Goodbye, for Now...

Hi friends, just thought it was time I posted a quick update to let you know where I've been these past few months.

As many of you know, I was accepted to the Master of Fine Arts program in Creative Nonfiction at Ashland University. I believe the process of starting and maintaining this blog had a great deal to do with my decision to apply to the program, and their decision to accept me.

For that reason, though, my writing needs to be singularly focused toward my schoolwork. So, I've decided to suspend the blog for now, with many thanks and much appreciation to all who took the time to read and respond to my little blog posts.

Don't be a stranger, though - reach out to me anytime on Facebook and Twitter!

I loved the process of maintaining this blog, and I will be back to the blogosphere someday... God-willing, as Polly A. Moore, MFA. :)

The Damned Hydrangea...

I had an argument with a hydrangea tonight.

The hydrangea won.

I just felt that I had reached my limit, I guess. The damn thing takes longer showers than I do. I mean, when I remember to water it. And yet, every day, I arrive home or come outside to see it there, looking pathetic, dried up, dead, as if nobody is even TRYING to take care of it.

Tonight was the last straw. I watered it yesterday. (I think… didn’t I?) Yes. I watered it yesterday. God watered it today, in the form of a well-timed rain shower that canceled my sweet daughter’s softball game. And yet, I walked out this evening to find it looking like death on a silver platter. Talk about ungrateful.

I couldn’t take it any more. I stood over it, frustration building as I surveyed its withered, downtrodden countenance.

Finally, I shouted at it. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!?!”

The rest was mostly muttering. “For the love of God, what do you want from me? I planted you lovingly. I dug a hole of the dimensions prescribed on your tag from the landscape nursery. I placed Scott’s Miracle Gro garden soil in the hole first. Then I watered the hole, in preparation for your arrival. Next, I gently placed you in the hole, then filled in around you with the soil I had removed to make the hole. I topped that off with more garden soil from Scott’s. Aren’t they supposed to be the best? I thought I picked the best soil for you. I tamped the soil around you, then placed mulch atop the soil. Dang, but you looked handsome just then. Beautiful, green stems stretching out to display pretty little blue/purple flowers. So striking, against the backdrop of the black mulch. I watered some more, just for good measure… So, what happened to us since then? It’s been a tug-o-war ever since. A power struggle of epic proportions. You shrink up and look pathetic, I water feverishly, you perk up and forgive whatever sins I’ve committed as a semi-attentive gardener. Then we do it all again. Shrink. Panic. Water. Forgiveness…. What happened to our relationship that seemed so promising? ….”

The hydrangea simply mocks me. It won’t even rise to meet me eye-to-eye, instead choosing to cast its head downward, ignoring my obvious pain. I swear to you, if it’s looking healthy again tomorrow when I pull out of the garage to go to work, I will simply drive on by. I refuse to cheer, refuse to get emotionally involved. Who needs this in her life? The manipulation, the game-playing… I know that even if I share victory with the plant in the morning, it will be playing its same old game by evening. I will pull into the driveway to face the agony of defeat once more.

My eyes slide to the left, where my neighbor’s hydrangea stands, mocking me. HUGE, beautiful blooms on bright, cheerful green stems with lush green leaves to accent the juicy success of it all. I love my neighbors, but I curse the plant anyway. Damn show-off. It’s probably giving my little hydrangea a complex. It probably shouts derisive comments while I’m away, causing my plant to shrink back with self-conscious awareness of all that it’s NOT. After all, say what you will, but size DOES matter, doesn’t it? Yes, that’s it for sure. My little hydrangea is being BULLIED, I tell you. Isn’t this socially unacceptable at this point? I thought all the politicians, teachers and media types were fighting this bullying thing with great gusto. Nonetheless, it continues.

