Regret & Loneliness

I regret, I regret

Thinking about one particular person I’ve known most of my life. This is someone with whom I’ve shared a full range of feelings and an exquisite number of amazing adventures; a brilliant person who has, at every opportunity, taken life by its literal and figurative horns.

He has an enthusiasm for life and the ability to mold events so that the outcomes appear almost mythic and the telling of those stories endures from one generation to the next.

As dear and close as this friend is to me, over the many decades we’ve known each other he seldom voiced an iota of insecurity, a hint of hesitance or a shadow of personal regret. Until two years ago.

Thinking about the two times he has commented, briefly, almost off-the-cuff, yet with deep sincerity, that he wished he had been more understanding of and kind to his father, who died 10 years ago at age 84. He begins with “I regret…” and in one or two sentences this son chastises himself, stopping his words before tears form.

Although fairly reticent in areas of the heart, I know the father took great pride in his son and his accomplishments.

Thinking about the many times when I was in the presence of this man and his father as they verbally sparred—the younger one driving home contentious points more often than the older. No name-calling, no physicality or fisticuffs—never that. It was ideas and concepts which were debated.

As an observer, it appeared to me the father enjoyed this type of repartee. He’d usually call a halt to the banter by sitting back, folding his arms, shaking his head and letting a small smile cross his face. He’d “connected” with his son in a way that felt comfortable for him.

My friend feels he could have been more loving toward his father, more understanding of the older man’s quirks and more forgiving of his social blunders. That may be true, although I have no doubt the old man knew his son loved him. And yes, maybe there could have been more times when each said to the other “I love you.”

Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often

when I loved, I did not say so.

                                               ~David Grayson

I, too, regret so many, many things I have done—or not done, said—or not said. 

Thinking about regret and why we humans have the ability to experience this painful emotion, I’ve come to the conclusion it’s an evolutionary necessity. By that I mean, most everyone does things they later regret, and for most of us, we learn—over and over again, we learn—and I like to think we are better people for the lessons brought about by the regret.

There’s no turning back life’s clock, there’s only moving forward and remembering the lessons we’ve learned and if we’re very lucky, we have the opportunity to apologize. If we can’t do that due to death or some other fracturing occurrence, we’re left with making good use of the lessons learned in our School of Life.  

Accept life, and you must accept regret. 

~Henri F. Amiel

Lonely and Ignored          

These two words, “lonely” and “ignored” kept circling through my mind last evening and were at the forefront of what kept me awake and restless all night long. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Thinking about “lonely” and a time more than two decades past.

“I feel so lonely…” were the words a beloved young friend voiced in one of our infrequent phone conversations. Four words uttered to someone he trusted to understand the angst coursing through his body.

I wanted so much to say just the right thing, just the right words to bring him out of the dark doldrums he seemed to be in. My recollection is that we talked for less than 10 minutes and at the close of our conversation he thanked me for listening…and caring.  

In the end, I had no sage, life-altering words because I had not experienced “lonely”—I simply offered an open, non-judgmental heart.

Lonesome is very different. I’ve been lonesome; wishing for conversation and companionship of friends or family. These times are self-induced as I have the option of making contact, or not.

Thinking about where I am in my life; how I’ve never before used the word “lonely” to describe my own feelings.

Lonely is a feeling we can have in the most crowded room or at the most intimate dinner party.  Lonely crawls into bed with us even when we are fortunate enough to be sharing that bed with our lover; even when friends and family are ready and willing to listen and interact.

Thinking about the choices I’ve made and am free to make and how fortunate I am and … and… when did I open the door to “Lonely”?

“Lonely” has been doing her best to garner a spot on shoulders already sagging from decades of carrying around Ms. Guilt’s fat ass. Some shoulder-shrugging may be in order!

Thinking about kicking Ms. Lonely to the curb (I still have much to deal with regarding Ms. Guilt. In time, in time…).

To transform the emptiness of loneliness, to the fullness 

of aloneness. Ah, that is the secret of life.

~Sunita Khosla

Thinking about feeling ignored.

