Reflections

Harvest of the Senses

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Like kamikazes sacrificially plummeting from the sky, I watched some of the first leaves fall to earth yesterday. Which always makes me sad. Though I cannot blame them… It’s been a long, hot, thirsty summer and frankly I am amazed at their capacity to have held on this long with little to no liquid nourishment from above.

Autumn is without a doubt my favorite season as it unwaveringly causes me to become reflective. For some, reflection comes with the arrival of the New Year… 365 pre-packaged days bursting with possibility. Or perhaps it is spring that stirs within others dreams of opportunity and renewal. But for me, there is no time of year where change is as palpable as in the fall.

If you will, consider how all five of our senses are engaged during the transition that accompanies fall…

The wind feels cooler against our skin that—not long ago bare—is now covered with softer, warmer fabrics.

The air smells crisper, edged with the saccharine scent of our biological world as it breaks down around us.

Our palette changes to accommodate warmer things, tasting both spicy and sweet.

Our sight is continually stimulated by the brilliant colors and shifting shades of the leaves, grasses and the fields of the harvest.

Our surroundings grow quieter and still as the cool weather begins to slow us down. And all that can be heard is the distant falling, rustling and crunching of the leaves as they give themselves over to Time.

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Remembering…

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Admittedly, I had another post all set to publish this morning. And I suppose you could attribute that to the fact that September 11, 2001 is drifting further and further away from us as the calendar pages fly. Increasingly, today feels like any other day. I’m not sure if that is a sign of healing or complacency… a good thing or a bad one. But as I woke and listened to the news and was reminded of the gruesome reality and continued significance of this day — I could not help but feel the need to pay homage to those lost on that Tuesday morning that was “just like every other morning.”

This photo was taken in February at the 9/11 memorial when we visited this year. The morning we wandered these sacred grounds was one of mixed emotion. On the one hand, I felt so fortunate to be able to take in this site with Lee… To have personally come full-circle by standing so near the void of those towers and taking in, with amazement, the wonder of how such a place of horror can be restored. Yet on the other hand, to wish—as I ran my gloved fingers over the names forever etched into history on the sobering black stone that surrounded each tower’s footprint—that this memorial need not to have been created in the first place.

A Productive Revelation

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Although I find the 6 a.m. alarm to be extremely unsettling — it doesn’t take long to remember why it is so rudely and obnoxiously invading my dreams. I have somewhere to be. My day has structure and meaning again. And it is a good feeling. I am employed… at least for now.

As a freelance graphic designer, the position is a contracted one. Meaning that it will come to an end when the workflow shifts and the company no longer needs me. But it is employment nonetheless and a paycheck and experience and a source for networking as well as a means to generate additional items to place in the portfolio.

However, after seven months of NOT working, it is a stark change when compared to my typical non-structured day of snoozing until I feel like it, noontime bagel eating, bad TV watching and mind-numbing internet surfing. So far (albeit surprisingly) my nostalgia for all things lazy has not overshadowed the joy I find in being productive. I know. No one is MORE shocked than I am at this startling revelation.

It seems I expend vast amounts of mental energy imagining and writing about what it might be like to NEVER have to work. To live a life of leisure and of privilege. To NEVER interact with others… that is, unless I want to. But thou shalt never underestimate the positive power of productivity. Here are just a few things no one ever tells you about going BACK to work…

  • That coffee tastes and smells so much better in your work mug than in your cups at home.
  • That the idle chatter of co-workers can be much more entertaining than Lifetime television.
  • That slipping into a great pair of heels boosts more than your overall height.
  • That too much time spent alone with bagels, bad TV and one’s own thoughts is a dangerous thing. (See previous post)
  • That leaving the house miraculously helps you to pinpoint precisely where you are.

Understanding that my time in this new role is most likely limited… I’ve got to follow the advice of 38 Special and Hold on Loosely. Yes, I know that reference dates me a bit. Please stop doing the math, I’m trying to make a point. Like willing oneself not to fall too deeply in love with a warm, squiggly puppy you realize you cannot keep — I must hold my affection for my new (temporary) lot at arm’s length.

