While in high school I developed a crush on a guy who was really into Random Acts of Kindness, though he called it “buying someone a little happiness.” For example, whenever he came to a tollbooth he’d pay the toll of the car behind him. He was the leader of a huge crowd of kids who liked to go eat at truck stops and coffee shops. Having been a waitress myself, it’s no fun getting a dozen rowdy teenagers at once. But when we were done, my friend made us all clean up everything, stack the dishes, and then empty our pockets, leaving a huge pile of money for a tip.
As I got older and started feeling better about myself, I also got the yen to "buy someone a little happiness." You might say it's become my hobby.
Here’s what I did this week:
*An acquaintance had mentioned her upcoming birthday, so I sent her a card.
*Had fifteen minutes to kill while waiting for a prescription to be filled at Costco, so my daughter and I went out into the parking lot and put shopping cars away.
*Was beating myself up over mistakes in the past, so I said, “In memory of this mistake, I will buy some extra cans of food for the food bank.” And I did.
*I saw a newcomer at my Al-Anon meeting standing alone and crying. I went over and gave her a hug, and didn't let go till she let go.
Today's Reminder:
Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a tough battle.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
In Which Poe is Instructed
Recently I talked about developing a nurturing voice inside my head. Easier said than done. I am still so comfortable with the familiar voice--critical, self-hating, quick to spot everything I do wrong, even innocent mistakes.
Chime. Dissolve into…
Fourth grade. Just after lunch. My teacher is talking to the 6th grade teacher Miss Waterman in the doorway of my classroom. As I start to go inside, Miss Waterman grabs my arm and yells, "Hasn't anybody ever told you to not walk between two people having a conversation?" (Actuallly, nobody has ever told me that.) Consumed w/ guilt, I stammer an apology. As I slink into the classroom, I hear Miss Waterman tell my teacher, “Immature.”
Ooh, that hurt right through my bones--“Immature.” I’d always thought I was fairly grownup. From then on I noticed every example of my immaturity and hated myself for it: I always screwed things up. I cried all the time. I failed at sports. My room was a mess. I didn't know my multiplication tables.
Now fast forward to junior high where I was really immature--still playing with dolls, still crying, still doing everything wrong. It got so I became the school joke. One day a group of popular kids surrounded me as I was getting into my locker. They started kicking me and laughing. I don’t know why. I tried kicking them, but missed by a mile, and they all jumped back, laughing even harder now.
The rage one feels at a time like this!
Soon after that, I went into the girl’s room after school, locked one of the stalls, then crawled out under the door.
The very next day the principal came on the intercom and announced in tones of greatest disgust, “Yesterday some girl used the restroom and then crawled under the door, so that it was locked from the inside. I don’t know why anybody would do something like that. I’d like to talk to that young lady!”
Sitting at my desk, I convulsed with delight. I’d had no idea I’d created that much trouble. In a way, I was famous. Nothing in all of junior high ever gave me half as much satisfaction.
...Dissolve back to present day. Poe sits gazing, chin in hand.
Well, here I am, all grown up, Miss Waterman, and still very immature. But I have learned a thing or two from this story:
1) Prevent bullying and you prevent vandalism.
2) Anybody can make another person feel small. The real measure of an indiviual is how much you can build people up, especially those who don't do things your way.
3) It all starts with me.
...and...
4)Never walk between two people having a conversation.
Chime. Dissolve into…
Fourth grade. Just after lunch. My teacher is talking to the 6th grade teacher Miss Waterman in the doorway of my classroom. As I start to go inside, Miss Waterman grabs my arm and yells, "Hasn't anybody ever told you to not walk between two people having a conversation?" (Actuallly, nobody has ever told me that.) Consumed w/ guilt, I stammer an apology. As I slink into the classroom, I hear Miss Waterman tell my teacher, “Immature.”
Ooh, that hurt right through my bones--“Immature.” I’d always thought I was fairly grownup. From then on I noticed every example of my immaturity and hated myself for it: I always screwed things up. I cried all the time. I failed at sports. My room was a mess. I didn't know my multiplication tables.
Now fast forward to junior high where I was really immature--still playing with dolls, still crying, still doing everything wrong. It got so I became the school joke. One day a group of popular kids surrounded me as I was getting into my locker. They started kicking me and laughing. I don’t know why. I tried kicking them, but missed by a mile, and they all jumped back, laughing even harder now.
The rage one feels at a time like this!
Soon after that, I went into the girl’s room after school, locked one of the stalls, then crawled out under the door.
The very next day the principal came on the intercom and announced in tones of greatest disgust, “Yesterday some girl used the restroom and then crawled under the door, so that it was locked from the inside. I don’t know why anybody would do something like that. I’d like to talk to that young lady!”
