There I Go Again, Being Rude…

As we’re hustling and bustling to get the last of the holiday shopping done, it’s so easy to get annoyed with slowpokes who block our speed-walking through  a store on our lunch hours or with rude people who push ahead of us in line. But recently I heard a suggestion that totally revolutionized how I feel when that happens.

Whatever label you’ve just given that person who’s upsetting you–irritating, pushy, nasty, inconsiderate–put it into this sentence: There I go again, being…

There I go again, being pushy.

There I go again, being rude.

Wait a minute, you might say. I wasn’t the one who was doing that. Ah, but if you believe, like I do, that we’re all interconnected and that what you see is a reflection of what’s in your heart, then it’s easy to see that you made the choice to see rudeness or unkindness. And I find when I say that, it reminds me that I’ve done the same thing at times.

Perhaps that’s what’s meant by: There, but for the grace of God, go I…

Although some people use that to make themselves feel superior, if you think about it for a moment, you’ll realize you’re saying that any differences between you and the other person are because of grace. You are the same, but someone is looking at your actions through forgiving eyes. Now it’s your turn to do the same.

But the wonderful thing about this sentence is that you can use it when you see acts of kindness, generosity, and love.

There I go again, being generous and thoughtful.

There I go again, being helpful and considerate.

So while you’re shopping, which “you” will you see. I hope you have the special joy and privilege of seeing “you” through the eyes of a child, with all the magic and wonder that entails.

Simple Solution for Ending War

One great thing about researching for my current book project (on North American Tribes) is coming across interesting facts. I discovered that some of the California Indian nations had an unusual way of doing battle–one I think we might do well to emulate.

The opponents lined up facing each other and at a signal from their chiefs, who monitored the battle, they began firing arrows at each other. The battle ended when the first person died. That side was declared the loser, and everyone stopped shooting.

Battle over. Minimal casualties.

If either side felt they hadn’t gotten enough satisfaction, the two chiefs set up another battle in a different location ten day later. Same rules. If during the battle, things got out of hand or too many people were hurt, the chiefs took off their hairnets and waved them in the air. Fighting stopped instantly.

That ten day cooling off period was a terrific idea. I wonder how many fights got called off during that time as ration prevailed over emotion.

I’m thinking we could learn a lot from this. Although I’d love to see a world completely at peace, this might be a solution to the horrible carnage of war. Limit the deaths to one rather than thousands.

The more I read the accounts of European explorers and American settlers, the more I have to wonder about the label, “savages” that the Euro-Americans used for the Native nations. Who really were the savages?

Why I Don’t Like Dogs–& It’s Not Why You Might Think

OK, I’m ducking here as all the dog lovers of the world throw rotten fruit and veggies at me. But bear with me. I began my life as a dog-lover. There are pictures of me as an infant cuddled up with our cocker spaniel, Ginger. When I was in grade school, I was a dog magnet. Every stray in the world followed me home. It might have helped that I usually held out a bit of bologna from the sandwiches I hated at lunchtime. But invariably day after day, I’d have dogs literally eating out of my hand.

I petted mangy, flea-infested beasts with the same affection I showed my baby brother (Yes, I adored him. Can’t say the same for my sister, however, although we did become friends after we grew up.) I sneaked food out to them if I could manage to keep them hidden. But my mother was the dog police. You’d think having had a dog, she’d be sympathetic to my obsession. But we’d given our dog away when we moved out of the country. By the time we returned to the U.S., she’d turned anti-dog. So I knew better than to bring them into the house. I hid them behind the shed which had a shaded overhang.

Then I made surreptitious trips to the refrigerator, and all the loose dogs in the neighborhood feasted on pot roast and chicken. Some even broke free of their chains to visit me. I’d fed a stray and get attached. I’d lay beside them with my arms around them as they slept. I groomed them with hairbrushes I sneaked from the house. I borrowed china bowls from the holiday dishes (figuring they’d be missed least) for water. I took good care of the dogs. And they’d repay me by licking my face, greeting me when I returned home from school, howling at night when I went in to bed. Some even followed me to school and lay panting in the schoolyard until I emerged at the end of the day.

But here’s the sad part. They always broke my heart. After a few days (or sometimes weeks if I was lucky), the dog disappeared. I’d come home from school, and my best friend would have taken off for parts unknown. I sobbed into my pillow at night and moped around the house. I thought they didn’t love me any more. I had no idea what I’d done wrong. Why I couldn’t manage to keep a pet. It was years before I discovered the truth.