And hopefully—when all is said and done—I will have been reminded of where I am, where I’m going, all I have to offer and how great it feels to be a participant again. Even if that means getting up at the unnatural, ungodly hour of 6 a.m.

Averse to Adversity

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I had an epiphany the other day. I’m not talking about the kind where I suddenly figured out that my new nightly chocolate ritual was beginning to make my ass fat. But the kind that I honestly believe could be life-changing. Or rather…. it WOULD be if I chose to examine it, learn from it and make some adjustments.

Bet you can’t wait to know what it is? Unless, of course, you read the title or drew some sort of a conclusion from the super adorable picture that I just HAD to use to assist in illustrating my point — in which case, you probably already have your suspicions. Anyhoo, brilliant deductions, sneaking suspicions or not, I’ll fill you in. All of my life I have had trouble with… drumroll pleeeeze… Adversity.

There. I’ve put it out there for all the world to see. Or at least the 200 people (give or take) who regularly read this blog.

Websters defines Adversity as: 1. distress; affliction; hardship and 2. an unfortunate event or incident

I know what you’re thinking… Who doesn’t have “trouble” with distress, affliction or hardship? Right? But honestly… I mean seriously… I. Have. Trouble. With. Resistance. Of any kind. And I think in some cases, there is evidence to support the theory that I may actually MAKE trouble for myself.

<< As an aside for any potential, future employer(s) out there who may be reading this and who may or may NOT be considering me for some form of professional position — let it be known that I do NOT make trouble for other people… I actually play really well with others. You can ask any of my references or teachers. >>

I am purely masochistic about this. I only do it to myself. The primary problem being that I suspect I actually LOOK for it in my life. And this is really quite amazing given that I am someone who runs around all giggly and bubbly claiming to DESIRE happiness and merriment wherever I go and with whomever I choose to spend time.

Hello, my name is Joanna and I am EXPERTLY PROFICIENT at making mountains out of molehills.

All my life I have been told to develop a thicker skin. By everyone. By people I love, by people I never thought much of and (in hindsight) by people I have hated. That in and of itself should’ve shown me something. The sheer VOLUME of people telling me that I needed to grow a thicker skin, get over it, lighten up, stop being so serious all the time and to stop taking everything so damn personally SHOULD have had an effect by now. Shouldn’t it?

Yet, as I contemplate my 37 years on this earth—paying particular attention to the last 20 where I have supposedly been an “adult”—a pattern has begun to emerge. I don’t deal well with “distress, affliction or hardship” when it happens to me. If it is happening in someone else’s life I tend to step up to the plate. But when the trouble finds me… when adversity has knocked on my door… I really do take it personally. And oftentimes, I’m ashamed to admit… I freak out.

When things haven’t gone the way I planned… When someone is rude or addresses me in a harsh tone… When I don’t “click” with a person at the office… Whenever ANYTHING does not turn out the way that I think it should—which, by the way, is nothing SHORT of sunshine and roses—I cave. I fold like a bad poker hand or I wither or melt. Choose your metaphor. There are plenty. And in this case they are all the same.

Who the hell do I think I am that difficulty should avoid me? It’s rather narcississtic when I really think about it. Perhaps if I can truly begin to recognize that I am not special in facing adversity and remember that everyone shoulders some form of hurt or disappointment in this lifetime, then maybe… just maybe I will learn to freak out less. And I will learn to remain on my feet, keeping my collective shit together while standing firm in my new and thicker skin.

Breaking Bread (or Beignets) in New Orleans

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Technology has, undoubtedly, shrunken our world. Day after day, year after year our world grows smaller and smaller as the opportunity for simultaneous, spontaneous and continuous interaction grows larger and larger. It is no longer an accomplishment of note to be “in touch” with others all over the globe 24/7.

But I believe that no matter the amount of unbroken digital and virtual contact we may have at any given time — it will never replace the genuine sense of community and closeness that can only be derived from the good, old-fashioned practice that is the breaking of bread.