Sitting at my desk, I convulsed with delight. I’d had no idea I’d created that much trouble. In a way, I was famous. Nothing in all of junior high ever gave me half as much satisfaction.
...Dissolve back to present day. Poe sits gazing, chin in hand.
Well, here I am, all grown up, Miss Waterman, and still very immature. But I have learned a thing or two from this story:
1) Prevent bullying and you prevent vandalism.
2) Anybody can make another person feel small. The real measure of an indiviual is how much you can build people up, especially those who don't do things your way.
3) It all starts with me.
...and...
4)Never walk between two people having a conversation.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Welcome Baby
Well, I’m a Great Aunt now. On Wednesday Elisa gave birth to Oliver Yacov, 7 lbs. 13 oz. Haven’t even met this baby and I already love him; I don’t care if he has three heads.
And why is that?
1) I love his mother.
2) It’s my job.
3) What’s not to love?
This is how our culture reacts to babies.
While in Starbucks the other day I was watching a small boy, about 2 or 3. With total abandon, he was flapping around the store, grooving on everything—the food in the cases, the basket of water bottles, a napkin on the floor. I remember being his age, before fear and shame took over.
Likewise I could visualize him in 20 or 30 years, walking around like everyone else, deadened, shut down. How does that happen?
After all, when we were born, the whole world was thrilled, just like I am with Oliver Yacov.
An Interesting Exercise
To get a picture of what everyone said the day you were born, fill in the blanks:
“Did you hear? (Your mom’s name)______ had** a little ______ (boy/girl).”
“Oh how wonderful! What did they name (him/her)?”
“______________(your name goes here)”
“Wonderful!”
**or adopted
Now say it aloud.
Just think: They were all thrilled at our arrival. Then later we somehow fell out of grace.
I would like to suggest that it was diseased, insecure people who took away the sense of our delightfulness.
Well, it’s time to reclaim our birthright. Since nobody else will do it, we must be the Little Red Hen and start erasing all those lies about our inadequacy.
After all, what’s not to love?
Personally, I imagine a sweet maternal voice just behind my right shoulder, making much over me: “Oh Pody! I love this wonderful blog entry you’re writing! Look at you! Henry come watch Lyttle Poe write her blog!”
(Of course, to do this, one must overcome feelings of absolute stupidity or narcissism.)
But try it for yourself; let me know what you think.
And why is that?
1) I love his mother.
2) It’s my job.
3) What’s not to love?
This is how our culture reacts to babies.
While in Starbucks the other day I was watching a small boy, about 2 or 3. With total abandon, he was flapping around the store, grooving on everything—the food in the cases, the basket of water bottles, a napkin on the floor. I remember being his age, before fear and shame took over.
Likewise I could visualize him in 20 or 30 years, walking around like everyone else, deadened, shut down. How does that happen?
After all, when we were born, the whole world was thrilled, just like I am with Oliver Yacov.
An Interesting Exercise
To get a picture of what everyone said the day you were born, fill in the blanks:
“Did you hear? (Your mom’s name)______ had** a little ______ (boy/girl).”
“Oh how wonderful! What did they name (him/her)?”
“______________(your name goes here)”
“Wonderful!”
**or adopted
Now say it aloud.
Just think: They were all thrilled at our arrival. Then later we somehow fell out of grace.
I would like to suggest that it was diseased, insecure people who took away the sense of our delightfulness.
Well, it’s time to reclaim our birthright. Since nobody else will do it, we must be the Little Red Hen and start erasing all those lies about our inadequacy.
After all, what’s not to love?
Personally, I imagine a sweet maternal voice just behind my right shoulder, making much over me: “Oh Pody! I love this wonderful blog entry you’re writing! Look at you! Henry come watch Lyttle Poe write her blog!”
(Of course, to do this, one must overcome feelings of absolute stupidity or narcissism.)
But try it for yourself; let me know what you think.
Friday, January 16, 2009
More on Erasmo
Back in November I wrote that I was praying to find a way to reach Erasmo, the ADD kid I’ve been tutoring. The following week, while waiting for him to arrive, something told me, “Smile at him all the time.” So I did and here’s what happened:
That week I’d brought a box of very easy Clifford (the Big Red Dog)books. He spent about 15 minutes arranging the books by color, then in the order they appear on the box. I gently said, “Come on, let’s read.” He surprised both of us by reading one whole book (5 pages), a first for him.
Then he said, “Oh! Oh! I have an idea!” He invented a game where he and I would see who could spell words fastest. I let him win every time, pretending to be totally incompetent. He laughed and laughed, and played the game for 45 minutes. This is the most focused I’ve ever seen him.