It’s happened before, of course—the being ignored part.  At times, that’s been in my favor. For example, when I’ve overstepped some previously unrecognized “boundary” and by ignoring my faux pas  the Universe has protected me from my own oafishness.

What’s new this time is the feeling of being ignored, the sense of being ignored, put aside; superfluous even when I attempt to be an involved part of the conversation and wish to be thought of as a welcome addition to a gathering; when my opinions aren’t given any acknowledgment,  much less credence. Also, this past week I’ve been feeling ignored as I waited on tenterhooks for a response from a loved one.

Thinking about whether I truly am being ignored… or am I simply focusing too much on self? Am I focusing on the day to day fluctuations in the lives of family and friends in a way that translates into something personal and visceral; something that essentially exposes my own frustrations, vulnerabilities and insecurities?

It's possible the reality of feeling lonely and often ignored or set aside is simply the next uncharted, unexpected path for me. 

No matter how we might wish otherwise, this aging business isn't necessarily graceful...but it certain is eye-opening!

The more sand that has escaped 

from the hourglass of our life,

the clearer we should see through it.

~Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527)

Constructing Meaning From Experience

In a 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College, the late David Foster Wallace stated, “… learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. ...The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort ... .”

My earlier nascent resolve to limit the amount of brain power and emotional energy I expended thinking about the strife, hate, turmoil, pain and suffering in the world came about due to an overwhelming feeling of impotence. What could I do? What was I supposed to do with the information? It felt safer, easier, to simply ignore all of it. That decision didn’t last long—less than two months.

When the Egyptian uprising began, I turned to the Discovery or History channel. I wanted to be entertained not pummeled with a continual barrage of news and video concerning the revolt in Egypt, a country whose people and politics I knew almost nothing about. That decision didn’t last long—less than two days.

After reading many articles and watching the events as they unfolded, I felt much more informed. I chose to pay attention.

Using Wallace’s terminology, the meaning I constructed from this single experience is that it’s possible to be informed on an intellectual level while eschewing hateful diatribes and abominable, aggravating political posturing.

Watch Yourself

I’ve been dwelling on how different people interpret the word “empathy.” Empathy is defined as “the intellectual identification with … the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another."

By his words and actions, it's obvious my friend Jonas is a sympathetic and compassionate person. Also, he often comments that he believes he is an empathetic person (which seems unnecessary--his actions should negate the need for making the statement).

Jonas most likely does put himself in the figurative shoes of another. He may even “walk” a few paces in those shoes. The thing is, he’s still the same person. He hasn’t totally morphed into the other, therefore, how can he possibly understand?

Even when we profess empathetic feelings, don’t we still have our own emotional baggage and biases impacting and affecting our responses to another’s words or actions? If so, then how can we can believe we are “intellectually identifying” with that person?

I’m no doubt splitting philosophical and grammatical hairs here (not unusual!). 

I’m working on becoming more tolerant and more understanding of others, even when--or especially when--I find it difficult to relate to their feelings or attitudes; I don't know their circumstances, I haven't walked in their shoes.

It seems to me the most important thing I can do is monitor my own words, reactions and impulses and be alert to any negative impact I may have on others. I’ve gotten better at this as the decades have worn on, but I’m still not out of the woods!

Even with the quaint language, this pre-1912 poem by S. W. Gilliland (in Penberthy Engineer) rings as true today as when written almost 100 years ago:

 

Just stand aside and watch yourself go by;
Think of yourself as "he" instead of "I."
Note closely, as in other men you note,
The bag-kneed trousers and the seedy coat.
Pick the flaws; find fault; forget the man is you,
And strive to make your estimate ring true;
Confront yourself and look you in the eye—
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.

Interpret all your motives just as though
You looked on one whose aims you did not know.
Let undisguised contempt surge through you when
You see you shirk, O commonest of men!
Despise your cowardice; condemn whate'er
You note of falseness in you anywhere.
Defend not one defect that shames your eye—
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.

And then, with eyes unveiled to what you loathe—
To sins that with sweet charity you'd clothe—
Back to your self-walled tenements you'll go
With tolerance for all who dwell below.
The faults of others then will dwarf and shrink,
Love's chain grow stronger by one mighty link—
When you, with "he" as substitute for "I,"
Have stood aside and watched yourself go by.

