Category: Work

Uncategorized, Work

knowing your why

Fastener Gal

For the first two weeks of my new job I wondered why I chose to leave my old one.

On my first day of work I had to sign multiple forms and one of them was entitled, “Incompatible Activities.” The nature of my work requires objectivity and in the back of my mind, I had known I would not be able to visit my former workplace; that there would be a conflict of interest.

What I discovered was that I also had to let my relationships with both the residents and former co-workers go.

I struggled with this and both my immediate and regional bosses understood my sense of loss for they too had come from the private sector years ago. I had cultivated these relationships for almost five years and my territory does not include my former workplace.

My regional boss said it would get easier to let them go, that it became too messy; as she knew from her own experience.

I had known I would be saying goodbye but I had erroneously thought I could still see my former coworkers for dinners or baby showers. I began to realize that our bonds were closely associated with work. That our personal lives were very separate.

I miss the residents I used to be with every day. A few shared they felt a sense of betrayal; they had thought I would remain with them until I chose to retire. They didn’t understand why I chose to leave.

My new work place is very different from where I came from. I am the new person and there are already established cliques and routines. I have transferred from the private sector to government and most of my new coworkers have been government employees for a long time.

I am the anomaly.

anomaly: noun. 1.something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected.

Oxford Languages

I mourned this every morning during my commute. I worried that my twenty-two year old vehicle, that has been my trusted mode of transport all these years, wouldn’t get me to where I needed to be. I felt the tightness in my neck and shoulders each day as I traversed canyon roads that twisted and turned to my workplace over twenty miles away.

For two weeks I sat in my cubicle with earbuds in, pushing through mandatory trainings on my work laptop. I have completely left my comfort zone and am learning all things regulatory. I am grateful that my hire date coincided with two other people; both transferring from other government agencies. One of them took me under his wing to remind me to take a break, that we had an hour lunch, not the thirty minutes I was used to. The three of us navigate the office politics together.

On our last days of online mandatory training we sat in on a live session from our leadership team and the question posed to all of them was why they do what they do. As I heard their stories I was inspired. I noted the diversity in age, color, gender identity, educational and social backgrounds. I began to remember why I chose to step out of my comfort zone.

On a Saturday I spent seven hours detailing my vehicle. It had been years since I had done this and usually when my family asks what I want for my birthday, it is a car wash and detail. As I scrubbed hub caps and vacuumed my interior I had asked the hubs to check my oil levels and he promptly filled my vehicle. In my prior workplace the maintenance staff placed a corkboard in the middle of my assigned parking space to catch the oil slick that came from my older car.

I began to hear noises and smell burnt oil emanating from my vehicle and three days later my hubs was once again filling my oil tank. The hubs is the type of person who takes pride in manually fixing his vehicles but this fix would need to go to the shop. The cost would be more than my vehicle’s worth.

I am learning to let things go.

When our fourth new hire joined us on Thursday, I decided to pay it forward and asked her if she wanted to go on break with us. We remembered one another during the onboarding process and I was sad when I did not see her on my very first day.

As my other coworker and I stood by her cubicle, our regional boss noted what was happening and walked over and soon other coworkers came over to greet our newest hire. When she tried to give the credit to me I shared how my coworker, who stood nearby, had done the same for me. I registered the surprise on his flushed face as our big boss announced, this is how it should always be.

It is a little thing, to be welcoming. There is no hidden agenda in being kind.

The desktop calendar quote from Stephen Covey, the late author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, resonated,

What you do has far greater impact than what you say.

Stephen Covey

I no longer get teary as I drive past my former workplace every day to get to my new one. In my new workplace I remain being the person that I am. I don’t need to conform to what is expected or normal.

The quote, from the late Steve Jobs, is currently on my desk,

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.

Steve Jobs

I was grateful that my latest mammogram was normal. It is a reminder that life is short. Navigating through breast cancer made me take stock of what was important and I am blessed with people that accept me for who I am, flaws and all. That experience made me question what I wanted out of my finite life. What is my legacy? My sons are older and being a mother isn’t my primary role in life now. They are my legacy.

I had felt discontent in my former job even though I loved what I did. I had to discover what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had more to contribute if I could just figure out how.

I had to discover my why.

I spent the last six months doing just that, inquiring at my former workplace where my growth opportunities were and if they aligned with who I am. Who am I now? On a day when I felt particularly low, a song on my Spotify playlist came on that I used to play on repeat in college. I hadn’t heard it in years.

Music is one of those portals that can transport me to a particular time and place.

Hat to da back
I gotta kick my pants down real low (aww, yeah)
That’s the kinda girl I am
That’s the kinda girl I am
Hat to da back
I gotta kick my pants down real low
That’s the kinda girl that I am (aww, yeah)
Here we go, here we go, here we go again

TLC

Hearing the song reminded me of who I was then, my hopes and dreams as I was close to graduation. The excitement of what life had to offer. The song celebrates being who you are and not fitting in with the norms. Soon after that I had decided to cut my hair to the hairstyle I always used to have, an A-line bob. I remembered that period of my life and realized I had known then who I wanted to serve, I just chose a different profession.

I channeled my post-college self and reframed my career background and experiences to return to how I can serve the elderly. I had focused on health care, advocacy and hands-on careers but my true passion is public administration.

It was hard to put myself out there to step out of my comfort zone. I could easily have remained where I was and be complacent.

I felt affirmed yesterday when I went out in the field and shadowed my coworker. It happened to be at the sister community of my former one, the environment familiar. I had perspective viewing things on the regulatory side and as we sat at lunch my coworker commented that my pathway is very different from our peers and my background and experiences are most welcome.

I often remind myself that the title, salary, education or things that I own don’t define me but I would be lying to you. The opportunities that I have been given do rely on some of those things such as my education and the jobs I have held before. I desire things such as an updated vehicle to get me where I need to be.

I praise God and continue to practice patience and humility. He has other plans for me.

My pursuits have always been to serve the older population and, as lucrative as the private sector can be, the non-profit/public sectors align with my upbringing and my personal mission statement. As I sat among my peers at an all-staff meeting and listened to the agenda and discussion, my focus became crystal clear. I am grateful to have a seat at this table.

I know my why. My love language is service, after all.

Work

midlife career change

Fastener Gal

I worried about ageism as I began the job search process in my fifties. 

Ageism. noun. : prejudice or discrimination against people of a particular age and especially against the elderly.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

When I first contemplated a job change, last year, my husband wondered why? I work 1.6 miles from my home. I bring happiness and joy to my elderly residents in the large Residential Care Facility for the Elderly (RCFE) in which I work. It is a boutique community, beautifully appointed and I am able to plan and coordinate activities and events for any holiday or reason that I choose.

I have a deep love for the residents who grace me with their presence each and every day. I have been blessed with their wisdom and life stories which inspire me. Why would l want to leave this?

Growing up in a small, migrant town on the central coast, my parents did not celebrate any holidays except for Easter and Christmas. When I was engaged, and then married to my hubs of now twenty-five years, he couldn’t understand my need to decorate for every single holiday; even the obscure ones. As I became a parent I continued in this fashion and would throw playdates and parties to celebrate every holiday I did not celebrate as a kid. 

In my work place I carry that same vigor, already planning for the Lunar New Year on February 10th (the year of the Dragon), Super Bowl Sunday on the 11th, Mardi Gras on the 13th and Valentine’s/Ash Wednesday on the 14th. National Caregivers Day is on the 16th. Leap year on the 29th. Groundhog Day will be a happy hour with entertainment. And did I mention that February is Black History Month? 

Since I live in the community in which I work, I cross paths with many people from other sectors of my life. My co-workers laugh when people say they know me because, to them, it seems like I know most families whose loved ones reside in our community. My girlfriends volunteer their time and talents with: music, education, crafts and donations for our residents. It’s a beautiful thing.

Last July I had reached out to my employer to discover growth opportunities in my current role. And when I was interviewed for the logical position to follow, I realized that my present career path isn’t really where I want to be. In the end, that path was not offered to me and it made me assess where exactly I wanted to be.