I went to see my mother, 20 minutes away. More mocking, more derision. Her hydrangea looks FINE, thank you very much. It looks happy, and healthy. It looks like it could teach a freakin’ CLASS on how to be a happy, healthy hydrangea, if only you’re a hydrangea who is lucky enough to live in the garden of someone who is not completely inept, someone who knows what she is doing, who can love you, nurture you, affirm you enough to rise toward the heavens with full, gorgeous blooms that shout to the world that you are living your dream, being all you can be in the world of hydrangea self-actualization.

I frown. I curse. I curse some more. I pull out of my mom’s driveway, wondering why God has put me on this earth to fail at everything I ever try. I realize that’s really a dramatic extrapolization of a challenge with a garden plant. I deride myself for that. Then it hits me.

My gardening failures make me feel like I suck at nurturing. They confirm the deep-seated shame I feel about my failures in the parenting arena. Because after all, gardening is rather like parenting, isn’t it? If you do it right, your beds are beautiful, vibrant, ridiculous reflections of your wisdom, and skill, and perfection. Aren’t they? And isn’t parenting the same way?

If you REALLY did it right, you get to go on Facebook and brag about your kid who just gave the Valedictorian speech at the high school graduation. You get to be really, really thankful for all the scholarships and grants your kid received, based on his or her success thus far. You get to ask for prayer as your college graduate moves on to her career in molecular engineering, after graduating summa cum laude from Harvard or Princeton or whatever. That’s the SAME THING as having a hydrangea that displays to the world that it is so freakin’ happy to be planted in the soil in which it’s planted… isn’t it? It’s colorful, and healthy, and vibrant, because, good gracious almighty, it was lucky enough to be planted HERE, with an owner who is masterful at the whole feeding, watering, loving, nurturing thing.

I look at the hydrangea head-on, and memories flood my brain. Memories that make me want to die, because I failed so miserably. Memories of two sweet baby boys and a sweet baby girl that, for some reason I can’t fathom, God entrusted me with their care. One boy in particular, a boy who was and is so intelligent, so sensitive, that I might have ruined him. Or I might have been completely inconsequential. Both hurt.

I survey the failed hydrangea and relive one of the experiences of which I am most ashamed, among the hundreds of thousands or millions of experiences that make up my life. I am so ashamed of this moment… in which I, as an overwhelmed, unconscious mom, just trying to get through, maintain, SURVIVE… I pulled into the garage with my two sweet boys, two impressionable little guys who had pushed me to the limit that day.

One little guy in particular, who was so smart, so manipulative, so cold, it felt to me… I don’t even remember what action or event or behavior was the catalyst, I just remember that I was sad, and mad, and completely over my head with a kid who was, and is, probably smarter than even I…

I pulled the van into the garage and said to one of my baby boys, emphatically, without thinking, only feeling, “You do not have a good heart. You need to work on caring what other people feel, and what your effect on them is…”

My husband at the time, he was there, in the garage. And he was dumbfounded at the cruelty of what I had said. I remember experiencing him physically sucking in his breath, taking in the words I had hurled at our little boy. One of the only times in our shared lives, probably one of the only times in his own life, my ex-husband rose up with shock and indignation and the strength of his own convictions. He said, “That is WRONG. You do NOT say that to a little boy, that he does not have a good heart. He has a good heart. You don’t say that to a little boy…”

I was immediately ashamed. Ashamed doesn’t begin to describe the feeling, the crushing weight of failure. These were babies I had carried in my womb, for whom I had held my breath when walking behind buses or trucks in traffic, fearful that the exhaust would hurt these little lives forming inside of me. I had dreamed of being a mom. Dreamed of doing it RIGHT, nurturing them, building them up, empowering them to conquer the world.