My upbringing, the vagaries of my life and the choices I’ve made do not necessarily dictate how I live my life, but they have a bearing on how I act and react. I must remember that and remember to stand aside and watch myself go by. 

Om Delivery

A five-year-old girl, living with her family at a homeless shelter, was approached by a well-meaning adult who leaned down and lovingly commented to her, “I’m so sorry you don’t have a home.” The little girl said, “Oh we have a home, we just don’t have a house to put it in.”  

Somewhere along the line, in her short five years on earth, that little girl learned how to acknowledge the good in her life while also accepting that things weren’t exactly perfect.

PBS recently began a rebroadcast of the 3-part documentary, “This Emotional Life.” The segments are thought-provoking with quite a few insightful comments and observations regarding ways one can search for and discover inner happiness.

Whether reading self-help books, going on retreats or to seminars, or doing some contemplative navel-gazing (to use one of my favorite words: a bit of omphaloskepis), as it seems Elizabeth Gilbert did in her book, Eat, Pray, Love, it’s important to keep searching for our own answers to personal happiness. It surely doesn’t come from “things” and we can’t expect others to supply it for us.  

In previous blog postings I’ve written of epiphanies regarding the ways in which my choices negatively impacted my younger life as well as some of the literally time-tested remedies I’ve been using for the past several decades—remedies which are, for me,  so simple yet so effective.

Okay, that’s the “mental” part, the part that’s not too difficult to employ once we use the tools we’ve learned in the search. Not too difficult until, for example, physical problems come to the fore.

When physical challenges present themselves—when days and weeks seem bloated with doctor appointments; when we tire from a schedule filled with dates for probings and x-rays; when this remedy or that prescription fails to alleviate the problem—it’s really tough to see a sunny side of life.

The meme in this regard seems to be along the lines of “buck up,” “look on the bright side,” “think and talk positive,” etc., etc.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s 100% okay to spend some time kvetching, griping and complaining. Not all the time, of course. That would strain the bonds and pollute the wells of love and compassion friends and family feel for us. Just enough so that those who care about us know we're experiencing some tough times.

Fortunately, I’m not dealing with any untoward health issues at the moment. However, in the past few months one or two dear friends have been in the throes of ongoing, undiagnosed physical pain.

The other day one of these friends said she was really very tired of having to put on a happy face and use the “proper” words when others ask her how she’s doing.

For what it’s worth, I gave her my firm approval to engage in a bit of “gripe and wallow” now and then. She’ll continue with her yoga and meditation exercises, she’ll continue the round after round of doctor visits and yes, she’ll continue to acknowledge all the gifts in her life. It’s just that she will give up the struggle it has been to keep that “stiff upper lip.” Let the healing begin!

Even though I firmly believe attitude has a great effect on the quality of an individual's life, I also think it's okay to allow ourselves, now and then, to muck about in a bit of “why me?” 

  

Books Can Do Things

Anyone who says they have only one life to live

must not know how to read a book.

~anon

Author Jonathan Franzen says, “…books can do things, socially useful things, that other media can’t … We are so distracted by and engulfed by the technologies we’ve created, and by the constant barrage of so-called information that comes our way that…more than ever to immerse yourself in an involving book seem socially useful… [there’s a] place of stillness that you have to go to in order to read.” 

Two months ago I decided to reread John Simon’s slender volume, Paradigms Lost: Reflections on Literacy and Lewis Thomas’ Et Cetera, Et Cetera: Notes of a Word-Watcher. Reference books about writing, word usage, grammar and punctuation take up a good deal of space on my bookshelves. Each time I open one of these books I learn a bit more about the craft of writing (a work in progress if there ever was one!).  

Next in line on the bookshelves are volumes about PNW history, biographies, creative non-fiction and books of poetry.

For the past month I’ve been wading through David McCullough’s 1983 tome, The Great Bridge—the story of the planning and building of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I’m fascinated by all kinds and types of bridges, admire McCullough’s writing and in awe of his thorough research.  The book is a true tour de force for him. However, because it is so filled with engineering and architectural data and so dense with social, familial and political back story, after only 10 to 15 pages I need to put the book aside and attempt to digest what I’ve read.  At this rate, I’ll finish the 562-page book in another month.