Things happen for a reason.

It took several weeks for me to dig deep; going down several rabbit holes to figure out why I felt discontent. My love language is always in SERVICE and I longed to use my experiences and background to serve the elderly population in a different way. I felt I had outgrown my role and my growth mentality kept pushing me to find something different. 

I searched Indeed, Glassdoor; updated my LinkedIn profile and job searched. The job from my past that had always appealed to me required that I not work in a RCFE for one year. I began to despair; nothing out there seemed to fit me. My current connections are all in assisted living. I applied to jobs locally so that I could begin my year countdown until I could apply to the former job I desired. 

I found myself on online portals uploading transcripts, certificates and having to take timed tests. In my current role I am also a hiring manager so it was helpful to know how I use our applicant tracking system to screen for employment. This also brought me anxiety because I know that I can have several applicants with great qualifications and the deciding factor comes down to how this person will fit with the team. 

Would someone look at my age and think I wouldn’t fit based on how many more years I would have to contribute? Would my personality and experiences fit their teams? 

In late summer I discovered the job that would fit me best. The person in that role walked into our community and I knew. I immediately went online to discover how to apply for the job and within a week, submitted my application. Jobs in this field are few and far between and I checked the portal daily. There were only two positions and I quickly applied to them. I waited.

Three months went by and I knew I had to move on. I couldn’t put all of my eggs in one basket.

I sat in temporary staffing cubicles doing timed typing tests. My interviews involved panels of four or five people across a large table; their name badges and titles on tented name templates that I really couldn’t read. My questions were taped to the seat in front of me as the interviewers took turns asking questions. I was graded on my responses. One of the timed tests was as rigorous as the SAT Verbal section; essay included. 

I was discouraged and mentally exhausted. I had to ask myself again, why was I doing this? I have a perfectly good job and love what I do. My heart, though, wouldn’t let it rest. 

On the last day of November everything intersected. My workplace hosted a large event; which included higher-ups from the job I really wanted. I was coordinating behind-the-scenes and never got the opportunity to meet them since they were surrounded by the forty other participants who wanted their time. My former toxic boss was also a participant and when we crossed paths and hugged, it was at the exact moment that a culture changer was in a discussion with me about our company culture and why he felt such a positive vibe. What made our place so vibrant? I felt affirmed.

Today I received the conditional job offer from the job I really wanted. I had been shocked when the phone call initially came in December, that they had been trying to get a hold of me for an interview. I had been nervous and excited but it was close to the holidays and the busiest time for me at work; which distracted me. The second interview call came in late December and I began the new year behind yet another large conference table in a panel interview and timed verbal and written test. 

I cried. 

My husband had been home before he left to work when the call came. And then the second call came from the office that is closest to me geographically; the first interview where I felt that I fit the best. I was given the two offers for my desired position, all in one day!

I have been manifesting and praying that this opportunity would present itself. I am grateful that these agencies felt my background and experiences fit their teams. That my age is valued; not discriminated against. That I can continue to advocate for the elderly in my new role; one where I can actually make a difference.

I have arrived. I am so excited.

Work

door paths

Fastener Gal

I can count the days in my life when I knew my path had to change.

My pathway had been set. In my senior year one of my US Government assignments was to contact a government entity and to write about the experience. There was no world wide web or cell phones. Our home phone was the push button type with tiny numbers and a long curly cord that I always wrapped around my fingers.

It took some time for me to research, in the school library, the phone number of the government entity I wanted to contact. I was still quite shy so it took me several times to dial and not hang up for fear of having to talk with someone. I had chosen the 800 number to the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda, Maryland.

After a few days of procrastinating I finally let the line ring and a person, not an automated service, answered. The woman had to say her greeting twice before anything came out of my mouth and it took all the energy I had to request a brochure to be sent to my home address. She realized she was speaking to a young person and gently inquired as to why I was calling. But instead of explaining that it was my US Government assignment, I bluntly blurted out that my dad was dying of colon cancer.

She sent me many brochures and things to read. It had solidified my course that I would go pre-med. It was my father’s wishes that I do so and I was naturally inclined towards the sciences. I applied as a chemistry major to the four universities that I could apply to for free and one private one; knowing I couldn’t afford to go there.

But the doors opened and the scholarships came with them. The private university gave me the most money. Most importantly, it is where I met my tribe.

My life took me through the four years of university and my major changed from chemistry to gerontology; the study of aging. My goal was to be a geriatric oncologist and my pathway was clear. After one year at a medical school, I knew the path I had chosen wasn’t mine.

I think of this now as once again I consider where my path will take me. I have been blessed for the last few years to work as an activities director in a large residential care facility for the elderly (RCFE). I had chosen a job very close to home so that I could be near my sons as they finished out high school. Four years have flown by.

I’ve watched the growth opportunities for my co-workers and wondered if there were any for me. After some exploration I’ve discovered that it may be time for my path to change once again. There is no growth for me in my organization. I don’t fit.

The seed of discontent was planted when a coworker shared her salary at a retreat this past July. It chafed my hide that someone, whom I don’t have a lot of respect for, makes a much higher wage and has many growth opportunities.

I had been happy to dedicate my time and efforts to our community until I discovered that I was the only director who came in on almost all holidays to plan events and so I couldn’t execute my event this past 4th of July. I had shared my vision for weeks but none of them communicated that they would not be at work until the week before. I canceled my plans.

I noticed my fellow directors never came in and were bean counters about their hours. Last week one director wouldn’t even sing, “Happy Birthday” to a group of residents during a birthday lunch, because she “was on her lunch break.”

I was recently confronted by a few team members to not plan anymore events on Saturdays; these team members who always leave early or do the bare minimum to assist.

More often than not I find myself reframing my mind, reminding myself that I am here for the seniors who reside in our community. I had thought I’d found my niche. But there is so much more for me to give and I have many years left in the workforce. I am going to have to reinvent myself once again.

In midlife, how do people find growth opportunities?

As my 25th anniversary came and went, I reflected back on the years with my hubs. My assistant recently married in the month of July and I sense the joy and hopefulness in her married future. Of moving in together and fixing up a home. Having kids. Walking the dog and navigating holidays with families. The possibilities are endless.

I imagined myself twenty-five years ago thinking these same things. Although I am currently unfulfilled in my workplace, I have had some amazing moments these past twenty-five years; with the exception of 2011. I’ve buried my second parent, mothered three sons, raised a ferret, five cats and two dogs.

I have reinvented myself many times. The hubs and I survived. The women who served as my bridesmaids all those years ago are STILL part of my tribe; the family members, the girlfriends from childhood and college.

I should be used to this by now; of doors closing. In the past I found ways around them and opened new ones. But right now I feel stuck. Do doors open for women in midlife making a career change?

The hubs initially felt I was crazy. I live 1.6 miles away from my job site whereas he commutes an hour to his. I love providing activity programming and events, building relationships and hopefully improving our population’s quality of life in some way. But how do you explain that you feel there is more out there? That even though I love what I do, I still have more to give in other ways? That I need to be surrounded by people with my work ethic.

I suppose this is my own midlife crisis. Why close this door?

I will not-so-patiently wait to see what life brings. I don’t know where my path will take me next or what doors will open. But my heart tells me to give it my all and to grow. I don’t have anything to lose and everything to gain.

I only have this one life to live and it can end at any given moment. As I step through the threshold I must try.

hospitality, successful aging, Work

Finding my groove

Fastener Gal

Who knew that my recent health hiatus would give me my groove back?

I used to be a hospitable person.

hospitable definition from merriamwebster.com/dictionary/hospitable

1a: given to generous and cordial reception of guests a kind, hospitable people b: promising or suggesting generous and friendly welcome c: offering a pleasant or sustaining environment 2: readily receptive : OPEN

As a young girl I watched life go by my front window as my childhood friends dressed up for Halloween and people threw eggs at our front door. My parents didn’t celebrate most holidays, like the 4th of July, and didn’t wish to be near fireworks. Valentine’s Day was always a school party to exchange candy and cards. On St. Patrick’s Day I knew to pinch people not wearing green.