A little over a week ago I had the rare privilege of contacting someone who has—over the course of the last year—become a close virtual friend. I “met” Paige here on WordPress when we both began blogging around the same time last summer. Our stories almost mirrored one another in a way that only happens once in a great while… and a kinship was formed.

Lee and I made a rather snappy decision to head south to New Orleans one day and with my bag already hastily packed with the most humidity-friendly garments I could find… I was emailing her the very next. She called me when I was somewhere between Montgomery and Mobile and we made plans to meet for lunch in the French Quarter the day after next.

I was still absorbing the sights, sounds and smells of the very unique Crescent City when I heard a small voice behind me calling out my name. Pictures can only do so much to help identify a person and in a Sunday afternoon crowd in Jackson Square… it can be a little tricky to spot a pixelated pal. It was Paige and her boyfriend Caleb and although we had never before met in person, I felt like I already knew her.

We picked up our conversation wherever we’d left off when last communicating online but bits of disbelief lingered about the fact that we were actually, literally sitting across from one another and speaking rather than typing our thoughts. Although our afternoon together was too short, I was infinitely grateful that the stars had aligned just so for that brief period of time.

And I was reminded that yes, technology HAS made it possible to sit behind this computer of mine for hours on end and connect with wonderful people all over the world… But it is also possible to occasionally get out from behind my monitor and keyboard and hop in the car or board a plane and meet those same wonderful people face-to-face.

Thank you Paige and Caleb for showing us a wonderful time in your fabulous city!  You can check out her blog at: http://sideoftheleaf.wordpress.com/

Puttin’ On My Big Girl Pants

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In my twenties, when I was as young and stupid as a brand new puppy dog, I had a co-worker who was a few years older. She was a new mother and I often asked her how things were going with the baby.

I’ll never forget her reply one time as it was as funny as it was true. She recounted to me a morning where her daughter (let’s call her Danielle) was sitting at the kitchen table in her high chair and just wailing. Nothing would pacify her, so her mother—as many new moms often do—was reaching the point of exasperation.

She heaved a heavy sigh, looked around the room (that was empty save for my friend and her daughter) and thought aloud to Danielle: “Oh how I wish your mommy could just swoop in and make things all better for you!” It was then that my friend realized that the “mommy” in this scenario—the only one around at the time to do the heavy lifting and the one to be the savior—was her.

As adults, how many of us have found ourselves in a similar situation? When faced with something that seems insurmountable, we look up, down and all around for someone who can save us from ourselves. Be it a knight in shining armor, a fairy godmother or a full-blown cavalry — we honestly hope (if only for a second) that there might actually be an easier way out. But often times this is not the case. Increasingly as we age the only one who can deliver us from the stiff challenges of adulthood is the very one who stands before us in the mirror.

In less than four months, my fiance has lost both his father and mother. And I have been unable to do anything but stand by and watch. Don’t get me wrong, I can lend a listening ear, fetch a sandwich or two and make the occasional phone call, but short of a miracle of biblical proportion, there is nothing else I can do but hold his hand and slog through the muck and the mire right along with him.

There have been numerous arrangements to be made and entire lifetimes of memories to be carefully sifted, sorted and packed away for safe-keeping. Not unlike my co-worker and her child in need of comfort—there is no one else around to do the heavy lifting. There is no knight in shining armor, fairy godmother or cavalry to swoop in and “make things all better” like when we were children. And similar to my friend in becoming a new parent… I’m certain there were no instructions in the handbook on how to do this.

This time there is only him and there is only me wandering aimlessly about in Grownupland. I can wish all I want for someone else to shoulder the burden and do the work. But at the end of the day I am met with the realization that adulthood in it’s purest form is when you’ve looked around and discovered there is nothing left to do but suck it up and put on those big girl pants — however reluctantly.

Anniversary of the Thrisis

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I don’t believe in magic and I must admit that there are times when I (a self-professed dreamer) am not even certain there’s such a thing as fate. But there I was at the local library—in the middle of “Fiction K-M”—hoping and praying that the right book would miraculously pop out in front of me, making it’s life-altering, earth-shattering presence known.