Every dog I’d brought home ended up at the pound. Then the same neighbor girl who gave me that information also explained that the pound killed the dogs and chopped them up for hamburger meat.* I was devastated. I thought I’d been helping strays. Instead I’d been turning them into meat. I refused to eat hamburgers after that. And it was months before I spoke to my mother after I discovered she was the one who’d dragged of all my pets to the pound.

So now I can’t be around a dog without feeling sad. I don’t want to pet one or let it worm its furry way into my heart. After all, you never know when a dogcatcher might be just around the corner.

* It was many years before I discovered this neighbor girl had a penchant for exaggeration.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot? Definitely

In keeping with my theme of nonforgiveness (see previous post), I thought I’d think of people in my life I forgave, but probably shouldn’t have.  If I’d known about this research earlier in life, just think how many people I could have helped.

I’ll start with my high school nemesis who stole my almost-boyfriend. OK, so he and I had sort of gone on one date together. Or rather we tried to. Friends who know how directionally challenged I am will not be surprised to hear that instead of heading north on the highway to our destination, I accidentally turned south, and never realized my mistake until we crossed the state line. He had let me choose our destination (big mistake!), so he had no idea what I had in mind. So that semi-date plus one phone call the week before to let me know he’d flunked his driver’s test was the extent of our relationship to that point. Still I had high hopes.

The holidays were approaching, and I felt sure I’d have a date with him for the next big to-do. Because he didn’t have his license, I’d figure we’d meet there. So I dressed to kill and spent half an hour trying to discourage friends from taking the seat I was saving for HIM.

Meet there we did. And he was as romantic as I dreamed he’d be, except the person he was cuddling was not me. Yep, she was holding his hand, wrapping her arm around him, while I pretended I hadn’t been saving that seat for anyone special.

After crying for hours that night, I resolved to be nice to both of them. And I was. I never said a word to either of them about my broken heart (she’d known I had a crush on him), and I stayed friends with them.  Too bad I didn’t know about this grudge-holding research. I might have come up with some harsh consequences that would have made them both think twice about what they’d done. As it turned out, a few months later she broke my best friend’s heart when she stole her steady boyfriend. And then six months later cheated on him with my neighbor’s fiance. Who knows how much heartache I could have saved others by being unforgiving.

So what auld acquaintances in your life do you wish you could forget?

Don’t Forgive or Forget

Forgiveness is a good thing, right? Not really…

Forgiveness has always come fairly easy for me. It’s tough for me to hold grudges. It may be because I know my faults, so I’m more than willing to give other people the benefit of the doubt. Plus, I know I’ve been forgiven, so I believe I should extend that to others.

It recently came as quite a shock to discover that what I’d always thought of as a virtue is actually not. According to a recent study, people who forgive are more likely to become victims of abusers. Researchers discovered that forgiving offenses means that other people learn there are no negative consequences for their actions, so they’re much more likely to behave badly again. Thus people who hold grudges are actually doing the world a service by helping others become better people.

So if I truly want to help others, perhaps my new slogan should be: Forgive and Forget? Never!

I posted a forget-me-not because I usually forget my resolutions within a few days or weeks at most. I wonder how long I’ll be able to keep this one.

Are You Feeling Depressed?

I love Eureka! moments. And I had one today. I’ve been sailing along, thinking of how great things have been going.

I’ve tackled lots of projects weighing on my mind by setting aside a Procras- tination Day once a week. I’ve felt lighter and airier without all that guilt holding me back.

I completed a huge assign- ment of 133 articles a week before they were due. (Anyone who knows what a procrastinator I am will realize this was a major victory.) And I completed the art for two book projects within the past two months.

I’m excited about the way my business is going, and I just returned from a terrific conference with Donald Maass that energized me. So why was I feeling so down?

Sure, the weather’s a bit rainy, so it’s dark and depressing outside, but what does that have to do with my internal landscape? Wallowing isn’t usually my nature, but I couldn’t shake this depression that gripped me. I do find, though, when I ask a question out loud, I always get an answer. (And that includes those “Why me,Lord?” ones I sometimes utter.) I don’t necessarily like the response, but it’s always apropos.

Today I asked, “Why am I depressed?”, and got my reply a few minutes later. My Google Alerts, which often drags in many unrelated items, did so again this morning. But I couldn’t resist taking a peek at The Big Leap by Gay Hendricks. I’m so glad I did, because I ran across the following sentence:

“I manufactured the stream of painful images because I was feeling good! Some part of me was afraid of enjoying positive energy for any extended period of time.” ~p. 5-6

Talk about a Eureka! moment. I decided to let myself enjoy my successes and positive moments. Not sure if it was coincidence or the power of positive thinking, but the minute I did, the rain cleared up and the day became sunny.