And yet, here I was, a person who had hurled the ugly judgment at my own son, thoughtlessly saying, “You don’t have a good heart.” I went on to allow them to witness their mom completely out of control sometimes. When frustration would build up, they would see me, throwing things (an air compressor went sailing by this same baby boy’s head when I couldn’t get it to work, I couldn’t get an air mattress to inflate, which meant the family camping trip wouldn’t be picture-perfect after all, I hadn’t achieved perfection, again, in this desperate attempt to make our fracturing family okay) … they would see me spewing profanity, or making foul gestures (Mom, you just flipped me off! No, baby, I didn’t, I was flipping off in general, just into the air, it wasn’t directed at you)… and it wasn’t – directed at him – but kids immediately internalize all that they see and assume it happened because of some shortcoming of their own… It doesn’t matter how many hundreds or thousands of warm, wonderful memories we also gave them, when they were there for a mama’s meltdown, that’s something you don’t easily forget…

These moments stand out on the landscape of our common lives – their experiences as a child, mine as their mom – and make me wonder… Are these things the reason they weren’t the Valedictorian, or the star athlete, or the artistic genius? Did I shut them down, stop them dead in their tracks as they were on their way to stunning success?

I have two handsome, beautiful, charming, smart and amazing 18-year-old boys. I am sincerely proud of who they are every single day, and thank God for the blessing of having them in my life. But they are normal, middle-of-the-pack, average boys. They will probably earn more money and have more fun than I have. Still, I worry that they were capable of more, and that the experience of being my sons kept them from the extraordinary, one-in-a-million achievements I dreamt for them.

And it’s because of that, I think, that I curse the damned hydrangea bush. I don’t need another reminder of all that I lack in the nurturing department. I don’t want to reflect on the failures I might have visited upon these sweet, impressionable babies. And most of all, I don’t want the anxiety of thinking that perhaps, I’ll screw it all up with my baby girl also… the one who has had to weather divorce at a tender age, the one who is already smart, and funny, and beautiful, and lippy… The one who is already showing signs of pulling away, standing her ground, fighting me tooth and nail over the mundane details of what I need and expect of her vs. what she thinks is unreasonable or not important.

I want the damned hydrangea bush to affirm me, to be a reflection of the fact that I’ve grown since the boys were young, that I can’t quite remember who that woman was, the one who was so tense, and anxious, and unhappy. I want the stupid, stupid plant to say, “You are forgiven. You are redeemed. You are better now, and closer to the woman God intended you to be. And by the way, your boys realize it too. And they forgive you. And God forgives you. And all is right with the world.”

I guess that’s a lot to ask of a garden plant.

Truth be told, I’ll probably jump out of the car and kiss the damn thing if it’s bright and perky and healthy-looking in the morning. Of all the things I've been in my life, I guess I've never been a quitter...

A Christian Nation? Politely Disagreein' (and quickly duckin')...

I have been grumping and grousing inwardly about an issue for several months now, and as much as it may offend or anger some people who are really important to me, I’m at that point. You know, the one where you just have to speak your mind and move on.

I’ve considered the reactions on both ends of the spectrum – that some folks may lower their opinion of me, while others may not even find it interesting. Either way, that’s okay. These are just my opinions, nothing more. I’m not trying to convince or persuade here, I’m simply expressing my own frustration as I personally experience it in this highly charged political climate. If anything, I hope it will inspire you to post your own opinions and start a real conversation.

My beef is this – I’m just “fit to be tied” with hearing over and over, ad naseam, that we’re moving further and further away from our nation’s “Christian heritage.”

I, personally, am a joyful Christian and I thank God every day that I have that freedom in this country. Yet, I don’t believe we are, or were ever meant to be, a “Christian nation.”

It seems to me that our Founding Fathers left England, in part, to get away from a country with an “official religion.” They were sick of taxation without representation, to be sure; but I think they were also sick and tired of being run roughshod over by the Church of England. I think they wanted to shout and shake their fists at the Mother Church, “You’re not the boss of me!” But, well, she was. So they left.

When they formed this More Perfect Union, I don’t believe they formed it so they could create a new dogma. I don’t believe they said, “Let’s create a Christian country, where we can impose our Christian views on everyone who settles here.”