Unfortunately, it was not to be… admittedly, as a graphic designer as well as would-be writer, I DO judge books by their covers and nothing was grabbing me. Though I did leave with some lovely, conciliatory parting gifts in the form of an Ernest Hemingway documentary on DVD and an Annie Proulx novel I’d never heard of before.

I’d gone to my local library under the guise of obtaining a card and becoming a registered voter in my new county of residence. Though truthfully I was there for some much-needed inspiration. Wandering amidst endless titles of some brilliant and some not-so-brilliant works of literature, I had hoped that somehow some “Word Magic” would rub off.

You see, today, June 28th, is the one-year anniversary of “Woman In Thrisis” and I had hoped to have something genius and inspired to share for the anniversary entry! But alas, these days I have been cheating on my blog with Linked In, Indeed, Google Maps and Monster.com in order to secure full-time, PAID employment… and I fear that all of the rejection and searching is zapping my creative energy.

So, however uninspired this may be right now… June 28, 2012… I felt a Happy Birthday wish was in order anyway! It truly has been an amazing and fun ride so far. I have connected with so many great people all over the world as a result and feel that I have created a tiny corner of cyber space to inhabit and share my musings.

As for this first year “By the Numbers” (not that it matters as much as it IS nice to record)… I have written 195 posts, grabbed (and desperately hope to keep) 180 faithful followers. The blog has been viewed over 43,500 times and had the blissful honor of being “Freshly Pressed” once.

With the big 4-0 sitting out there on the distant (but not nearly distant ENOUGH) horizon, a few years from now… a name change for “Woman In Thrisis” will most likely be in order. But until then… fingers crossed that I will find as much joy and fufillment in year two as I have in this one.

Thanks for tuning in everyone!

A Supporting Role

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One of the reasons I have been writing so little these days is that I am currently leading a very small existence. And a smaller existence does not typically lend itself to interesting adventures, misadventures, witty observations or deep philosophical epiphanies.

It has, however, offered a few “A-Ha” moments along the way.

A lot of language gets thrown around about our own personal “journeys” and how important and unique they are. And especially how we must make the MOST of OUR journey and do everything in our power to ensure that OUR journey is the BEST journey it can be. Stop by any newsstand these days, take a peek at the women’s magazines especially and you’ll see what I mean.

But last weekend as I reflected on my scaled-down activities as of late… the week now behind and the one that was in front of me, I got to thinking… maybe my existence isn’t always about MY journey like the world would have me believe. Maybe, at times, I am merely playing a part in another person’s journey. End of story.

The smaller existence I am referring to is that I currently have no “real” job offering me zilch when it comes to my own daily, defined purpose. There is no need to get things dry cleaned these days or to attempt the nitty-gritty navigatation of office politics. Since I am not around the water cooler or the break room, there are very few people to discuss the media circus and lunacy that is the presidential campaign or Snooki’s fitness for motherhood.

Currently my job—which I must mention, is one that I gladly volunteered for—has been to help provide and manage the care of my soon-to-be father-in-law in the wake of his wife’s sudden passing. And let me tell you that for me this is an entirely new experience. I have no children and have worked in an office all of my adult life… providing me ZERO experience in caring for another person.

This new experience includes (but is not necessarily limited to): Making repeated (often maddening and fruitless) phone calls to various outside entities designed to help in situations such as this one. Ensuring that he gets his medicine on time, all day, everyday. Making sure he eats or is offered some healthy food throughout the day. Keeping him company by sitting on the porch making small talk, petting the cats that he loves to feed and laughing about the things the neighbors do.

I know I’ve sort of stated this before, so forgive me if this post feels a bit redundant. I told you I didn’t have a lot to write about these days. But it did occur to me that this “season” in my life is not about me. The world teaches us that we must be the star of our own show — all the time. Well, I am here to tell you that this doesn’t appear to be the case.

Sometimes our name is NOT one that will appear at the top of the playbill. Sometimes there will be little, if any, applause. Sometimes ours is merely the role of supporting character… and the majority of our time will be spent behind the curtain.