Procrastination Day

My overflowing to-do list resembled this mountain to the left. And as new snow piles up on the old, that weight compresses the older snow underneath. (which is how glaciers form–they become hard-packed ice underneath.) I was afraid I’d soon have an avalanche if I didn’t start chipping away at some of that ice that had been forming since the last Ice Age.

So I declared a Procrastination Day. OK, so maybe it sounds more like I planned to spend to spend the day procrastinating. That does sound rather appealing. Instead, I took a whole day and did nothing but complete tasks I’d been procrastinating about doing–some for months, others for much, much longer.

All day long I tackled dreaded phone calls, long overdue emails/letters, chores I despise, and unfinished projects that I’d shoved to the back of the closet or buried in the “someday” pile. At the end of the day, I’d completed 22 items that had been moldering on my to-do list for ages. Wow, did that feel good!

So now I’ve decided to hold Procrastination Day again today. Anyone want to join me?

Exploring Your Creative Gifts

As I said in a previous post, I’ve heard that the number 11 symbolizes creativity. If that is so, then this year is a year for exploration and creativity. I’d like to focus on ways to open up the creative mind. And what better day to start than 1-11-11? I’ve done a great deal of reading on creativity — my master’s thesis was on stimulating creativity in art education. My premise was that everyone was born an artist (and I believe that applies to music, writing, art, and all other creative endeavors), but that early experiences stunt creativity. In addition to ways to improve art education for school students, a portion of my thesis focused on helping adult regain their creativity.

As a writer and an artist, I surround myself with creative, talented people. And one thing I find is that most of them do not lose their childlike engagement with the world. That, I believe, is one of the most important elements in stimulating creativity—a sense of wonder. A willingness to suspend disbelief, to explore with an open mind.

That is the gift I’d love to give everyone this year.

Ghostwriting

I began a totally new project in December–ghostwriting a romance. I’ve ghostwritten nonfiction, but this is my first attempt at working from someone else’s synopsis. That’s been a challenge.

I find that my brain starts popping out kernels of ideas until I have bowls full of popcorn, but I have to sweep more than half of it in the trash because it doesn’t fit the outline I’ve been given. I’m convinced that my additions would make for a better, stronger story, but they’d take the book in a totally different direction.

I guess writing to a preset outline is good discipline, as is setting aside several hours a day to work on fiction writing, but I wonder if my creative brain will suffer if I constantly ignore its ideas and directives. Any thoughts?

Why Do Artists Live Longer than Politicians?

Recently, I’ve been working on an assignment that requires a series of bios of famous and semi-famous people from around the world throughout history, and I discovered something interesting. Almost invariably, the artists, composers, moviemakers, and writers lived well into their 90s; an amazing number even made it past 100. Many politicians, kings, and government leaders died young.  Of course, coups and assassinations cut some of their lives short, but even those who died of natural causes lived a much shorter time than those who were involved in the arts. Even during eras when living to 40 was considered normal, artists generally outlived their contemporaries by 20-30 years. When artists died young, it was often because they took their own lives, so it’s hard to know how long they would have lived, if they’d given themselves a chance.

So what it is about the arts that leads to longeviety? I’ve pondered this and wonder if it’s because artists approach life differently. Politicians often have driving needs to compete, to be first, to get to the top of the heap. Once there, they have additional stresses heaped on them. Artists spend their time creating more often than competing. That’s not to say there isn’t competition in the arts, but given a choice between winning or creating, most artists choose the latter.

I suspect, too, that artists’ angst and stress often get expressed through creative work, so although many artists struggle to make a living, they transform their problems into something outside themselves. When they lose themselves in their work, many of those stresses disappear, even if only temporarily.

Creativity may also give artists an edge in solving problems; they’re usually willing to think outside the box. And the act of creation is life-giving and energetic, so perhaps artists benefit internally as they share their gifts.  Art renews the mind and the spirit. So every day artists may be renewing themselves as they work.

But I think the real secret is the childlike wonder and unique approach to life that many artists have. Most keep their youthful and innocent eye as they age, so their internal age is much younger and more vibrant than their external age. Have you ever noticed that many artists have an aliveness and a sparkle to their eyes, their features? They think and speak excitedly about their next projects. Perhaps they’re less likely to give up on life because they have another project they’re just dying  to do. (or maybe not…perhaps it’s a project they’re just living to do.)