Nope. I think our Founding Fathers said, we want something different. We want a country that cultivates FREEDOM of religion. A choice AMONG religions, or no religion at all. A nation where each individual is free to explore and express his unique spiritual passion with great gusto. Where small or gargantuan groups of individuals are free to gather together in the name of organized religion of any brand or flavor if they want to do so, with no political or personal repercussions.

I think the separation of church and state was also intended, though, to keep the CHURCH from interfering with the STATE. It seems to me that the goal was to protect the process of objective legislative and judicial decision making, based ONLY upon reasonable fact and vigorous debate. I think it’s quite possible that the Founding Fathers believed we could find and stake a claim on the moral high ground without sacrificing our country’s soul to any particular brand of religious zeal.

I believe that an objective look at many of the principle players in our country’s formation and early growth – George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, James Madison, James Monroe, and of course, Thomas Paine, who took a huge amount of heat for writing The Age of Reason, perceived at the time to be shockingly anti-Christian – would show them to be either lukewarm Christians or outright Deists, depending upon whose interpretation you believe.

Either way, these men had HUGE opportunities to make a strong Christian stand in the documents they created to guide this country; and yet, they made a purposeful decision NOT to do so. The Constitution, which is generally bandied about as “proof” that we are a Christian nation, only mentions religion once – in noting that there will be no religious test for a man to hold government office. Any mention of God is limited only to the way the date was expressed in the signature (the Year of Our Lord, 1787), which was simply the formal custom at the time, rather than any real nod to Christianity.

Our nation’s original official motto – E pluribus unum, adopted in 1782 – seems to me to be true to the ideal of religious neutrality in our government. It wasn’t until 1956 that “In God We Trust” was enacted as a replacement for, or companion to, the original motto.

The slogan first appeared on our money as a result of a sort of religious revival sweeping the country during the Civil War. A Protestant Pastor requested to the Treasury that it be inscribed on our coins in 1861, but it took 11 more years before it came about, and the phrase wasn’t consistently placed on all US coins until the late 1930’s. It didn’t appear on our paper money until 1957. The phrase seems to originate from a line in the Star-Spangled Banner, again, written during wartime (the War of 1812), and likely invoking the ideal that God is on “our side” of the war.

The statement, “One Nation under God,” was only added to the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954, nearly 180 years after our nation’s founding and 11 years after the Supreme Court had already ruled that school children could not be forced to recite the Pledge in school. All the legislation and hubbub surrounding this in 2004 was just silly, in my opinion.

Decorating Statehouses or courthouses or other government properties with the Ten Commandments or the Bible or pictures and statues of Jesus isn’t offensive to me. It does seem illogical and possibly illegal, though, since the clear, stated, Constitutional intention of our Founding Fathers was that government should have no involvement in religion and vice versa.

In addition, once you open that can of worms, I think you should be ready for the obvious argument that if the statue of the Ten Commandments gets to stay, then you better clear a spot for whatever it is the Buddhists, the atheists, the Hindus, Muslims and other taxpaying non-Christians might like to look at when they visit.

I say all of this, not because I don’t love God, or because I don’t believe Christianity has been important in the hearts and souls of the people of our nation. I simply don’t believe it was ever intended to color the official identity or the legislative and judicial work of our government. The instances in which it has done so, in my opinion, reflect the unfortunate success of some seriously misguided efforts by specific individuals or groups.

Most of all, I personally believe our Founding Fathers would roll over in their graves if they knew that state or Federal laws were being proposed, written or defended… that individual rights were being impeded, limited, or disallowed… on the basis  of, “The Bible Tells Me So.”

There are specific examples that do have my knickers in a knot. But then, that’s probably a whole n’other blog post for a whole n’other day…

Ah, Spring...

Artists of every type and stripe have struggled for centuries to describe the emotional explosion of springtime without coming off as a pseudo-artistic dork.