In my first year in college, during the Thanksgiving break when my father passed away of colon cancer, I returned to my dorm with a small, live “Charlie Brown” tree from a tree farm close to home. I placed it on the ledge with a few lights and decorations and as I’d return to my dorm after classes I would look up and see the tree on the 6th floor window and it would cheer me up. It was a little piece of home since college was three hours away.

This is when my holiday decorating began; at age eighteen.

Through the years I’ve tried to celebrate holidays. I enjoyed learning about the different cultural foods and traditions that brought meaning to celebrations and looked forward to re-creating them when I had a family of my own.

When my sons were young it was normal to have playdates and family parties at my home. My husband deployed often and so these get-togethers allowed me to meet others. As an only child I’ve always been drawn to observing people dynamics and being with large groups allowed me to experience this first-hand.

It was my form of “play.”

Until the parties became work. Drama would get in the way with kids or parents. Finances needed to be capped since hosting get togethers required money. Time was limited as my sons began soccer, swimming, golf and religious education.

Eventually I withdrew from hosting anything or anyone as I pondered why I went through all the busy-ness of hosting in the first place.

I learned to sit within my four walls. When raising kids it’s easy for mothers to put their family’s needs before their own. I had defined myself as mother and forgot the rest of myself.

And as my young sons became sullen and testosterone teens, they didn’t care for the celebrations and decorations. I was told it was a waste of time. My house remained unadorned for a few years. Then it went through a remodel when a water pipe leaked in our kitchen.

I pondered what was next in life for us as we transitioned out of the family business to CTRL-ALT-DEL our lives, re-starting anew to Life 2.0 as the great recession continued.

After a few fits and starts I eventually landed in my current workplace. Upon being interviewed by the executive director he had hoped that I would work in memory care but that position had been occupied. He asked if I’d be interested in activities with the intent of moving me when the memory care position was vacated.

What does activities do? my family asked. My answer. Anything to entertain over one-hundred plus elderly residents. No small task.

And then the pandemic hit.

The position in memory care opened up, as well as the admin position for activities. And though my resume and background matches me to memory care, I chose activities.

How do you entertain over one-hundred residents isolated in their apartments who can’t have family or visitors and who watch FOX News or CNN at high volume all-day for entertainment?

My learning curve was steep. Entertaining was work and I’ve had no experience in activities. I learned to flex as COVID guidelines constantly changed. We explored the rules of engagement, to reach our residents, as they spiraled into depression and anxiety.

I had to find my former hospitable self.

As the restrictions eased I was able to plan parties and celebrations; to try to regain some kind of normalcy after two years of lockdown. I was so excited to celebrate Halloween in our community once again, the holiday that I always missed as a young girl.

Until my breast cancer diagnosis came; my surgery scheduled. The entire month of October the Halloween festivities were left for my team to implement while I recovered at home.

Prior to my surgery I found myself nesting. I brought out my dusty Halloween spider my sons and father-in-law made over a decade ago and dragged my hubs around to purchase pink pumpkins with me.

If I had to be stuck at home for a month, I wanted it to be interesting to look at.

My sons nor hubs really noticed or cared how our home was decorated. Decorating my home for Halloween and Pink October brought me joy and I used my balloon garland fetish to create spider eggs.

I decorated for me.

Slowly, my hostess-with-the-mostest self began to return. I rediscovered my Pinterest account and pinned appetizers I wanted to incorporate for work happy hours and tiered-tray decor for my home tablescapes. Decorating for myself was liberating and my home became my canvas as I tried ideas I wanted to do at work.

I thought I’d be left alone to my own devices. But the month of October brought me countless visitors of friends both near and far. Some are within a few miles of my home who I hadn’t seen in months or years. The bff from 2,000 miles away landed on my doorstep. I had not seen her in-person since 2011.

I had not known my decorated home would host so many people!

As this Valentine’s day neared my assistant shared how she doesn’t enjoy receiving flowers; because they die. Flowers happen to be my love language and I shared that it’s because their beauty is short that makes me appreciate them all the more.

Nothing is forever. We have to appreciate the beauty before us each day; each moment.

Upon returning to work from medical leave I had to transition with the changing COVID guidelines as my workplace shut down to visitors to mitigate the Omicron strain. We’ve since re-opened and I am in event mode once-again.

I cursed the fates as this past week I hosted three parties within four days with book club in my home and Super Bowl/ Valentine’s Day back-to-back for work. I was working a six-day week to allow my staff some time-off; which meant I’d be hosting my work parties alone.

I got “Into the Groove” with Madonna and my 80s playlist while I cleaned my home for eight hours straight on my day-off. I didn’t know how many of our book club members would be coming to my book club. In the past these things would bother me, details and courtesies such as RSVPs, but over the years I’ve let those expectations go. I enjoy themes and plan my parties around them so the book by Miranda Cowley-Heller titled, “The Paper Palace” set my summer/ New England vibe.

I stood on the periphery as my home filled with fourteen of our nineteen book club members. It is rare for all of us to convene at the same time and it has been over a year since I’ve seen some of them. Our pet bunny rabbit’s ears were pinned to his body and I felt a little bit like him, overwhelmed by the bodies crowding into my family room and kitchen. I had not expected this many people and it was loud.

Thankfully, I made a lot of food and as everyone caught up, ate and drank I happily fell into my hostess role. My Bible Study at work knows that I am the Martha who is busy cooking and serving Jesus while her sister Mary sits at his feet listening to his words and teachings in Luke 10: 38-42. So after making sure plates were filled, I pointedly sat down among my thirteen other girlfriends in the loudness of my home. At 1 AM when the last of them left, I tiredly grinned. I have missed these ladies and our book discussion was lively and deep.

I brought out my home decorations as I prepared for our Super Bowl pre-party. I never know how many of our residents will decide to come and the chef had been falling behind. I worried that I’d have too much food with too little people. But as our theater filled and the Star Spangled banner was sung, I was happy to see the theater almost full.

The chef filled the chafing dishes with appetizers that were completely eaten by half-time. The drinks flowed, the game was a nail-biter but our home team pulled it out (Go Rams!) and everyone was vested in the game. I was grateful to the engagement coordinator who assisted me and our dining supervisor for bringing dinner to our residents so they could continue to watch the game. I watched half-time before heading out to my sister-in-law’s home to finish out the game with family.

The very next day I had to get my cupid groove on. I had chosen to host a formal Valentine’s dinner. My hubs and I choose not to go out to eat on Valentine’s day, due to the expected long wait times, and this inspired me to re-create the romantic restaurant vibe at work. My request to our entire assisted living community was to dress-up for dinner and I expected staff to do the same. I dug deep into my closet for the dress I wore to my husband’s naval aviation winging ceremony in April 1998. It still sort of fit!

I tiredly sat at my desk and hoped our residents would come or even dress up.

The week before many of them expressed that they did not have formal wear and had no use for heels and fancy clothes so what was the point of it all? I worried my last minute entertainer would not come through. He charged a premium and we had requested for him to come on Valentine’s day from 4-6pm during his prime time.

I silently crossed my fingers that it would come together as I stared at the mess of my office. Chinese New Year, football and Valentine’s day decor were strewn everywhere. I slipped on my heels and was ready to roll. It was GO time.

Our main dining room was full, as was our secondary dining room for our memory care residents. Our crooner sang for both groups and for the rest of this past week residents and staff expressed their appreciation for the fancy dinner and fabulous entertainer. A lot of our residents did find formal wear and I got teary seeing a few of them dressed up in heels and tuxes. For April or May I’m already thinking of a prom.

Being in your 80s and 90s doesn’t mean you can’t still dress up and have a good time. Just like the flowers, you have to enjoy life right now. Carpe diem and all that jazz.