The Backseat of the Bus

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Being a self-sufficient, single woman with no children for the majority of my thirties, I have been allowed to be—shall we say—selfish. There is no mistaking the fact that it has been “all about me” for quite some time now and honestly I have, admittedly, had no problem with that.

Life is pretty simple and things tend to go “my way” when I am the only one making the decisions and calling all the shots… for myself. For example, I have thus far used some form of the words “I” or “me” NINE times in this entry. See what I mean? (OK, make that 10).

So if being in the driver’s seat has been my status quo for so long — you can only imagine the adjustment that might be required if or when the time comes that said seat should be forfeited for any reason.

With the recent loss of my fiance’s mother, I have found myself in a brand new seat. As I struggled, after the first two weeks, at the advent of my new seating assignment, my mother said to me: “Joanna, it is time now for you to take a backseat on the bus.”

Of course she was referring to being the support person for someone whose needs are far greater than my own. Her words have been such a perfect reminder of precisely what my role is right now. And her wisdom and way of thinking has inspired me to fully embrace the responsibilities that accompany the view from the back.

It has been from the vantage point of this new place that I have begun to “see” many new things for the very first time.

I have seen that…

  • It is much easier to push than to pull, therefore helping someone from behind rather than in front.
  • I am capable of caring more for another person than I ever dreamed possible.
  • Suddenly I have all the strength I need to do what is necessary for the other.
  • The world exists largely in that which lies beyond my own reflection and it is a whole lot bigger than I ever thought it was.
  • I can be much more useful offering a hand in someone else’s journey when I am not so focused on the drama, flaws or calamities of my own.
  • The obstacles I thought were mountains usually are mere molehills.

So as it turns out — the view from the “back of the bus” really is the one that offers the best perspective of all.

Slow Learner

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I rolled my eyes in bitter disgust at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I was, as many women do, taking in one final overview before heading out.

And let me tell you that yesterday’s “overview” was not so bright. In fact, if ever there were a day to Photoshop one’s own face… this was it.

With one blemish on it’s way out but still lingering over the threshold of my cheek and a brand-spanking-new shiny one announcing it’s rude and unwelcome arrival, I was not in the greatest of moods.

Add to those two little dermatological gems the half-inch evidence mark of what is now being referred to as the “curling iron incident” from two days prior and yes… I was disgusted.

Really? I am 37 years old. I am starting to get laugh lines and on occasion, a few grey hairs at my temples. I SHOULD NOT still be getting pimples and I most certainly SHOULD know how to handle a searing-hot hair implement by now. In fact, shouldn’t there be a law that zits and wrinkles NOT be permitted to occupy the same space? I know I’ve brought up that issue before! UGH.

Strolling down the center aisle of the local drug store I spotted a former classmate I’ve not seen in at least 18 years. I immediately became entranced by a bin of $4 DVDs — sifting through them with great care and reviewing the plot summaries with unbelievable laser-like focus.

Once he passed by I moved down the aisle in search of what I’d come for. “THAT was close!” I said to myself and pressed on. “Hopefully I can slip out of here unnoticed and spend the remainder of the day locked up safely in the house, praying for the pimple cream and neosporin to work their medicinal magic.”

On my way to check out, a woman about my age caught my attention. The first thing I noticed about her was her height. (Standing at a whopping 5’2″ I am intrigued by any female over 5’7″) The second thing I noticed was the manner in which she was holding her head up high as though searching the store for her spouse or child.

It wasn’t until I got much closer that I noticed the skin grafts. They covered her entire face. I was quick to look away as I did not want to stare, but as I turned away I felt heat spreading up through my neck and cheeks as I flushed at my own ridiculous vanity.

“Reality check girl.” My inner voice then said to me. How dare you be so self-absorbed and obsessed with a few stupid temporary blemishes that no one would even care enough to notice when it could—in reality—be so much more than that!

I’ve shared posts similar to this one in the past… but obviously I am a slow learner. I’ll likely never know her story or her name, but hopefully the image of her standing tall, head held high and fearlessly facing the world around her is one not soon to be forgotten.

“Youthful beauty fades with time, but, with cultivation, inner beauty grows richer.”