Broken Moments

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Like most girls, I experimented with "dating" during my early adolescence. I called boys on the phone, sat next to them in the cafeteria, visited them at their houses, and even let a few lucky ones kiss me on my front porch. Together we ignorantly applied boyfriend/girlfriend labels to explain our hallway hand-holding, and we escorted one another to coed spirit dances.

In my mind, this was all very serious. I believed I cared deeply for each of these boys. I was sure every one of them was The One. When these infantile romances fizzled out I was convinced it was a travesty.

Looking back, this reaction amuses me. My responses seem so silly and forced now. I was merely acting something I had expected. I had formed an archetype for romantic relationships and shoved whatever cutie I could into the heartthrob role. Together we'd put on a play about union and happily ever after. Then we would call it quits when we tired of that particular script. I'd end the whole show like a proper tragedy; acting distraught over love lost. I'd belly ache about my broken heart (even penning a few stanzas).

On the surface I'd seem melancholy, but deep inside I knew I was fine. I was aware that nothing had really changed. I was who I always had been. It was safe to behave this way because I hadn't truly lost anything.

Then, during my later teens, I stopped playing at relationships, and started actually having them. At 15, my first real boyfriend came along. My first real break-up followed a year later. I remember it distinctly because the sensation was more vivid than any other split I'd experienced.

The weather was moderate that winter afternoon. So, he had invited me for a walk. We strolled in silence for some time. As the tension built, I became aware that something had shifted. When he began "the talk," my nerves danced and my stomach dropped.

I can't remember if he initiated the final blow, or if I identified it as the thus unstated option. Regardless of the build up, I was startled when the words were finally released. In that brief moment, with that small and quickly stated sentence, something changed between us. In one single instance, my perception was completely altered. Though still side-by side and rubbing shoulders as we walked, we were no longer an us. It was over. He knew it, and I knew it. Our bond had broken, and the air we now breathed seemed somehow different.

All of my break-ups since have had a similar moment in which, no matter who instigated it, the end instantly fell upon us like that. Each time I'm amazed by the power of these moments. It still baffles me how just a few puffs of air can alter your whole world view. One look, a tilt of the head, or even a slight tone can put something out there that instantly forces a new reality without physically changing anything.

Asocial Networks

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Today, while riding the train home, I watched a teenage couple flirt with one another. Without touching, they sat next to each other red-faced and enthusiastic about their conversation. A distinct inch of space was visible at all times between their oddly stationary bodies as they giggled about the latest gossip. Their innocence was refreshing amidst a crowded car full of an exhausted workforce, and listening to their conversations made me smile with reminiscence.

However, when I turned to observe what they were discussing, I realized neither one was making eye contact with the other. Their bodies were hunched and kyphotic while their blank gazes stared at screens in their palms.

Upon further investigation, I realized that their conversation was entirely centered around a cyber world. The duo discussed dynamics between virtual friends and situations that had taken place online without any physical interface. As they began to narrow the conversation to their own lives, the discussion revolved around what kinds of things were "too stupid to post" and who each should "follow" or "retweet."

From my vantage point, any relating here was minimal. Neither could see the mutual attraction that was evident in their blushing cheek, and any awareness of the tension that pulsated in that one inch electric field between them went unacknowledged. They were missing the whole experience.

The whole thing reminded me of a similar duo I had observed just days before. I had gone to the theater with my mother and sister, and was fortunate enough to watch a powerfully evocative piece of musical theater. The first act moved me to tears, and the break left the three of us craving more. However, not everyone felt the need to share their thoughts and reactions during the intermission.

The older couple seated directly in front of us, spent the entirety of the intermission on their phones, both logged into the same social networking site. Any sharing they did do, went in the form of leaning over and pointing at their own device. Like the first duo, this couple exhibited a complete lack of eye-contact and minimal physical acknowledgment of the other.

I'm seeing this more and more. Morning and evening commuters blankly stare at their phones each day as they wait for the train to hit their stop. Café patrons pull up screens as they drink, dividing their tables into private cubicles for social networking. Even red lights induce text-writing and tweet checking. This technologically advancing world is quickly pulling us away from one another.

Frankly, I find it depressing. I miss the days when families sat around the dinner table discussing their days without plugging into a device. I miss those awkward moments that cause us such stress when we accidentally make eye-contact with a stranger on the train. Mostly, I miss being truly bored.

We're forgetting what it's like to just sit without feeling the need to check in with our entire social circle. We're losing the ability to gain information from another person without immediately searching for the source. We are missing the real world as it passes us by.

The Neglected Stage of Change

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Regardless of how you feel about it, change is an inherent part of life on this planet. It's a constantly revolving world with an ever present need for mutations and adaptations. Nothing ever is for very long.

Because of the continuous nature of change, people have a tendency to be looking forward. We've got our eyes peeled for the next shift in our circumstances. We are continually planning our responses to an endless array of future scenarios.

Those who dislike change are no different. They seem to cling to the past as they fixate on how things used to be and struggle to accept that their previous lives will never fully return. In reality, they are like everyone else with their eyes focused on the horizon; still waiting for the next change to come even if it's simply to restore the life they had grown fond of.