Much as I am enjoying the story, I know the majority of the details won’t be remembered. This isn’t a recent revelation and I wish it weren’t so true.  

Some of my friends (most of whom are voracious readers) are able to recall all manner of detail from books they have read. I have intense admiration for this type of mind.

I inhale books, absorb words like water through every pore of my body and revel in the mental pictures conjured up. I’m fully involved as I’m reading. However, when I’ve reached “The End,” only wisps of the story stay in my mind—until, that is, I am talking with someone else who has read the book (or knows something of the subject).

Comments on the plot, character or setting will often elicit small recollections and, as my mind releases fragments of book-memory, I feel comfortable adding something to the conversation. I just wish I remembered more!

Books can be a comfort, an escape, a tool, a resource, a delight—books can do things! So, I’ll finish my march across The Great Bridge, pick up another book at the end and I’ll begin to read once more—one book after another—because the bookshelves are vast and deep and I have pages to go before I sleep!*

*apologies to Robert Frost

 

Tarnished or Burnished?

Two months ago I had a fairly unpleasant incident with a friend of 35 years. I’m thankful we care enough about each other to have talked through our misunderstanding and come to a resolution—albeit a tearful one. We vowed to never let that sort of thing happen again.

However, I’ve wondered since then if our friendship has been tarnished.

Do we bob, weave and tiptoe around each other, wary of instigating another misunderstanding and therefore are not as open and honest as before? I hope this isn’t the case. However, I’m conscious of the fact I weigh my words much more than before. I am fearful of causing another kerfuffle yet I don’t want either of us to gloss over things that should be talked about.

Of course, it could be we simply burnished our long-lasting friendship. Possibly the melting of defenses after the exchange of angry words served to polish some rough edges we hadn’t realized were there.

Maybe there’s some new understanding between us now which casts a softer and more mellow light on the lovely friendship we’ve forged through these years. That’s my hope and I plan to talk this over with my friend as soon as possible. It’s important that our friendship not lose its luster.

Beautiful and rich is an old friendship,

Grateful to the touch as ancient ivory,

Smooth as aged wine, or sheen of tapestry

Where light has lingered, intimate and long.

Full of tears and warm is an old friendship

That asks no longer deeds of gallantry,

Or any deed at all—save that the friend shall be

Alive and breathing somewhere, like a song.

~ Eunice Tietjens 1889-1944

Animals: Veritable & Virtual

Horse sense is the thing a horse has 
which keeps it from betting on people.

~ W. C. Fields

I can’t honestly say I like horses very much. Oh, I enjoy looking at them and I appreciate their beauty and sleekness. However, I never want to care for one (or two) again. The two we owned were purchased for the kids. They enjoyed riding the horses but the day to day care was often haphazard. After three years, the boys sold the horses.

When counting, try not to mix chickens with blessings.

~Unknown

When our children were growing up, we had fresh eggs from eight cage-free laying hens. We also raised fryers. My mom and dad, living next door, took care of butchering the fryers. Our freezers were filled with all we could eat of that prime meat.

If I had the space, I would raise free-range chickens for their eggs. On a small piece of urban land there would be no rooster. However, on two or three acres there’d be a strutting head-of-the-hen-house rooster so I could always have farm fresh as well as fertilized eggs (go figure!).

If you’re short of trouble, take a goat.

~Finnish saying

The less-than-acre of land my brother and I grew up on was in a riverine part of the exurbs. Fertile, loamy alluvial soil produced bountiful crops of fruit and vegetables. Our parents raised chickens and owned four goats, April, May, June and Chloë. As soon as mom quit nursing us, my brother and I drank goat’s milk, not cow’s milk.

When my sons were young, we owned two goats. The first one, Rowan, was a just-weaned male given to me as a housewarming gift when we moved to a mini-farm. I guess he was too high class to eat the blackberries and weeds on the three acres— he sure had no problem at all munching on the flowers in my perennial gardens. After a year or so, we gave him to a local woman who said her pregnant goat needed the companionship of a neutered male (don’t we all?).

