The Control Myth - Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows is a Monday series on a word or quote of interest (perhaps only to me.)


Control:  to regulate, dominate, rule, direct, or to have influence over


There is a catchy country-western song (I believe sung by Tim McGraw) which says:


"I like it
             I love it
                        I want some more of it..."


And although the song is referring to something else entirely, I think the same could often be said of our desire for control.  We like it, we love it, we want some more of it, if at all possible.  Of course, maybe that's just me.


I grew up in a household where there was little control.  Dad could not control his drinking.  Mom could not control dad.  And we kids could not control the fact that we moved every other month (okay that is an exaggeration, but not too far off the mark) and thus had few friends and no stability to speak of.


The upshot of that kind of childhood is that I can tend to be a bit of what is euphemistically called a "control freak."  I like to know what is going to happen well before it actually occurs; and it will not surprise you to learn that I hate surprises.  If possible, rather than just knowing what is about to happen, I like to be the one to decide what is going to happen, as well as determine when and where.


Guesswork is anathema to me.  "Ball-parking" it gives me the heebie-jeebies.  When I ran a corporate office, they liked to talk about taking a  "S.W.A.G." at something.  This denoted a super wild-a-- guess.  Now I really despised those.  How could you carve out a budget, determine a project timeline, or deliver a product based on "swags"?  It was beyond me, but I learned to live with it because I really had no choice.  And very little control.  Yuck!


Ah me, there are so many things over which we have so little control:  age, gender, height, weight, oh wait, I guess that one is actually within our control, more or less.  Where we would be born, who our parents would be, and on and on.


Psychologists tell us that of all the variables in our lives, we actually have true control over only about two-percent of them.  What!  Two-measly percent?  How can that be?  How do we cope with that? 
                                         # # # # # 
Well, here is a thought.  Perhaps the well-ordered life is more about contemplation that control.  Possibly surrender brings about more peace than constant wrestling for supremacy over our circumstances.  It is just possible that control belongs to Someone else. Someone who can handle it a whole lot better than I can.


                                     # # # # #
But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? "Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, 'Why did you make me like 
this?' "  ( Romans 9:21 NIV)


So today, if you "have it all under control" more power to you.  The rest of us are still working on it.  Until next time ... Marsha

Rainy Days and Mondays - Wrinkled Brows

Note: Wrinkles Brows is a series on a word or a quote of interest (perhaps only to me.)


"... rainy days and Mondays always bring me down..." 
 ~ song by the Carpenters


Those of you who are old enough may recall this melancholy song by the Carpenters (a brother and sister duo) from the 1960's.  While I loved the melody, and although Karen Carpenter had a beautiful voice with a haunting quality to it, I never could really identify with the theme of this song.


I like it when it rains.  I like to watch the rain falling, I like the sound of it on my roof (and now upon my skylight too), and I love what it does for the spring flowers.


Granted, it was another  hectic morning around here (at K's house) where his nurse did not show and did not call.  We were finally running out of time for her visit, as the transport van was due to pick him up for hyperbaric treatment soon.  So we called her number, only to learn that she was in the hospital for emergency gall stone surgery.  Poor P., she works so hard and has been such a blessing to us through this whole thing.


Then, while his ride to the clinic is waiting, he gets ready to transfer from the bed to his wheelchair, and lo and behold his cushion must be swapped out for a different one due to functional difficulties.


But you know what .... K. and I had just had a really good conversation about the fact that everyone has challenges and difficulties in their life.  Everyone - period!  The only real difference is that some are dealing with  their problems and others are just plain old in denial.


Karen Carpenter died of anorexia, weighing only 80 lbs. They found her curled up in the floor of her closet - dead.  That is what staying in denial will do for you.


Meanwhile, I watch K. wheel out the door, headed for the van that will take him to the hyperbaric chamber, and hear him give a cheery "hello" to the driver, despite the harried morning we have just had.  He is dealing with his difficulties.


And I am sure trying to do that as well.  Dealing or denying - which side of that choice matrix are you on today?  Because it is for certain that we each have our own share of problems.  


The choice of whether to deny them or deal with them as best we can is always up to us.  No, rainy days and Mondays do NOT get me down.


Hope your day is full of sunshine and daffodils; but if it is not, I do hope you are choosing to deal rather than deny.  Until next time ...Marsha

Bumfusticated - Wrinkled Brows

All right, I will just admit it.  I am bumfusticated. 

It is Monday morning, and I have already made the trek to K's house, and we have done breakfast, read the newspaper, briefly discussed the daily news, and started the first load of wash.  The home nurse was already here when I arrived, which always leaves me feeling slightly guilty, even though K. has told me repeatedly that he is doing well enough that I don't need to be here 24/7. 

In a little while he will leave for his hyperbaric chamber treatment, as today begins the third week of a four week (five days a week) course of these treatments.  His slight irritability tells me that he is more than ready to be done with these miserable experiences.  They are not painful, just uncomfortable and boring. 