Letting go of expectations has allowed me to enjoy these moments.

I came home to my family for a simple take-out meal from my favorite Indian restaurant on Valentine’s day. It was enough. My heart was full.

What makes a great party?

It doesn’t entail spending a lot of money, although for work I have a budget and I spend every dollar of it for our residents. The trick to being the hostess-with-the-mostest is in the thoughtful planning and details. To know how to read the room and engage people. Sure, it helps to have nice decorations, an entertainer/DJ/music but what makes the party are the guests invited to it.

You need to know your people or make it a point to get to know them. It’s all about social interaction. The rest of it falls into place.

It’s an unexpected gift to get my hospitable self back; to find my groove to celebrate all things big and small. Seize the day!

Being Catholic, friendships, successful aging, Work

my invaluable lesson

Fastener Gal

Every Monday I facilitate a Bible Study for a group of twelve to fifteen seniors. I hadn’t known it would be popular when I introduced it on my activities calendar. I have attempted to start a book club within the large residential care facility for the elderly (RCFE) where I work, to no avail.

It was month’s end and I busily inputted invoices, finalized and distributed calendars and events and the Bible study was the last thing on my mind. Thirty minutes prior I downloaded the study, printed, copied and collated and tried to read through the leader’s guide.

I am a voracious reader. I have helped start two different book clubs with people I didn’t know very well and both continue to thrive; one for twelve years this January and the other for five. My seniors are also avid readers so I thought it would be easy to start a book club at work.

One day, after sharing with a resident on reading the Bible in one year, in 2007, she asked why we couldn’t start a Bible study. I am not overtly religious and Catholicism is not a seeker faith like other Christian denominations. There are large mega-churches that surround my work place with leaders who lean political, evangelical and everything in-between. Our large resident population is just as diverse.

As we eased out of the COVID pandemic in Spring 2021 my first Bible Study was focused on how to deal with anxiety, fear and change.

The residents who regularly attended, and continue to attend, come from various Christian upbringings. Some easily quote verses while my fellow Catholic counterparts, and myself, learn how to maneuver through the various books of the Old and New Testaments. I applaud them for wanting to learn how to navigate the master book, though I feel ill equipped to bring them spiritual guidance.

I have asked several community members to help lead this group. Some are pastors, others laypersons. I have been blessed with the answers to my call. But my residents prefer that I facilitate the group.

Almost a year later I’ve realized that the Bible Study has become a spiritual support group; just as the other two book clubs I’m involved with are social support networks who originated with moms, teachers and administrators from my boys’ elementary school.

Reading discussion groups = social networks.

My family likes to joke that my book clubs are wine/whine clubs. But all kidding aside, I’ve had very intimate discussions with my fellow members and it is very affirming to know others hear you and validate your thoughts. We don’t always agree but we understand the need to be heard.

We can easily get lost in the busy-ness of our lives with kids, parents and work/volunteer commitments that we lose sight of who we are.

Today I asked our Bible Study, as we discussed Psalms 107:1-9, what age they considered “old?” The average age in this group is eighty-five with members as young as early seventies and others aged ninety-nine. We considered a traumatic event in our lives where we questioned our faith and how we overcame that obstacle.

It is customary to read the study and chosen Bible verse and then for me to go to each person to share; just as I do with book club. I used to have to print reading questions and study guides, and I still do this. But I can easily go off-topic and relate things to our discussion as I did today.

We talked about the death of a spouse, a stillbirth, a change of health condition. The entire group had shared and it became my turn, I being the last person.

In the past I found myself not listening to what others were sharing, totally absorbed in how I would respond to the question. But after many years of facilitating and coordinating people I’ve learned the value in being present and hearing someone before me. To provide affirmation and validation. Empathy. To just listen.

And so when it became my turn, I didn’t have a premeditated response and what came out of my mouth was real time and unfiltered.

I spend my time listening to others and less time worrying about what I’m supposed to say or share.

It’s an invaluable lesson.

Being in-person, as our children and our residents discovered during the pandemic, is vitally important in our lives. We need the social connections, to be present to read the physical cues in the room. We are not meant to be isolated.

The group, as well as myself, was surprised with my reply to the question of what event in my life impacted me the most. If I had given it more thought it could’ve been my recent bout with breast cancer, the death of my mother or father, getting married, or having kids.

Instead I speak of dementia, Alzheimer’s type. The early signs I missed with my own mother. My bachelor’s degree is in gerontology and I had worked in a neuro-gerontology research lab for Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s diseases for three years.

It was my co-workers at the long term care ombusman office, where I had worked at the time, that prodded me out of my denial.

I told the Bible study group I was a terrible caregiver. That all of my education in aging and dementia all went out the window. That when I shared this experience training law enforcement, health care professionals and adult protective services that the room would become quiet and I’d see my participants were crying. I would not be.

With the birth of my eldest son, my mother was the first person I called and she had not recognized my voice. My obstetrician had been tending to me as I called from the hospital bed to share the news and to this day I remembered the look of sadness that passed over his face; which he quickly masked.

I shared that after the birth of my jaundiced, colicky eldest son my dear husband was then deployed for six months. Upon his return he had been shocked that I had moved my mother out of her home to a small board and care for memory impaired seniors. He had offered to have her live with us but after escaping several times and leaving the stove on with a newborn, my co-workers assisted me in her placement.

When asked at my work place, to oversee our memory care unit, they were surprised I had declined. In the thirty residents that reside in our memory unit, I see my mother in each one of them. It is still too close to my heart. I shared my fear that I, too, will inherit the genes for Alzheimer’s.

After speaking I finally focused on the room. It, too, was very quiet and I saw tears in my fellow residents’ eyes.

As a group we shared our coping mechanisms. Social networks (friends, family, church). Our faith. One resident sings church hymns in her mind to get through hard times. Another resident, a musician, just sings. Most of us rely on our faith foundation and pray. Another recites Bible verses; particularly Romans 8:28 (NIV).

28 And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. ~biblegateway.com

I found solace in an anonymous Alzheimer’s support group for caregivers where nobody knew who I was. The same facilitators speak with a dear friend of mine who chose to care for her mother at home.

“Age is just a number,” shared one of the residents.

She disclosed how she doesn’t mind being called, “old” but hates to be referred to as elderly. We discussed the distinction. At that moment a one-hundred and one-year old resident entered the room to wait for our next activity; the game of Rummikub. I tell the group that I want to age gracefully, just like our 101 year-old and she laughed out loud.

I have much to learn from my Bible study. I’m grateful to have this weekly opportunity with them to glean from their years and wisdom. It’s invaluable.

Family, successful aging, Work

Sunday sleeper is a keeper

Fastener Gal

img_3548Recently I’ve awakened on Sunday mornings anxious.

When my work schedule changed to Sundays through Thursdays I had not imagined how difficult that would be for me.  I have worked weekends in the past; have been on-call for a lot of them just last year.

The Catholic who, as a kid and teen, dreaded having to sit in the hard pews actually misses attending the 9 AM mass that I’ve been a fixture at since I moved into my community in 2004.  

I wondered if it was because I missed the people who sat around me in my one hour mass or if I dislike working on a weekend when the rest of my family sleeps in at home?  It takes extra effort for me to get my head mentally ready for work but once I arrive, I’m fine.  

Anxiety deflects my alpha waves to worries and fears.  To things unfounded and minor.  It masks any anticipation of joy whatsoever.

As we enter into our third month of sheltering in, due to COVID, it is also a struggle in the senior living community where I work.  Our residents are going stir crazy as the weather outside hits 86 degrees with balmy winds and palms swaying.

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They are equally anxious about this pandemic but increasingly frustrated.  Why can’t we go out?  Why do we have to remain in our apartments?  The rest of the country is starting to roam free, why can’t we?

The usually bustling hallways and common areas are vacant.  I walked the empty halls,  the mask fogging up my reading glasses, with my clipboard as I conducted assessments.  It appeared that my eight hours today would stretch long as I walked past a caregiver doing her best to keep her eyes open.