These forward thinking tendencies are adaptable traits. They enable us to prepare for the future and adjust quickly when it arrives. Our future-oriented minds jump immediately to solutions, requirements, and necessary actions. They help us take care of what needs to get done. Although, all this focus on what will come, and how to respond results in some neglect.

Perhaps the most forgotten aspect of change is the grief component. We so rarely remember that change, whether exciting or dreadful, requires loss. In this constantly changing world, we have adapted to quickly move past our losses and adjust to the shifts of life. In doing so, we avoid acknowledgment of our feelings, and bar ourselves from mourning that which seems unworthy.

Avoidance is understandable. Grief is unpleasant.  Fixing things is a solution-focused coping mechanism that works most of the time.  However, when something is different, it means that something is gone. That thing generally won't return, and if it does it will never be like we knew it before. For this reason it's important that we allow ourselves time, even if just briefly, to mourn what has past before jumping to what will come.

After all, the one thing you can always count on is that things will change.

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.

Mental Mess

In my teens, my mother routinely sent me to my room with the hopes that I would tidy it up.

"Don't come out until everything's put away," she would say. 

Having always been a good little listener, I'd do just what she asked. That is, I would march up to my room and remain there all day.

Sometimes I truly meant to clean up. However, I never actually completed the task. I would turn on some good music,stumble across a cherished momento, and, before I knew it, I'd be sprawled on the floor staring at the ceiling. In somewhat of a daze, I would spend hours in my room doing practically nothing. Pondering everything, I would close my eyes, gaze through my window, or zone out as I listened to the sounds of the world.

I'm certain my frustrated mother saw this practice as evidence that I didn't do anything she said. She likely didn't understand how I could waste an entire day doing nothing, all the while not even noticing my cluttered space.

These moments struck me differently. I found them very peaceful. As I laid there, ignoring my mother's directions, I gained mental clarity. Though it may seem lazy and inattentive, I realize now that this behavior served a beneficial purpose. Absorbing the itch of the carpet, the warmth of the light, and the pittering of rain droplets hitting the house, helped to organize my mind. It was a tranquil non-activity that gave me opportunity to realize what I knew, discover what I didn't, acknowledge my feelings, and release my distress.

When my mom called me down for dinner in the evenings neither one of us ever realized that, though my room was still a chaotic eyesore, I had done exactly what she asked of me. I may have chosen a different target, but I did stayed up there until everything was put away.

I wish now, in this highly technological world of persistent noise and visual stimuli, that I had an authority figure to send me to my room without distraction. I would love to occasionally be forced to put down the information overload devices and be marched off to a quiet space. Maybe then I could finally begin to sort through the never-ending piles of disarray accumulating in my mind.

Mother

***The following is an excerpt from Raina's Story **** 

Sure, Raina thought to herself sardonically. I’m flying through the air inside a giant tree located in a completely different realm.

Feeling completely overwhelmed by her ever-increasing accumulation of questions, and having evidently fulfilled her lifetime quota of surprise, confusion, and fear combined, Raina forced herself to accept what she was experiencing.  She looked around in wonder as they whizzed past floor after floor of similar corridors.  She determined that this “Royal Cypress,” as Bartle had called it, must be at least 100 stories high. It’s like, the King of trees.

About 10 floors into their flight, Raina saw one of the corridor doors open. A beautiful auburn-haired woman stepped out with two small children in tow.  Two floors later, a man in a three-piece moss-colored suit jumped over the banister on his level, and soared diagonally downward. As they climbed higher and higher similarly dressed men began to appear walking hurriedly between doors, and fluttering across the vast diameter. The more men they saw the louder it became. Soon the space began to murmur with whispering tones akin to those Raina had heard from adults in hospital waiting rooms and courthouse hearings. There was an imperative yet clandestine quality to the sound.

Finally, one of the men caught sight of them.  He nodded at Bartle, and aimed a quizzical smirk in Raina’s direction. Not sure how to respond, she looked down at her feet.  Unprepared for the sight of a thousand feet below her, Raina gasped with surprise and jerked in Bartle’s arms. He squeezed her tighter.

“Careful Love,” he advised. “We’re nearly there.”

She felt their pace slowing, and looked to see a ceiling cover of brilliant needled leaves. Her body shifted as Bartle hovered horizontally. Raina tiled her head back down. Just ahead of her she saw a beautiful russet set of arched double doors chiseled with an ornate crown resting atop two folded wings. On either side, sat two incredibly life-like owl statues, each armed with purple shields and silver swords.

“Wow!” she breathed in as they touched ground.

“These,” Bartle gestured ahead, “are Mother’s quarters.”

To be continued...

Upright and Locked Position

When I was little, my brother and I went to visit our grandmother in Chicago. Man, was I excited for this trip! The mere idea of it was thrilling to me. I was going to travel to a big city and have an adventure without my parents. Aware that not many kids received such an opportunity, I knew just how special this was, and I'll be damned if I wasn't ready for it.