Afterwards he said, “Do you have a boyfriend?” I said, “No, but I have a husband.” He threw up his hands and said, “I’m out of here! I’m gonna jump right out the window!”
That week I’d brought a box of very easy Clifford (the Big Red Dog)books. He spent about 15 minutes arranging the books by color, then in the order they appear on the box. I gently said, “Come on, let’s read.” He surprised both of us by reading one whole book (5 pages), a first for him.
Then he said, “Oh! Oh! I have an idea!” He invented a game where he and I would see who could spell words fastest. I let him win every time, pretending to be totally incompetent. He laughed and laughed, and played the game for 45 minutes. This is the most focused I’ve ever seen him.
Afterwards he said, “Do you have a boyfriend?” I said, “No, but I have a husband.” He threw up his hands and said, “I’m out of here! I’m gonna jump right out the window!”
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Why My Christmas Tree Is Still Up
I’m back! Did you notice I haven’t written for three weeks? Well, I was highly busy with Xmas and Hanukah, and then a week-long vacation.
By far the biggest time-consumer was making new figures for my crèche. I started this project years ago, when I read about French manger scenes that encompass a whole village (butcher, baker, laundress, etc.) I immediately coveted one, so I sat down and built my own out of paper mache. It is probably my greatest joy. We have the usual holy family, but for example, Mary just had a baby, so she’s a little plump, sitting a bit sideways. Instead of three wise men, I have two kings and a queen. The shepherds are acting silly, falling down on top of the sheep. You get the idea.
Every year I add new figures. It’s the only crèche I know that has a dachshund, a mouse, two cats in the yard, a peacock, girl playing cello, a nun holding a chocolate-covered cherry, and a hippie. This year I added three of my husband’s drinking buddies, sitting at table. Since one of the kings looks like Jerry, this year I put him with his buddies, pouring the wine.
Much as I enjoyed this, it still took up scads of time. Meanwhile I was also writing cards, getting presents, walking down Christmas Tree Lane, going to the Messiah, cooking, cleaning, decorating, shopping, making two historically-accurate miniature Romans (Laura’s present). The weeks leading up to the holiday went by in such a rush, I never got a chance to enjoy it.
When I was a kid, it seemed like Christmas would never get here. Now I’m like, “What, already? And shit, I forgot to get something for Aunt Mable.”
So now on January 8th, even though Christmas is past, even Three Kings Day is past, I’ve kept the tree up and lit. I like it, and why not? After the holidays, time passes slower. I can eat breakfast beneath the tree, or just stop and gaze at each one of my beloved ornaments.
In case you’re worried, I don’t plan to leave the tree up all year or even till March when it’s a dried-out hulk. But for now I can relax and celebrate Peace on Earth in the midst of a little peace and quiet.
(And I'm really enjoying my beloved manger scene)
By far the biggest time-consumer was making new figures for my crèche. I started this project years ago, when I read about French manger scenes that encompass a whole village (butcher, baker, laundress, etc.) I immediately coveted one, so I sat down and built my own out of paper mache. It is probably my greatest joy. We have the usual holy family, but for example, Mary just had a baby, so she’s a little plump, sitting a bit sideways. Instead of three wise men, I have two kings and a queen. The shepherds are acting silly, falling down on top of the sheep. You get the idea.
Every year I add new figures. It’s the only crèche I know that has a dachshund, a mouse, two cats in the yard, a peacock, girl playing cello, a nun holding a chocolate-covered cherry, and a hippie. This year I added three of my husband’s drinking buddies, sitting at table. Since one of the kings looks like Jerry, this year I put him with his buddies, pouring the wine.
Much as I enjoyed this, it still took up scads of time. Meanwhile I was also writing cards, getting presents, walking down Christmas Tree Lane, going to the Messiah, cooking, cleaning, decorating, shopping, making two historically-accurate miniature Romans (Laura’s present). The weeks leading up to the holiday went by in such a rush, I never got a chance to enjoy it.
When I was a kid, it seemed like Christmas would never get here. Now I’m like, “What, already? And shit, I forgot to get something for Aunt Mable.”
So now on January 8th, even though Christmas is past, even Three Kings Day is past, I’ve kept the tree up and lit. I like it, and why not? After the holidays, time passes slower. I can eat breakfast beneath the tree, or just stop and gaze at each one of my beloved ornaments.
In case you’re worried, I don’t plan to leave the tree up all year or even till March when it’s a dried-out hulk. But for now I can relax and celebrate Peace on Earth in the midst of a little peace and quiet.