Everyone was sleeping in or staying in pajamas.  It was another lazy day.

I knocked on the apartment door and entered at the resident’s, “Come in.”  When I asked him if he had a minute, he smirked and bantered back,

“I have all day.”

Emerging from his apartment, over an hour later, I was grinning from ear-to-ear. I replayed the story of how this 95 year old resident had debated with the 102 year old woman down the hall on their opposite views of politics.   How could I possibly have thought today would be boring or slow? 

Each day that I enter my work community,  I am grateful that I can finally work with the population I have always been meant to serve.   My anxiety dissipates as soon as I walk through the double doors.

I am equally amazed at how resilient our residents are.  They are most at-risk in this pandemic but they take things in stride and shelter in.   They miss their families visiting.

But they most especially miss one another.

When I returned home, minor details of my day popped into my head; things that I had initially missed.

With a few clicks of the keyboard I found yesterday’s local newspaper article that featured our community.  I almost missed the closing line from a family member email this morning saying, “my mom’s picture was cute.”  I had submitted the article and pictures almost one month ago.

I’ve realized my anxiety over the corona virus, mutates and shows its symptoms in varying ways.

  • I fret over things that are insignificant such as working on a Sunday when there are NO church services or the small businesses who have to keep their doors closed and hope that they have the means to re-open them.
  • I consider my sons who are finishing up their last week of virtual school year before finals and my Class of 2020 senior who would have had prom yesterday.  His virtual graduation is at the end of the month.

I have overlooked the moments of joy that can be found daily; even during this COVID crisis.

This past week a gift bag was left on our porch with the following,

img_3518The contents included candy and snacks, a Class of 2020 beach ball, bubbles, and the above message.  It urged the senior to pass it along to five others and to include a copy of the note in the bag.  To show that you have been a recipient of this sweet gesture, you are to leave the note on your door.

In my community senior parents purchased banners and yard signs celebrating their children; myself included.  On Friday morning my son drove to five different homes of his fellow senior friends while I dropped off bags on porches.

My son had grumbled but as soon as he was behind the wheel in his vehicle, his anxiety  left him.  Thirty minutes later our mission had been accomplished.  We had hoped to be anonymous but a fellow parent texted to share that I was caught on the Ring app.

This simple gesture taught my son my love language; acts of service.

When I shared this thought with him he reminded me that he has put in a lot of hours serving.  But what he didn’t catch was that it was an excuse to engage him and that he was paying it forward.  

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The picture tonight on my sons’ high school Class of 2020 newsfeed inspired me.  It was a senior, in an assisted living community, giving advice to 2020 seniors on a white erase board.  I will do this with our community as well.

I need to adopt the attitude of gratitude that I preach to my residents.  I am grateful that our senior community is COVID FREE and that my over-time hours are essential (tempted as I am to stay in pajamas at home with my family).

Being and serving with others is good for the soul.

I pray that as restrictions lift that we can engage and lift each other’s spirits.  It is not natural for humans to social distance; to be alone.  

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I take the win and I’m grateful.  Today is a keeper.

 

Family, Marriage, Work

spring cleaning through the years

Fastener Gal

I want someone to tell me how to get through the bad days.

  • When the hubs arrived at work he found our motorized gate broken.  Again.  Hours are spent dismantling the motor and eventually removing it.
  • When I drive into our parking lot I watch a woman dump clothes on our public easement.  I yell to her to pick-up her used clothes and she walks away.  I am left to put them in our trash bin.
  • The J-bolts from the platers are mottled and rejected.  It is when we question the quality that we discover they’ve also increased their price with new ownership.

It’s days like this when we feel the burden of small business.

Hours in labor spent maintaining our building and equipment.  Picking up other people’s messes.  Whether it’s used clothes, low quality plating or just unprofessional practices we are left to our own devices.  Most times we eat the cost.

  • At home I stare at the washing machine wondering why it won’t spin.  Again, the hubs spends time dismantling.
  • I walk into bedrooms with overfilled hampers because sons don’t understand to lift the lid to place the dirty clothes, inside the receptacle.  I yell to my sons to pick-up their clothes and they walk away.  “Okay, Mom,” is all I get and so I leave the mess.
  • I look at progress reports with grades that I cannot accept.  I question the quality of time my boys put into their studies since their primary responsibility is to do well in school.

I feel the burden of parenting tweens and teens.

After work I spend time maintaining our house and appliances.  I am cleaning up my family’s messes in the place that is supposed to be my sanctuary.  Whether it’s dirty laundry, dishes or irresponsible sons who make poor choices and don’t have their priorities straight, I feel the mental and emotional cost.

I am spent.  Financially.  Physically.  Mentally.  I tell my husband, I am done as we dejectedly sit across the desk at work.  He is too.

 

This past weekend, my father in-law (FIL)  requested the help of our eldest son with the upkeep of a car.  Eight hours were spent doing various things as the grandfather passed his car knowledge to his grandson. First he was under the hood learning about the parts of the motor.   Later I found myself stepping over my husband and son, under the car, as they discussed what to do with the oil pan while my FIL stood nearby supervising and instructing.  Finally, bemused, I pulled up a chair as I listened to the grandfather explaining to the grandson how to detail a car interior.

I found myself detailing my own car’s interior.  It had been untouched for years and as I scrubbed and emptied the Simple Green spray bottle, my seemingly random, disorganized thoughts formed together.

When you don’t do what you love or love what you do, it makes getting up in the morning that much harder.   It’s not realistic, sometimes, to love life.

There are days when I don’t even like the ones I’m supposed to love.

I wake up each morning wondering, What am I supposed to do?

I want someone to tell me the answers but really, I need to figure this one out for myself.   If someone else tells me what to do, it’s easy to not accept ownership; to blame others.

I scrubbed years of grease from my car’s upholstery and carpets.  I saw the cracks and tears, the mottled colors.  But my vehicle feels new.

I accept the scars and abuse my interior has endured; remembering how they got there.

…the time my youngest son thought my light gray leather interior was a drawing board and chose to write on our dashboard with Sharpie pen.

…the double phone charger at the bottom of the seat pocket, bought in Arizona outside the Grand Canyon, as the older boys constantly fought for the lone rear battery outlet.

…the indentations from the carseats all of my sons formerly sat in.

…the sticky markings on the car ceiling from the soda that exploded as we rose in altitude during a snowy Memorial day camping trip.

It took several hours to detail the inside of my car.   Normally I take care of the exterior, the big things that people see, and sweep things under the rug to deal with another day.   I have spent the least amount of time maintaining the interior.  Thankfully, my hubs handles most things under the hood which allows my car to run.

When I drive my SUV, on a daily basis, I don’t see the outside.  I live and breathe on the inside.  A lot of my time is spent behind the wheel commuting to work, shuttling kids to/from school.   My most meaningful conversations with my family occur within this car’s interior whether it be on short trips or long ones.

I was mistaken in thinking my house was my sanctuary.  The reality is, my happy place is in my car…windows down, music blaring as yellow lines blur in open spaces.  I love my solo commute to work but I also love people driving in my car with me to infinity, and beyond.

While reading the novel, The Girl Before by J.P. Delaney for our monthly book club, the line resonates.

You can make your surroundings as polished and empty as you like.  But it doesn’t really matter if you’re still messed up inside.  And that’s all anyone’s looking for really, isn’t it?  Someone to take care of the mess inside our heads?

I finally took ownership of it.  All of it.  It is time to repair, clean and maintain my mental interior.

In dealing with a sticky situation, in one of the organizations which I serve, I found myself seeking answers once again.  My goal is always transparency but the time has come for me to stand my ground, to stop having others tell me what to do based on past history.  To filter and sort my words.

I know what I need to do.  I trust my gut.  And so my boundaries are becoming defined as I mentally prepare for uncomfortable and awkward moments to do the right thing.  To handle the messy details.  To not sweep things under the rug to help someone save face for appearances’ sake.