It is the season of fresh, dew-drenched, flower-laden renewal, teasing our minds forward into daydreams of long, summer days and well-deserved vacations—but you can’t just go around saying that to people. They’ll have you committed.

Add to that the fact that my own springtimes are chock full of dates with incredible emotional meaning, and the whole thing may actually send you running to book an Alaskan cruise.

The date that’s been around the longest is the birthday of my beloved Grandmother King on May 22. She had a green thumb, an artistic exuberance and a dry wit that I didn’t appreciate nearly enough while she was with us, though I loved and enjoyed her fully from childhood through adulthood.

The newest spring milestone is, of course, the most meaningful: I gave birth to my twin baby boys on Mother’s Day weekend, 1994. In a two-minute flash, one became three: one cocky child who thought she knew everything was joined by two helpless infants who have raised her to adulthood, where she finally knows how little she knows. Funny how that happens.

In a few short weeks, they will be 18. We will have graduation, they will have a party, then they will drift into the next chapter with me still scribbling feverishly on this one – wishing I could pull them back, trap them in these pages just one more moment so I can get it just right. Add more wisdom, more values, more experience; erase the mistakes, the hurtful moments, the bewilderment and vulnerability and disappointment of realizing that the adults who are in charge of your world sometimes have no earthly idea what they’re doing.

You see, I am my mother’s daughter—she is an amazing seamstress. And yet, I remember rushing breathlessly out the door to more than one school dance with the uneasy feeling that if I looked down at my hemline, there she might be, keeping pace with us down the sidewalk, madly stitching and re-stitching this “one last part.”

Lucky for the boys (and their parents), the moment is here, the deadline has passed. No more stitching. They’ll have to move on into the rest of their story and make do with the unedited, raw truth of whatever we were able to give them. We’ll have to hope that enough of the good stuff stuck.

The boys were tumbling toward the twelfth May of their young lives when another pivotal event shifted our world.

We lost my mother-in-law, their grandma, on April 20, 2005. I am a better person for having known her, and I continue to be blessed by the memory of her. Best of all, God knew just how to carry her forward into our futures – in the sweet face of our Lizzie, born three years before her death, and bearing a striking resemblance to her beautiful “Grammaw-Grammaw.”

Julia Ann was unlike any woman I had ever met. Most ladies in this world are exceedingly self-critical—picking, fretting and muttering at each perceived bump, lump, wrinkle, blemish, stray hair and gray hair. We spend countless hours and endless energy wishing our flat places were round and our round places were flat; tanning and toning, working out and dieting, willing ourselves taller, thinner, shorter or prettier.

This tiny tower of strength was the “anti” all of that. Not purposefully so—I believe it just never occurred to her to be so self-involved. Nor did she fuss over the dust, muss, or possible shortcomings of the house where she made her home.

No, “Mom’s” focus was outside of herself and the “things” of her life. She was the unintentional hub of a very large circle of loved ones. She quietly, wisely observed; kept her counsel and held her tongue when it didn’t seem humanly possible; and spoke volumes in just a few words when she chose to speak on a subject. She was the singular expert on each of us; we all felt that she “got” us like no one else could. Truth was, she did.

I used to joke, and I still mostly believe, that she had a way of making each of her offspring feel that they were secretly her favorite. She did this without slighting or belittling the others in any way. She had a gift for making you feel big without making anyone else seem small.

Most of all, Julia Ann believed in and loved her God with every fiber of her being. She didn’t fret over it, she simply lived it. She didn’t seem to harbor the guilt and regret and shame that so many of us believe are the proud wounds of the “true” Christian. She was instead, a joyful, kind, giving and forgiving sort of Christian who lived by example and walked by faith.

In all the time I knew this woman, I never heard judgment cross her lips. “Mama Bear” defenses or awareness of evil might bring a dark look across her face on rare occasions; but more often, “Mom’s” face held a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, or a twinkle dancing in her eye.