(And I'm really enjoying my beloved manger scene)
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Grandma
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmother, probably because I am getting close to her age. She always seemed ancient, old-fashioned, and not much fun. She was a worrier, the kind of grandmother who made me hold her hand to cross the street—at twelve years old.
But she was also sprightly, deeply concerned about world events, and a great cook who made pies and bread from scratch. She loved her camera. I have her album of photos taken in the early 1900’s; my favorite shows her standing on top of a flagpole. She loved to people-watch, and living in New York, then San Francisco gave her plenty of “characters” to watch. She was a career woman at a time when a woman’s sole place was in the home. One of my earliest memories is visiting Grandma’s workplace and noticing her obvious happiness there and affectionate relationship with her co-workers.
She came over from Russia at only six months of age. Her earliest memory was of being bundled up in the middle of the night and rushed outdoors because her tenement was on fire. Wrapped in a blanket clutching her “doll,” a bunch of rags, she watched her home burn down. A family portrait shows her at age three, standing at her father’s knee, staring at the camera defiantly. She looks like she could eat nails. It’s strange to connect that tough little girl with the frightened woman I knew.
I know she made an unhappy first marriage to a cold, abusive philanderer. Her second husband was likewise self-centered and lacking in warmth. Life revolved around placating them, worrying, trying to keep disaster away. Yet with each husband’s death, she moved, made a new life for herself. Two days before she died, age eighty, she visited Knott’s Berry Farm, sent my mom a postcard which arrived after the funeral.
So. Was she happy? Or did she spend her years like me, feeling like it’s all amiss, so caught up in worries and fears that life rushes past in an unhealthy blur? It seems a terrible waste. What was her life about then? More than anything, I feel, my grandma should have been happy.
My Decision
Musing on all this, I dedicate myself to living like I want her to have lived. By settling deep into the present moment, it can be done. Today I find joy in the rush of cold air on my hands as I wash them. The fading December light. Sitting at my laptop watching my husband in the warm kitchen as he prepares food for his friends.
It’s paying off. For the first time since I was eleven or twelve, I felt a sense of impossible happiness--excitement for the coming Christmas, the beautiful pale winter air, the jewel-like lights.
Let it be so. Amen.
But she was also sprightly, deeply concerned about world events, and a great cook who made pies and bread from scratch. She loved her camera. I have her album of photos taken in the early 1900’s; my favorite shows her standing on top of a flagpole. She loved to people-watch, and living in New York, then San Francisco gave her plenty of “characters” to watch. She was a career woman at a time when a woman’s sole place was in the home. One of my earliest memories is visiting Grandma’s workplace and noticing her obvious happiness there and affectionate relationship with her co-workers.
She came over from Russia at only six months of age. Her earliest memory was of being bundled up in the middle of the night and rushed outdoors because her tenement was on fire. Wrapped in a blanket clutching her “doll,” a bunch of rags, she watched her home burn down. A family portrait shows her at age three, standing at her father’s knee, staring at the camera defiantly. She looks like she could eat nails. It’s strange to connect that tough little girl with the frightened woman I knew.
I know she made an unhappy first marriage to a cold, abusive philanderer. Her second husband was likewise self-centered and lacking in warmth. Life revolved around placating them, worrying, trying to keep disaster away. Yet with each husband’s death, she moved, made a new life for herself. Two days before she died, age eighty, she visited Knott’s Berry Farm, sent my mom a postcard which arrived after the funeral.
So. Was she happy? Or did she spend her years like me, feeling like it’s all amiss, so caught up in worries and fears that life rushes past in an unhealthy blur? It seems a terrible waste. What was her life about then? More than anything, I feel, my grandma should have been happy.
My Decision
Musing on all this, I dedicate myself to living like I want her to have lived. By settling deep into the present moment, it can be done. Today I find joy in the rush of cold air on my hands as I wash them. The fading December light. Sitting at my laptop watching my husband in the warm kitchen as he prepares food for his friends.
It’s paying off. For the first time since I was eleven or twelve, I felt a sense of impossible happiness--excitement for the coming Christmas, the beautiful pale winter air, the jewel-like lights.
Let it be so. Amen.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Rocky and Jo
We got the news this week: My husband’s Uncle Rocky has dementia. Rocky came to our house for Thanksgiving, absolutely bereft because his mind no longer works. His daughter Jill said when they got in the car to come over, he kept trying to insert his seatbelt into the cigarette lighter. Poor Jill and Lance. They were already dealing with Aunt Jo’s dementia and now both their parents have it. Of that generation only my mom has all her marbles, as we say.
The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.
Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.
Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.
But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.
I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?
A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.
One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.
But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."
Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.
It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.
The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.
Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.
Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.
But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.
I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?
A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.
One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.
But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."
Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.
It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.
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