I must deal with my mental interior and sift through the clutter and detritus.  To make things simple and wipe away at the years of neglect, accumulated gripes and pent-up frustrations.

I will let go of the idea that I must love what I do and shoulder the things life brings my way; to carry my own weight.

The reality of life is that there are many things we do not like to do, that must be done.  To consistently wake up each and every day with the goal of trying to be the best person that I can be.  And not just for me.

I strive to stop worrying about appearances and embrace the people whose relationships keep my cup full.  The ones who make me get out of bed every morning who need me; and I, them.  There will soon be a day where there will be no mess to pick up after (okay, maybe the hubs but someday, not even him).  There are days when nothing needs to be repaired and all things are pristine.

I gaze over to my grease covered hubs as he labors beneath the machine with our employee.  I don’t have to love what I’m doing every single minute of the day.  I can do without the tenant drama behind our building, the broken gates, the shoddy workmanship from vendors, the not-so-reliable appliances at home and my broken kitchen tile.

The accumulated daily grime, through the years, builds and it’s time to spring clean and make it like new.  Scars, flaws, head clutter and all.

Most days I don’t love what I do.  But I work alongside the hubs, the one I love.

It’s never really been about the money, the candy and roses.  It’s about going through the monotonous daily grind, through the years, with someone who loves me unconditionally and helps me take care of the mess inside my head.

I trust my heart.  I own this.

 

 

friendships, School, Work

take two, or five

Fastener Gal

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I hung up the phone with my son after he refused to attend any of his scheduled activities last evening.

He was to be in three places at the same time.  I’ve come to realize that when this son is stressed, he becomes adversarial and shuts down in all things.  There would be no reasoning with this teen as he continued his diatribe on the phone as to why he couldn’t attend any of his events.  He had already been excused from attending a jazz pep band at the high school basketball game due to a conflict with his Confirmation class.  But the high school course information night was sandwiched between these two commitments and he stated he was not required to be there.

It was easy to disconnect the line.  It’s hard to have honest conversations; to not seem disingenuous.

  • After a long day at work I want to ignore the fact that my sons are (on social media/playing video games/general procrastination) not doing what they’re supposed to; namely homework.
  • To tell the employee off when he feels “sick” while doing a task he doesn’t want to do.
  • When your friend/spouse sounds like a broken record; repeating the same issues over and over and not wanting to find resolutions.

Being an effective communicator takes a lot of tact, patience, empathy and practice.  I struggle with all of these things within my own circle of family and friends.    I overthink my words and in doing so; choose to be silent.  To mull them over and over, just so, until the perfect lines emerge.  Since this hardly ever happens, I swallow them and work through my issues on my own.

I am one that can sit silently.  To observe quietly.  To serve humbly.  I do not need a lot of words; a mere tap on the shoulder, a simple smile or hug can relay encouragement or acknowledgement.   I find that when people use too many words; are too effusive with their thank yous or compliments; that they are not sincere.  I know, I’ve caught myself doing this same thing.

With our current political climate dividing our nation I listen and observe as those around me weigh in.  But recently, the hubs called me out.  In choosing to remain passive and quiet, I am choosing not to participate and allowing events to happen so that I do not take ownership of the outcomes.  His words were not just meant for politics; but in all things regarding our home and business.

Ouch.  To this I must plead guilty.

I got quiet when the hubs chastised our sons that things cost money.  February, traditionally, is our slowest month at work.  Anticipating our upcoming property tax bills and income tax filings, the hubs’ worries pervaded our dinner.   Later, the youngest asked about our financials and I found myself explaining economics.  On my high school transcript, my one B was in this course.

How transparent should I be with my boys?  With people?

From work I headed to the high school to glean information.  Ironically, I thought about this while sitting in an economics class as the teacher presented the course to would-be senior students.   As a parent I appreciate the efforts the school administration and staff offer to include parents in our students’ education.  The texts, that very morning, from my girlfriend regarding the confirmation of the new secretary of the Department of Education were etched in my mind.

Education is important and I do not want to sit passively.  I want to be informed.

As I had exited the general meeting, deciphering the location of the sessions my son may decide to take, a figure appeared from the shadows and grabbed my arm.  Shocked, I blindly followed my son through four sessions before he walked to his Confirmation class at our church; which is adjacent to his high school.  He had asked his father to drop him off.  We went to none of the courses I thought he’d be taking.  I’m glad he decided to show up; to take ownership of his education.

It was in the economics class that I could process my thoughts.

I spoke with my sons after remaining quiet for a few weeks about the virtue of honesty.  They have felt my bitter disappointment.

  • I am not fooled by screen savers masking online chats, inappropriate content or video gaming.  Do not deceive.
  • I do not want the carpool mom to sit in a high school parking lot waiting for forty-five minutes for a son who claimed he was “studying” and was walking at the outdoor mall with his “friend.”  Do not be disrespectful.
  • I will not be fooled again when the attendance office tells me a son has unexcused absences in a period to visit, said “friend” in her classroom.  Do not lie.

I recount the details of those who have deceived me in the not-so-recent past.  Of the grade level teachers who said one thing and turned around and did something else.  Of the friend(s), whom I asked a question confidentially, who shared my probing with others.

I realized who were true, who wanted to discuss things with me to work things through and those who never would.  The parachutes that held me down have been cut loose and it has taken me time to forgive; but not necessarily forget.

I cannot be fake; nor disingenuous.  In dealing with disappointments I discovered what was important.  Trust and truth trump all things.  The words I need to speak finally do come.  And it always takes two.

I will speak up.  I do not have control over how my words are received.  I must accept this and remain true to who I am.

The two boys sitting in front of me, in an economics presentation, reminded me of what friendships are.  These high school teens have not mastered the art of deception.  When their fellow friend went through a difficult time with a cry for attention; these boys rallied.  They listened.  They didn’t completely understand.  They didn’t lie, gossip or tell their friend that everything was okay.  They continued on their quests to work things through and trusted that their conversations were confidential.  They are loyal to one another.

I hope that life’s distractions don’t ruin what these boys have, right now.  It may not last.  But each of these guys are accepted for whom they are; not by an outside measure of success like high grades, cool gadgets/ cars or by whom they know.  They don’t need to be popular.  They just need to be their transparent selves.

HLM cake

Recently in the midst of a boisterous book club group, someone heard the distinctive ring of my cell phone; Dave Brubeck’s tune, “Take Five.”  Our shaken friend had just been involved in an accident, while driving to us, and was alone with police and paramedics with very low cell battery.

My hubs, still at work, was not nearby and so I interrupted the group discussion to inquire if any of their male counterparts were available to go to our friend; to provide support and inspect the vehicle.  Immediately four girls called and texted their spouses.

I had just settled in; a glass of something yummy in-hand.  I knew I would not be of much help but felt the plea of this dear friend; who didn’t need anything additional on her full plate.  As her minivan got towed away, the officer urged her to let it go, to have a good time at book club.

When she walked through the door, the hugs engulfed her, the tequila relaxed her and she was embraced by the room of women discussing a book about hormones.  It was later that I discovered our hostess loaned their extra vehicle so she wouldn’t have to be without a car.  And the other friend, who has always opened her home and heart to this family who has undergone too many hurts and disappointments, deployed her husband to her aid.

I have been empowered by these friendships.  For the moms who look out for my sons; as if they were their own.  For the girlfriends who hear me on repeat and listen; gently redirecting me to other solutions to my issues.  To those who are transparent; even when we do not agree on parenting, religion, politics and everything in-between.  I hope to be able to reciprocate; even when it is not convenient.  Even when I can’t afford it.  Even when time doesn’t allow.

It is in honest, genuine interactions with others that matter.  I can’t let life passively go by.  Silence is lonely, solo and a cop-out.  It takes two (or in my family’s case, five).  Engage.

