the weekly races (at this time I think there was a race four days a week), but I still came out every now and then. When I went off to college I missed every race in the spring, and there was a couple of summers I had a job and couldn't go. However, I've been back, and regularly officiating or helping out for three years straight now.

At my greatest estimate, I've missed a cumulative 3 out of the last 26 years of bike races in Oregon. That being said, I seem to have gone unnoticed. I'm at these events all the time, and barely anyone knows who I am. This wouldn't be that surprising to me, if my siblings also seemed to be invisible to this particular community...but alas that's not how it is.

My older brother was absent from bike racing for a much longer time frame than I. He spent multiple summers at camps, and schools in other states. Now that he's local again, he's at easily half of the races that I am, but everyone knows who he is. When he and I walk the course together, people wave and call out to him while I walk alongside quietly making sarcastic comments. No one seems to notice. But, my brother is bigger and louder than I am. He has more of a presence than I do. So, I guess that makes sense.

Explain my sister then. Nine years older than me, my sister has been absent from this community for a long time. I have markedly less childhood memories that include her at the races. Then she went to college several states away, and worked in the Southwest over the summers. Afterwards, she lived in another state for years. She must have been gone from Oregon bike races for at least ten years. Now, she occasionally helps out, but she's by no means a regular. Despite all this, people still mistakenly call me by her name. I stand next to my parents, as people ask about her, and what she's up to. Don't mind me, I'll just take your registration fees while you chat.

How does nobody know who I am? My father's theory is that people do know who I am. He thinks that they don't acknowledge me because they find me intimidating.

That's really hard to type without laughing. I mean, I'm not exactly the pinnacle of intimidation. I'm rather small. Hell! Just last week, I bought clothes from the children's department, and they fit me perfectly. That's not very threatening. Well, my father thinks the reaction comes from an association with my parents. Okay, I'd agree...except for my siblings don't seem to command the same "intimidation," and they're not only equally associated with my parents, but they're normal sized humans!

None of it makes any sense. I'm around all the time. I'm often scoring your points races, or calling ties off the camera. I am usually the one with photographic proof that you've broken the rules. I'm a person you probably want to know (I like cookies), but sure! Go on thinking I don't exist. Keep wondering who that little girl at the finish line is. Step in front of me in the port-a-potty line, and bump me out of the way at registration like I don't know what's going on. Even more, continue to yell at me for trying to fix your number. You probably know more about it than I do anyway. It's not like I've seen 6 million numbers or anything.

It's actually kind of funny. I get to see and hear things that I wouldn't if people knew I was of the famed Murray family.



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Rebel on Wheels

OKAY! Fine! Let's talk about it.

I have a bike now.

If you actually know me, you can be classified into one of two thoughts on the subject. One of the groups is probably thinking something along the lines of: "so what?", "haven't you always had a bike?", or "why is this a big deal?"

The other group thinks this is really exciting. They think it's great that I've finally come around, and some of this group may even think I'm assimilating into bike culture. This group, however, may continue to be baffled by how someone of my pedigree has made it into adulthood without a bike (to which I respond -as if it's a defense- "I have a bulky old mountain bike that I keep at my parent's house and never use").

The back story here is that I've been around bikes and "bike people" my entire life. My childhood consisted of cramming into the backseat of a blue mini van named Pewee, or a red jeep with a porcupine rack loaded up with bikes of all types. We'd travel throughout the state listening to books on tape, and playing I-spy Alphabet, until we came to whatever location in which the lycra-clad were convening that particular weekend. At races, you might have seen me running around collecting rocks or pine cones to sell to my neighbors (no joke). Or I'd hop into the passenger seat of the follow vehicle with a My First Radio blaring the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast, in order to help my mom by writing down the numbers of riders who fell off the back. Heck, to this day the basement of my parent's house is like an episode of Hoarders: Cycling edition.

One SMALL corner of my parent's basement.

For some reason, my unwillingness to get on a bike and ride confuses people who know my past.  I think it's obvious.  It's like the summer that I discovered bologna sandwiches. I thought they were delicious!  I ate them every day for a ridiculous length of time.  Then, one day I woke up, and just the sight of that Oscar Meyer package started the bile production going. It may not be that extreme with bikes, but the point still stands.

Also, we can't discount the rebel theory here.  I'm a good girl, and I get along with my parents really well, but everyone's got to rebel somehow.  It's a natural part of life. But, how does a good girl rebel?

When you're a Murray it's simple.  Don't get on a bike.

So, about two months ago, I was sitting in my apartment, which seems to be located right in the center of Portland bike-culture.  I was reveling in the irony of my existence at this particular location.  - In my neighborhood I'm surrounded by hipsters on color coordinated fixies doing track stops at every intersection and acting as though they don't want attention for it. Well guys, I'm not impressed.  I've seen it all before. -  I started to come around.  I thought, "maybe commuting on my bike isn't such a bad idea."

About two weeks later, after consulting with my father, I wind up with, of all things, a modified track bike, that has been christened "Mindy's Man Chaser." -- The story behind that title is a bit long, but I may share it at a later date. Now, I'm tooling around my neighborhood, and running errands on my bike.

What has happened here? I'm experiencing some kind of identity crisis. For one, I'm a Murray.  That means I should know what I'm doing right? Wrong.  It means I know what I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. I'm like the ultimate poser, and coming to grips with that has been quite an experience.

I am playing both the part of the official, and the dork with the big helmet and the older sister starter.  Check out my brother the speedster on the left though!

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My Own Personal Undertoad

There's something that happens to young skiers as they learn to descend a mountainside on the planks attached to their feet.

They fall down.

A lot.

Sometimes they fall because they are new to the sport, and they have yet to master it. Sometimes they fall because they are relatively new to the world, and are still rather clumsy.  Other times the snow is sticky, or hard, or the hill is uncharacteristically bumpy.  Then, there's the inexplicable fall.  This occurs when everything is going great.  You're on your skis. You're making all the right turns. Conditions are good. You feel like a pro. When all of a sudden....Bam! Yard sale. You're ear deep in a mound of powder, one of your skis is twisted beneath your legs, and the other one is 2 feet up the hill between you and your poles.

As a child, I found this type of fall especially troubling. See, I hate falling. I hate it so much, that I rarely took risks on the hill.  Sure, I could get up a good speed, and do relatively well on the more advanced runs. However, if I perceived even the slightest loss of control, I'd pull back.

So, as you can imagine, it was particularly hard for me to cope with falling when I felt that I was completely in control. "I don't know what happened?" I'd cry. I didn't understand, and that was aggravating.

However, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, always had the answer: It was snow snakes.

According to them, snow snakes were just that: snakes, that live in the snow.  They lived where it was cold. Slithering around within ice patches, and freshly frosted hillsides. I couldn't see them because they were white, and dwell within the snow. But nevertheless, snow snakes were there.  They were mischievous little creatures that found amusement in gliding beneath the skis of inexperienced humans. As my parents explained, snow snakes liked to trip people.

I can't even explain to you how much I latched on to this explanation. In my youthful eyes, snow snakes were real.  They had to be! Why else would I fall over?  I went so far as to look for them when I rode the chair lift, or sat at the bottom of the hill contemplating the next run.  I never saw any, but I always knew they were out there. Waiting to get me when I least expected it.

As an adult, I reflect on this memory and I'm not amused by my innocent acceptance of this inane theory. I'm blown away at how unknowingly accurate I was.

Snow snakes are absolutely real. They are out there, invisible to the human eye, and waiting for the perfect moment to trip you when you least expect it.  However, my parents were misinformed about one thing. Snow snakes live in every climate.