A year later, we adopted sweet, fully-grown Ms. Sylvia Goat. She loved to run, jump and play with my youngest son. She would even walk along with him on the roadway as he went to visit neighbors. Sylvia did have an issue with being “non-human” however. She really wanted to be with the family all the time.

One icy, bitter cold winter afternoon I heard what sounded like “Maaaa-maaaa, maaaa-maaa” coming from the back yard. I ran outside and just as I turned the corner of the house, I saw Sylvia paddling around in our above ground pool. Somehow she’d freed herself from her pen, climbed up on the wooden deck, slipped and fell through the cover over the 5’ deep pool.

Her cloven hooves were no help as she desperately tried to climb out. In the process of trying, she ripped much of the liner to shreds.

Fortunately my parents lived next door. Dad ran over to help me pull that wet, cold, frightened goat out of the water. Sylvia was none the worse for her escapades; however, we realized she needed more room to roam and more freedom than her daily romps with my son provided. A local family with other goats adopted Sylvia.

I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. 
Pigs treat us as equals.

~Winston Churchill

Over the years we raised three sets of pigs, two each time. Sonny and Cher were the first residents of the lean-to pied-à-terre built on the back side (downwind side) of our barn.

We’d heard all the stories about pigs favoring mud and wallowing in filth, about how noisy they could be. None of that dissuaded us. We loved the “end products” and my father offered to take care of their feedings when we were at work.

As much as one could read the mind of pigs, we figured out they really did appreciate clean bedding and good food. At least, we humans preferred to keep the pen clean and the food healthful, and the pigs didn’t seem to mind.

Those two pigs grew fat and healthy and the ham, bacon and pork chops from them proved to be worth our investment in time and money.

The next two were males: Barney and Fred. My dad did all of the feeding of these two and much of the “housekeeping” as both my husband and I were working full time. Dad, ever the frugal one, wasn’t feeding them as much as I felt necessary.

As with the first pair of pigs, when grocery shopping I stopped by the fresh food section to collect any fruit or vegetables heading to the discard bins. However, I went further with this second set:

My husband and I attended formal company banquets five or six times a year. In those days the banquet fare was usually steak, baked potato, a limp, gray-green vegetable and some nondescript dessert. At least half of the attendees left huge amounts of food on their plates. What a waste! My pigs would love this stuff!

One particular evening, dinner having been served and the speeches just beginning, I watched as the waitress moved up behind me, pushing her cart full of dirty dishes and assorted clumps of leftover food. As she leaned down to query me: “Are you finished, Ma’am?” I asked her, sotto voce, if there was any way I could collect all that discarded food for my pigs. “No problem, not at all. Sure, drive around the back when you leave and I’ll have it in garbage bags for you.”

Oh, I felt so very proud of myself! My partner grinned knowingly when I told him about my coup. And, in an hour or so, there we were, he in tux and I in cocktail dress, hoisting four 30-gallon garbage bags full of table scraps into the trunk of our car.

The next day before wheel-barrowing the bags down to the barn, I looked into one of them. To my dismay, almost every half-eaten potato or steak had a cigarette butt mashed into it (oh yes, did I forget to say? Those were the days when smoking was allowed—every place!).

Well, MY pigs were not going to be fed cigarettes! Dishpan in hand, hour upon hour, I took every single bit of those leftovers into the kitchen sink, sorted through the garbage, found and discarded all the butts. Fred and Barney were forever grateful, of course.

By the time my family and I were raising the third and last set of pigs (two males again, Andy and Bax), we felt we knew what we were getting into. The boys and their dad picked up the two little weaners as soon as they could be taken from their momma and all went as planned with the care and feeding.

The time came for Andy and Bax, full-grown, healthy and quite active, to be taken to the abattoir. By this time, my father had sold his slat-sided trailer. However, we now owned an old car with a hatchback and no back seat. This rig had served us well for hauling hay, straw and animal feed. We saw no reason it couldn’t be just as good as the trailer for taking these piggies to market.