Family, friendships, Marriage, Work

Note to self…go for broke

Fastener Gal

2005

Our bookclub recently read the book, What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty.  It is about a thirty-nine year old woman who suffers memory loss, after a fall, and has forgotten the last decade of her life.  During our discussion, amongst the ten of us, we pondered how our lives were ten years ago and how we’ve changed to whom we are now.  Have we changed for better or for worse?  What will we be like ten years into the future and what would you write to your future self?

2006

Ten years ago I’d hear this phrase repeated often.  Enjoy it now because it goes by in a blink.  At the time I lacked sleep and chased three sons under the age of five.  But you know what?   It is so true.  Time is flying.

2007

As  I had looked around the circle, at bookclub,  I realized that I had known this month’s host for over ten years.  Our eldest children were in kindergarten and I had a three month old son (hers was still in utero) when we met in September 2005.  From 2004-2007 the hubs had lived on an aircraft carrier and so our three sons and I lived one hundred miles away where both sides of our family lived.

2008

When his three year sea duty ended and he transferred to shore duty; our young family relocated from our “forever home” to live together for the next three years.  This girlfriend and her family came to visit us when we moved away and three years later, in 2009, we returned.  Soon after she and I formed our current bookclub, which officially began in January 2010.   We’ve both gone through many transitions in these ten years and I found my eyes refocusing on her, to arrive back into the present.

2009crop

We should do it.  Write letters to ourselves ten years from now.  We had all looked at one another expectantly.  One of the girls had written letters to her daughters when she had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer and revised it, recently, when undergoing another health scare.  But what would you write to your future self?  It was an intriguing thought.

2010

Throughout the nine hours it took to obliterate Christmas from our household, I contemplated this.  I wrapped my photo ornaments with care, my prized possessions.  Each year I buy three of them; placing each of my sons’ current school portraits until each one graduates from high school.  I told the hubs that one day I would give each of our sons their ornaments (from birth to age 17) for their own Christmas trees.  He had scoffed.  Who was I kidding?  I probably will keep them for myself.   I found the Christmas card photos from the past ten years.  I remember each and every photo as if it was taken yesterday.

2011

Here it goes, my note to self.

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Dear Ten Years Older Self,

I’d like to imagine that you’ve become wiser, aged gracefully and currently live an active and fulfilling life.

I pray that you are still happily married to the man you met, at age eighteen, in calculus lab and have weathered through any “itches” and mid-life crises “storms” successfully.  My hope is that the hubs and I better communicate our needs with each other; that we’ve mastered the art of compromise.  My ego has, hopefully, lessened with the desire to always be right and I’ve learned grace and forgiveness. Time is the greatest equalizer and after almost thirty years of marriage I trust that we’d have figured all of that out.   The date nights without kids, over the last ten years, were supposed to prepare us for when we became empty-nesters.  Did they work?  If they did, then we have other things to share instead of always talking about work or the kids.

I hope that we’ve grown the business where we’re financially secure, that our home is almost paid off and upgraded with our wish list we had ten years ago.    I expect that we have hobbies and travel with our newfound freedom.  That we’ve  dropped any excess weight from our fourth decade, and continue to aspire for better health and fitness goals.  We are supposed to hike the great outdoors and continue on our quest to hit as many National Parks and “ancient world wonders” as we possibly can.  The hubs better still be alive to do all these things with me!  I dream of growing old together in matching rocking chairs; the hubs with the DVR remote; myself with a book and blanket rocking alongside.

Please tell me that you enjoyed the time with the boys while they still lived under the same roof!  That you stopped and made time to hear them and found your balance, instead of busily doing acts of service for others.  Did they become what you imagined them to be?  Now the boys are in their twenties and, hopefully, the youngest is almost out of college.   I’m optimistic that the older boys have found careers where they do what they love and love what they do.   My wish is that they’ve met true friends, maybe found true love.  I’m not sure if I’d want the boys to have kids just yet; they have their whole lives ahead of them. 

I also hope they’ve made healthy choices and continued in their faith journey.  I desire a strong, close relationship with each of our boys and if, upon reading this, I do not; then it is time to make things right.  Unlike my mother, I won’t require my sons to come at my beck and call.  I want them to explore new opportunities, travel and discover who they are.  I want them to visit or talk to me, not because they have to but because they want to.

I’m hoping the bookclub girls are still reading alongside and that at this point in our lives; we’re attending one another’s children’s weddings and, quite possibly, becoming grandparents. Maybe we now have found the time to take our “field trips” to various places we kept talking about visiting and are doing our own version of the book, Annie’s Freeman’s Fabulous Traveling Funeral by Kris Radish.  I hope that we navigated through life’s milestones, the good, the bad and the ugly, together and built each other up versus tore one another down.

Am I still volunteering time to the organizations that have impacted my life and family?  The Alzheimer’s Association?  The music programs my kids were involved with?  I’ve been blessed to have worked with phenomenal individuals and expect to continue to advocate for these programs so that others may have this same experience.  If I’ve given this up, then now is the time to start; to pay it forward. 

I know that the friends who’ve remained with me, this long, are keepers; our relationships deepening and aging like a fine wine with an aromatic bouquet.  We have so many memories together and I hope for many more to come. But I will always leave room to meet new people and to continue to diversify.  May I have remained open-minded and hospitable.

I’m realizing my letter to myself is getting a bit long; that I have many expectations of what I want to have accomplished.  So ten years from now I wish to have the love and friendship of those who can grow with me and accept the changes and transitions that life is always going to bring.

Love from your former self

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2012

Surprisingly, it took me over two days to actually type the above letter.  The hubs and I walked down grocery aisles as I asked him what he wanted for us in ten years’ time.  We began to think back over the last ten years.  Was it what we had expected? 

2013

For the hubs, he has reaped the rewards of being home with his family.  When he exited the military he had already spent nine years away from our eldest, seven from the middle and three years from our youngest.  He had been gone more than he had been home.  It has been a privilege to see our progeny grow into the men they will become and the financial hit we took was worth the opportunity.  But he had not expected the finances to be so lean, for the recession in the economy to impact the small family business that has existed in his family for over twenty five years.

2014

Life is always give and take.   Already in this new year the tidings have not been good.  The girlfriend who had returned home from the hospital is, once again, back in it.  The dear family friend, whom we just visited over the holidays and diagnosed with lupus, is now on a kidney transplant list.  And the news arrived that the great grandfather to our sons passed away yesterday and, though it was expected, still brings sadness to our entire family.  Life is so precarious and we never know where it will take us.  As we walked to our car, discussing these things, we decided that this is the year we will go for broke.

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We must always give our best in everything because why live life if we don’t? 

What we give to our life is what our life gives us in return.  Go for broke.

Family, joys of jazz, Marriage, Work

the big and little things

Fastener Gal

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This holiday season took me by surprise.  For some reason I was stuck in the month of October and ignored the Christmas displays in supermarkets.  In fact, I did not frequent brick and mortar establishments unless I absolutely had to.   It was only when I received notice that property taxes were due on December 10th, for both our home and business, that reality set in.

I wept when the checks came in the mail; grateful that one of our biggest business customers actually paid on time.  I don’t need an economics degree to see that we are not out-of-the-woods from a recession in a pre-election year; our vendors taking longer than the thirty days to pay.  Manufacturing is at the bottom of the totem pole to receive payment.   The months of  November and December are always our slowest and the mass marketing frenzy that marks the season was a reminder of how little our bank accounts had.

I lived day-by-day.  When people asked if I was ready for (any date in the future) my answer remained the same.  I was trying to get through today.  There were due dates, scheduled events and the ever present Christmas looming.  I had no gifts for my family and it is our turn to host Christmas eve.  The tree was not up.  Black Friday and Cyber Monday came and went and I crossed off one day of the calendar at a time.   Begrudgingly I asked the hubs to get down our Christmas decor after our kids continued to ask where they were.

Where is our tree? What about the gingerbread house?  Why aren’t you playing ‘White Christmas’ on the piano?  And when are you going to bake, Mom?  