You’re surely thinking that if all of this were true, she must have been darn near perfect, and you’re right. She was. I was nearly knocked physically to my knees, boo-hooin’ like a teething baby the other day, with the truth of how much I miss her, and the grief of knowing I have failed her in my broken marriage to her baby boy. I thought how disappointed she would be; how that dark look would cross her face at the thought of it all.

Then I remembered. It was just before she went home to be with her God, her daughter, and her lifelong love. She was busy on the threshold, preparing for the ultimate journey. I was busy stealing a single, blessed moment to ask her forgiveness for shortcomings unspoken, to express my love, and generally make it about me when it wasn’t about me at all.

I don’t even remember our words. As usual, there were more of mine than hers. I just remember that she comforted me. She patted my hand from her bed. She made me know I was forgiven, and understood, and loved.

As I thought of that pivotal moment, I looked up and noticed the strong, yet dainty pink flowers bursting forth on that tree I never remember the name of in my front yard. (She wouldn’t judge me for that, but she’d know what it is.)

Those abundant buds are strong and delicate, just like her. They’re a treat for the senses that reaffirms springtime, this fragrant interlude between winter and summer… forgiveness of the past, and promise of the future.

 Julia Ann’s memory.

Her grandsons’ beginnings.

Because I Can

I’ve placed a treadmill right smack dab in the middle of my living room.

If you ask why, I will answer with a smug, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, because I can.

As more than half of you know, there is nothing fun about divorce. My divorce would be considered one of the “nice” ones – most of the drama was tucked away inside our own hearts, away from the children, the neighbors, even one another. We were married 21 years, together a quarter century; and yet, when the time came to call it quits, I rarely saw his pain. He rarely saw mine.

Now, keep in mind, that’s not a “never,” it’s a “rarely.” And it doesn’t mean we were always well behaved, we weren’t. Who knows, there may be ugliness still hiding along the path of our future, waiting to jump out the moment we least expect it. However, as divorces go, ours looks more like a crushing, colorless ache than a bloody, lights-and-sirens war zone. I am forever thankful for that.

Even so, it has not been fun.

However… there are moments of unbridled, sinful, self-satisfaction along this journey that I am hard-pressed to contain. They stem from the fact that I stood, first in line, for what I feared might be the “Watch Polly Crash and Burn” show. I am pleased to report that the previously expected show has been pre-empted by the “Watch Polly Doin’ Just Fine” show, brought to you by the award-winning production team of God’s Grace, Life’s Blessings, Family/Friends’ Love, and Elbow Grease.

My moments of self-satisfaction are not earth-shattering events; rather, most are the everyday occurrences of normal, grown adults. Paying my bills each month. Fixing or improving something around my house. Caring for my lawn. Selfishly adoring my closets and drawers that are no longer shared spaces. (Okay, that one might not be completely normal.) 

And yes, plunking a treadmill, that no-way-to-make-it-pretty monstrosity, right in the middle of my living room. Because I’ve no one to check with, worry about, accommodate, or retreat for. In short, because I can.

I won’t keep it there forever; my interior decorator’s heart won’t be able to take it forever. The reason it’s constructive for now is that I’m training for a half marathon, and 13 miles is a long way to walk/run while looking out the window at an empty street. I’ve never even made it that far yet, but when I do, it will be a whole lot less painful with hours of DVR’d programming to watch along the way.

When I do move the treadmill to a more traditional location, it will be for the same reason I put it in the living room. Not because someone else thinks I should. (Even my kids know their vote counts in these matters right after they pony up to chip in on the mortgage.) Not even because I think someone else might think I should. I’ll move it somewhere else, when I’m ready to do so, for the same reason I moved it to the living room. Because I can.

It’s the one true sunny side of divorce.

There’s only one person who might come close to being the boss around here, but so far, he seems pretty happy with the treadmill’s new location…

Hell in a Handbasket

I’m not, nor can I ever remember being, one of those folks who thinks the world is going to hell in a handbasket.