That is, until I had to say goodbye to my parents at the airport. I remember a knot forming in my chest as I hugged my mom and dad, but I tried to stay cool. My brother and I walked slowly down that strange metal corridor to board our plane, and the knot sent these obnoxious lumps into my throat. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing as we entered the cabin. It wasn't until after we reached our seats, and I was staring out the window, that I recognized what was happening. My nose began to run, and I understood that I was one seat-belt demonstration away from a meltdown.

Completely confused by this realization, I tried to collect myself. Mentally, I went over the rational evidence to contradict my emotional state. I told myself there wasn't anything to cry about. I knew this was coming. I wanted to go on this trip.  I had even been excited for it.

When the plane began taxiing the runway, all my effort to remain calm flew out the window. My tears began to fall as I thought to myself, What if I can't do this? What if I'm not ready? What if something happens to us?

As the plane took off, I had a distinct change of heart. I didn't want to go on this trip anymore. I wanted the pilot to turn around. I wanted that plane to land. And, more than anything else, I wanted to run into my mom's arms and stay there forever. I didn't want to take this trip on my own. It was a stupid idea, and I didn't want to have this adventure anymore.

I wish I could say this was a one-time only, childish response, but I can't do that without lying. I have a similar emotional response every time a big decisions comes to fruition. Whenever I'm about to embark on a new adventure, I come back to this same feeling. I start by pretending to be brave. Then, a chest-knot turns to a throat-lump, and, with a runny nose, I begin to doubt my preparedness. Part of me toys with the idea of changing my mind at the last minute. I consider the possibility of turning around and running for the more familiar (yes, sometimes that still includes my mom). Then, I suck it up and face the facts.

Maybe it's immature, but I think I had it all figured out early on. Even as a little girl, I knew that my tickets had been purchased, my bags were packed, and once that plane was in the air, I was having this adventure whether I wanted it or not.

Being Seen

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I used to know a kid who genuinely believed he was invisible. This superhuman impossibility was an easier explanation for his life than the truth.

Originally, his belief translated to some rather charming behaviors. After lining the kids up to come in from recess, we'd hear little footsteps followed by the dribbling of a basketball. One of us would run after him, and he'd stand there aghast.

"How'd you know I was here?!" He'd cry out.

Eventually, we adapted to his stealthy ways. Making sure to keep at least one eye on him at all times, we would call "I see you," whenever he covertly slipped away from the group. He'd typically respond with a confused "how?"

As his circumstances improved, he began to understand he was worth noticing. He would experiment by asserting his presence almost constantly. He'd loudly announce his activities, and boast about his prowess with the most menial of tasks. It was pretty typical to hear one of the assisting adults monotonously utter sentences such as "yeah, great job dumping your leftovers in the trash buddy," and "wow, you are really good at drawing lines."

However, with attention being relatively unfamiliar, this kid would draw so much to himself that he became uncomfortable. As a result, he fluctuated between slyly attempting to operate under the radar and boisterously rubbing his existence in your face. Not surprisingly, neither behavior got the poor guy what he wanted. He'd moan endlessly if you didn't notice him hang up his coat on the first try, and he'd be utterly disconsolate if you did see him hide his favorite book behind the TV. He couldn't win.

Only recently have I begun to understand what was at work here.

We often take attention for granted, but it's pretty important. Being noticed can contribute significantly to self-worth and self-perception. That being said, earning someone's attention can, at times, be rather difficult. There's only a limited supply, and deciding what to do with someone's interest in you can be a lot of pressure. To complicate matters, you can't control how another person sees you. You can control your actions, and use that to shift perception slightly. Although, ultimately the vantage point does not belong to you. Others will see what they want, and ignore the things they choose.

Perpetually Ever After

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I am a unique blend of hopeless romantic and complete realist. I don't believe in happily ever after, but I do believe in partnership, unity, and the next great adventure. I see life as a series of story arcs in which each resolution marks a new beginning.

Merging stories is not easy, and as such I think relationships are hard work. They require perpetual effort to achieve a satisfying result. However, I also believe committing to work with another person creates a powerful kind of love. Such a union provides the comfort and security that allows people to get through damn near anything.

Shouldshine

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It's sunny, and the Oregonian in me feels like I'm wasting it by sitting inside. My pale legs are literally glaring at me for choosing my couch over a blanket paired with a patch of itchy grass. My inner voice is screaming at me for not jumping on this opportunity to log some sun-time.

And, all I want to do is tell the me inside me to calm down. My pasty legs can stop being so judgmental, and my inner voice can just shut the hell up. I get it.

Here, in this particular patch of the Pacific Northwest, the sun does not have a consistently reliable presence. Therefore, ignoring a beautifully warm day like today seems somewhat neglectful. History might indicate that this behavior is even disrespectful to this kid.

And still, here I sit, giving my overly-adored couch a little extra appreciation. You know why? Because the Olympics are on, I feel like snuggling, and I have faith that the sun will return.

So, my chalk-colored legs can give it a rest. Even if I'm wrong about the weather, I know you can't store up sun-time and save it for a rainy day. It doesn't work like that. If that gaseous beast were to spontaneously disappear, I'm no worse-off than George Hamilton. I won't have forgotten what life in the light was like, and I regardless of the opportunity, I will not regret the one afternoon I took to do what I wanted.