Today I, unexpectedly, found myself in front of thirty plus teenage girls.  I am the person that handles student finances in the large booster organization I serve.  Inspired by one of the songs that define me, Sing Your Life by Morrissey, I had been dressed in jeggings and my Doc Marten boots thinking I would not cross paths with many people as I ran last minute errands.  I had only come to receive checks from a fellow parent and found myself standing before these teens listening to an instructor sharing his story.  He had lived in a garage and poverty and shared how he couldn’t afford to participate in a high school trip to Hawaii.  And so he got smart and saved for twelve months to make things different the following year; to follow his passion to perform.  The girls only saw his high-end import car parked at the curb, not the kid who struggled.   He and I stood before these girls to ask for funds to allow them to travel to an out-of-state national competition.

I remembered being on the other side.   My mother was prideful and would remind me to not mention that my father’s medical bills usurped all of our funds; that we relied on Medicaid.  I was eligible for free school lunches but she pinched pennies to hand me a weekly allowance of twenty dollars for gas and lunch.  I was sixteen, having obtained my license on my actual birthday, since my father, diagnosed with colon cancer, no longer could drive.    My high school was fifteen miles away; the closest “city” nine.  I drove my parents for doctors’ appointments and myself to school and extra-curriculars.   My parents never were in the stands during games or performances.  My father was dying and my mother remained in our home to care for him.  Music had been my salve.  In high school I had always longed for the Dr. Martens boots I currently wore.  The irony of my situation struck me; empathizing with these girls.

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As small business owners we realize the foundation can be pulled out from under us at any moment.  Many of our former customers have chosen to go overseas, to buy bulk for cheap.  Small businesses lose to cheap, subsidized imported goods.   But our selling point is always in our relationships with our customers.  We follow-through and deliver.  We provide quality and if there is a problem, we readily fix it.  We are custom all the way and the feedback we receive is that our vendors trust that we will do things right.  I will never have large bank accounts.   Every dime we earn is solely based on what we put out and it has to be quality every time.

In the past week I realized trust, transparency, follow-through and hospitality are the big things that count.  I don’t care if someone can offer me gifts or favors.  Money and material things mean little.  I want the friends who surround me to be the ones whom I can trust not to break confidences, who will tell me what is on their minds without worrying about offending and who will open their homes and hearts to my quirks and imperfections.  I have to trust that they will follow through and reciprocate.  This is HUGE for me.  People can appear to have it together, to have nice things, titles or look like a million bucks.  But it’s what’s on the inside that truly matters.    I am affirmed by those who are true to who they are.

My sons have surprised me this year.  Most Christmases I am the driving force of all merriment as I command my elves to happily comply with my decorating whims.  This year they were the ones urging me.

If you don’t listen eagerly to the little stuff when they are little, they won’t tell you the big stuff when they are big, because to them all of it has always been big stuff. ~ Catherine M. Wallace

Eventually the hubs put up the tree.  Normally he is the bah humbug one in our household; the grinch who steals our Christmas joy.  This year he placed the boxes inside and over the course of the week, strung up garlands and lights with the help of our ever growing sons.  I found myself unwrapping a few ornaments and rearranging them on the tree.  The Advent wreath finally was placed on the coffee table and the poinsettias from the fundraiser arrived and were placed on the piano.  Slowly, but surely, it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.  Tree.  Check.

Three years ago I had decided to never do gingerbread houses again.  Because I had been an only child in a quiet household I wanted to create my own traditions with my three sons for the holidays.  When they were toddlers I began purchasing gingerbread house kits imagining hours of Christmas creativity and cheer.  But I had been too worried about the mess, the arguments over the candies and frosting.  In 2012 the boys fought so ferociously that I put the camera down; feeling like a fraud.  I was attempting to capture a picture moment that was forced.  They didn’t want to build gingerbread houses and I didn’t want a mess.  I vowed I would never do this activity again.

So I was shocked at the boys’ insistence, this year, that I purchase a gingerbread kit.  After a week of constant reminders from my sons, the quote above came to mind.  I found myself purchasing a gingerbread village so each one could build their own house without argument.   Three years ago it had been the eldest who ruined our experience.  This year he was the one who kept championing it.  Gingerbread house.  Check.

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I had no words to type, no images to share.  I observed people saying one thing and doing the other.  Longtime friends parting with irreconcilable differences.  People who lacked transparency, broke confidences and lacked hospitality.  The thoughts were stuck circling in my mind and I struggled to find peace with all of it.  I heard my middle son struggle with a jazz riff of ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’ and it was only when he placed the saxophone in my hand, with my mouthpiece, that I realized the unifying theme of 2015.

Music breaks through all economic, social and cultural barriers.

He asked me to help him, to play alongside.  We sat together at the piano bench with our saxes; my chops sore.  Soon my fingers were running over the ivories and the bars of ‘White Christmas’ echoed in fits and starts within the walls of our home.  It took a few more practice runs for my hands to remember the keys from memory.  I am always amazed that I don’t need the sheet music, even after all of these years.  Eventually the songs of the season reached me; bringing me out of my reverie.  White Christmas.  Check.

The hubs and sons grabbed the baking items needed for their favorite cookies: snickerdoodles, peanut butter blossoms and chocolate chip.  Time was starting to get away from me with all of the preparations needed to be done before the 24th.  I laced up my sneakers and forced myself outdoors in the drizzly morning; knowing that my intake of calories would exceed what I would expend.  There was nothing on my schedule and I had everything I needed.  No more procrastination, baking day had arrived.  As the whir of the mixer and smells from the oven filled our home, the younger sons emerged from the den to assist with  unwrapping Hersheys’ kisses.  Some were for cookies, others for their own consumption.

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It was then that I remembered my song and I quickly found it on YouTube as I waited for the timer to chime for my next batch of chocolate chip cookies.

Others sang your life
but now is your chance to shine
and have the pleasure of
saying what you mean
have the pleasure of
meaning what you sing
oh, make no mistake, my friend
all of this will end
so sing it now
all the things you love
all the things you loathe
oh sing your life ~ Morrissey.

I cranked up the volume on my eldest son’s laptop.   He emerged from the den with his portable speaker for better sound quality.  The middle son listened as I sang the words loud and clear.  I began to type furiously on the laptop, the thoughts from the last few weeks finally being able to be put into words.  The youngest grabbed milk from the fridge to happily eat the cookies straight from the oven as I tapped my booted foot to the beat.  Cookie baking.  Check.

Don’t leave it all unsaid
somewhere in the wasteland of your head
and make no mistake, my friend
your pointless life will end
but before you go
can you look at the truth?
You have a lovely singing voice
a lovely singing voice
and all of those
who sing on key
they stole the notion
from you and me so sing your life ~ Morrissey
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The hubs had been frantically cleaning our pool after we received the text from my side of the family that they were joining us for Christmas eve.  Traditionally my hubs’ family celebrates on the 24th; the location alternating between his sister and our home.  Then the phone call came from the estranged niece and after communicating our desire to have her join us; the guest count increased by ten.   The hubs worried we wouldn’t have enough food until he looked at our very full refrigerator.
My home is currently in a state of disaster after two days of consecutive gingerbread making and cookie baking. I don’t require gifts, the picture perfect house and the fancy Food Network worthy recipes to ooh and awe.  All that I long for, this Christmas, is for all of my family to unite under the roof of my loud and messy home.  This may be the last Christmas with a grandfather diagnosed with terminal cancer.  There are other days to carry on family feuds.  I tell the niece that Christmas is about the kids, the babies; and this year three will be in our home under 18 months old.
It’s because of a baby that we celebrate this season in the first place.
Like the stable that birthed the newborn that is the reason for this season, my light will be on and my doors always open.  I merrily sing the words to my song, loud and clear, about all the things I loathe and love.   I needed the push from my sons and hubs, their words heard.  I had to follow-through with these little requests and things that add up to something bigger.  I want them to share the big stuff when they are big.  To remember what’s important.
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Have a musically merry Christmas and a rockin’ New Year.  Sing the big and little things of your life.