It’s easy to go there, easy to find issues or events to support that notion – but I think it’s a lazy world view, and I don’t think it’s accurate. The world is bursting with evidence to the contrary – beautiful, positive, brilliant events and advances that balance the picture – but I think it takes mental discipline to give those the same “airplay” in our minds as the negative stuff.

If optimism was easy, it wouldn’t be so refreshing when we come across it.

Still and yet, sometimes I see things that leave me “smh” – shakin’ my head, as we texters and Facebookers are fond of saying these days.

I was leaving my bank the other day, and noticed a small sign on the door that I had seen other places as well. “These doors must remain open during regular business hours.”

Wha?

Is there someone, somewhere within the hallowed confines of my bank’s personnel, who needs a gentle reminder to keep the doors unlocked while the bank is open? Under what circumstances would they forget, do you suppose? “Ah, well, for heaven’s sake… I wondered why we weren’t getting any business this morning…”

Taken a step further, if the bank is being robbed, wouldn’t it be good procedure to lock the doors and keep more innocent people from coming in? Does the employee dash over to heroically lock down the bank, then stop, scratching her head… “Well, the sign says not to lock the doors…?”

Or perhaps the sign is for the potential bank robber, who enters, then turns to lock the doors, cleverly keeping the police at bay. Suddenly, he sees the sign: “These doors must remain open during regular business hours.”

Curses! Foiled again! The dejected robber turns to leave, in search of a bank without the sign on the door...

Another one I can’t quite understand seems to be posted in every public restroom in the country: “Employees must wash hands before returning to work.”

Ewww?

How does that play out, exactly? Restaurant employee – the same one you just watched as she made your sandwich, handled your money, then made the next sandwich, all while wearing the little plastic gloves – comes zipping into the restroom. (Is she still wearing the plastic gloves, I wonder?)

She does her business, prepares to leave, germy hands firmly grasping the door handle… sees the sign, “Oh yeah, I need to wash my hands before I go back and make another sandwich!” Washes her hands, firmly grasps the door handle (haha, just had to throw that visual in there…), goes back to work…

But seriously. Can we all agree, that (a) if the aforementioned employee is not naturally in the habit of washing her hands after using the restroom, the sign is probably not going to inspire her to do so? And (b) if she’s not someone who washes her hands of her own accord… might we not want to be a little more discerning in our hiring practices?

I was watching “The Waltons” with my little one that night after going to the bank, and I did have to laugh a little. I pictured a mystified Ike Godsey, shouting to be heard through the old-fashioned phone on the wall, adjusting the speaker on his ear because he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“You want me to what? Well, whatever for? Why wouldn’t I have the doors open during business hours? Well, yes sir… No sir, I don’t want to have to pay any fines… Yes sir. Well, I’ll get it posted by morning, then. Goodbye.”

He turns to Corabeth. “There’s a new law that I have to post a small sign on the door sayin’ the doors have to be unlocked while the store is open.”

Corabeth purses her lips and looks darkly out the window. “Well, Mr. Godsey, I do declare, this world’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket…”

Ping Pong... Perception, Reality...

I was thinking today about the difference between perception and reality at any given moment, and how that difference plays us sometimes, making fools of us either in that moment, or later.

I’ll never forget the moment, as a young girl, that I was thunderstruck with the realization that the world didn’t look the way I drew it on paper with my crayons and markers. I honestly can’t remember if I came to it on my own, or whether some wise teacher or parent told me it was so.

I do remember with great clarity, though, the moment I truly saw that there’s no space between the sky and the earth, anywhere, ever. Whether you’re in the city, the country, the mountains or the plains, the sky settles down onto the land, or the land rises majestically to the heavens. And yet, like most kids, my little pictures showed the grass at the bottom of the paper in a green strip, the sky at the top in a blue strip, and a wide, colorless strip between the two, as background to whatever was in the foreground.

Once I recognized that this was so, all my artwork immediately changed to depict the sky and the land nestled together in the background. After that point, I found it hugely distasteful to look at my “old” pictures that didn’t reflect this truth.

This battle between perception and reality is like an ongoing, age-old ping-pong game in our lives.

Who doesn’t, without consciously realizing it, suck in their stomach, smooth their hair just so, and stand or smile in front of the mirror in just the right way for an attractive, confident reflection to embolden them as they head out into their day? The jig is up, though, if we pass a mirror “out there,” glancing without meaning to do so as we pass, seeing the mere mortal who may have a double chin, thinning hair, thickening waistline, frumpy outfit… Or, God forbid, someone snaps and shares a picture. The camera doesn’t lie, or dispense empty compliments.

I’m happy to report, though, that it also works in the reverse. I’ve lost weight over the past couple of years, and I forget the progress I’ve made until I do see a picture, or put on a jacket that was tight, and is now loose. Sometimes reality is sweeter than our own perception.

Yet, how can our confidence not falter in working out today’s problems, when we can look back over a lifetime of perceptions that later proved faulty? How do we know if this is God talking, if it’s solid problem-solving and plan-making, or just some stupid crap we’re telling ourselves today?

Consider the following, from the voluminous file of “Stupid Crap I’ve Told Myself in the Past” … And just so you know, this is stuff I sincerely believed at the time:

Stupid Crap: It doesn’t make logical sense to think there’s a God in charge of it all… and if there is, He must not be terribly skilled or powerful, given the state of the world…

Later Wisdom: I can’t prove or disprove His existence, nor do I need to do so. What I know for sure is that, whether or not it makes “logical sense” to believe, my life just doesn’t make sense without Him.

Stupid Crap: If I love my kids enough, it doesn’t matter if there are times I ride them too hard, or yell too loud, because I do kiss them, and love them, and say the right things at other times… and it’s all because I passionately want them to grow up proud, and confident, and strong…

Later Wisdom: Intention doesn’t trump bad execution, and bad execution doesn’t create proud, confident, strong adults. Now, among the memories of kisses and love and support, are ugly memories of Mom going batsh** crazy over things like dirty rooms and bad grades; things that, on balance, just don’t matter enough to go batsh** crazy.

Stupid Crap: It’s all-important to be part of a marriage, any marriage; it’s all-important for kids to be part of an intact family, any intact family, as long as there’s no violence or abuse.

Later Wisdom: Married or not, sometimes you’re lonely, sometimes you’re bummed, sometimes you’re frustrated with the state of your life. I’d rather be frustrated, or bummed, or lonely alone, than as part of a couple that’s not working. Likewise, kids are often wiser than we are, and they’d rather live a life that’s truthful and authentic, even if it’s sometimes a harder life. And P.S. The joyous parts are far more joyous when you’re a single parent, or a child of divorce, but a happy parent or child.

Stupid Crap: It doesn’t matter if you “manage your career” or choose thoughtfully what you do for a living. As long as you’re working hard and making the bills, good things will happen, eventually.

Later Wisdom: Tomorrow’s not always a new day, Scarlett. The workday is long and defeating if you spend most of it wanting to poke toothpicks in your eyeballs or be called away to a root canal. Few of us will be deliriously happy every day of our working lives; but some of us will be fulfilled and satisfied, and actually enjoy what we do. We gotta count our blessings, but learn from those folks and try to reroute the path, if need be.

See the pattern? Stupid crap. Later wisdom.

Ping pong... point, counter point.

Tick tock, tick tock.

You do it, I do it, we all do it, whether we’re fully aware of the process, or not.

In marketing and public relations, we say that perception IS reality. But in real life, it’s not. In real life, inaccurate perception doesn’t change reality, it just derails it. The goal is to get out in front of “stupid” before you have to burn daylight fixing it with “wisdom.”

It’s a goal. ;)