We scramble around to make sure he has a 100% cotton shirt clean and ready to wear, since that is all that is allowed inside the chamber.  Apparently at 400% pure oxygen there is some danger of clothing bursting into flames if you go in wearing the wrong thing.  (I could certainly have used that incentive to encourage staff to dress appropriately back when I ran an office, given the state of dishabille in which some arrived.)  

I personally would have a tough time being sealed in a chamber the size of a closet with two other strangers for two hours, five days a week, wearing a breathing device and trying to watch a stupid movie to pass the time.  Talk about claustrophobia!

While he is gone I will clean house, do his grocery shopping, and stop by the medical supply store because we are out of two-inch paper tape.  If it is anything like the last trip for pink zinc-oxide tape, they will have one-inch and three-inch in stock, but will be out of two inch and will have to order it.  And so it goes....

Still, these are all normal, everyday happenings (at least "normal" in my current world) and combined they do not tell me why I am so bumfusticated.

Odd word, isn't it?  You won't find it in any dictionary that I know about.  I am fairly certain it is an amalgam of several words which attempt to describe confusion, frustration and a sense of being stymied and out of sorts.  I learned it from an old gentleman I knew in my youth, who had an amazing lexicon of hybrid words that colored his vocabulary like a three year-old with a brand new box of
Crayons. 

Although he sometimes used words and phrases that I had never heard before, I almost always understood exactly what he meant.  He had that kind of clarity about who and what he was.

Some days he was "frizzled", other days he was "as pleased as a pup with two tails", occasionally he was as "happy as a dead pig in the sunshine."  (I never did quite "get" that one.)

Thus, today I am bumfusticated.  Although I may not know precisely what it means, I know exactly what it feels like. 

Hope your day is full of clarity and sunshine.  Until next time ...Marsha

Stopping to Think - Wrinkled Brows

Note:  Wrinkled Brows Mondays is a series of posts on a word or a quote of interest (perhaps only to me).

When you stop to think, don't forget to start again.
(~ Unknown)                                                

When I popped into the bank today, I looked up on the wall, and there was a little plaque with the saying above on it.  I can only hope they had not put it up in anticipation of my visit.

Surely my reputation for absent-mindedness has not preceded me to this extent.  One can only hope.

In truth, while occasionally forgetful, I don't know that I have ever gotten to the place where I could actually stop thinking - except when asleep.  It can be a problem, because I would just as soon stop thinking, quite often actually; but the old noggin just keeps on joggin' along.  Sometimes I truly wish I could stop thinking.  Don't you?

Of course, for those who have  a diagnosis of mental illness, the "voices in their heads" are a more serious issue, so I should not complain too much about nuisance thoughts.

From family members who have experience in support groups of various types, I have learned that too much thinking, especially if it is of the negative variety is called having "the committee in session." 

When the committee is in session, in a person's mind, it means there are just too many thoughts, options, opinions, and opportunities, all vying for attention at the same time.  Additionally, the cacophony is distracting from whatever the regular duties of life might be at the moment, and can become quite incapacitating.  Or so I have been told.

I have never been incapacitated by my own thoughts, but I have been  momentarily stunned from time to time.  Kind of like being "mentally tasered." You know what I mean.  You are meandering along through the day, and some kind of wacky thought just hits you like a bolt out of the blue, and you stumble to your nearest chair, plop down, and think to yourself, "Now where in the world did that come from?"

It is disconcerting to be sure, when one's own thoughts temporarily derail one's activities.  I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to struggle with that kind of challenge on a daily basis.

I am reminded, however, of one of my favorite quotes from Martin Luther, who reportedly said in reference to negative thinking such as doubts, fears, etc. ,  "While I cannot keep the birds from flying over my head, I can prevent them from building a nest in my hair."

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I always got a smile out of an old line I heard many years ago, about a guy who was basically too dim to be allowed to walk around unattended.  His caretaker kept encouraging him to take responsibility for himself.  To step up.  To resist negative thoughts.

Thus, one day the guy suddenly approached his caretaker and proudly reported, "Guess what?  I was tempted to think, but I fought it off!"

Uh, huh!  I've known a few folks like that.

So if you do stop to think, please don't forget to start again.  :)  Until next time, your thinking friend ...Marsha

God Is Not Disgusted With Us - Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows is an occasional Monday series on a word or a quote of interest (perhaps only to me).

The sun back lit the stained glass window showing the beautiful dove of peace in its rays.  The musicians were lively and still reverent.  And there was a special celebration in the morning service yesterday, as twelve new believers followed the example of Jesus in water baptism.

That was all beautiful enough that I would have left the sanctuary uplifted in my spirit.  But then, during his message, the pastor tossed off a line that made me sit straight up.

"God is not disgusted with you.  He delights in you."

Wow!  When did I forget this? 

How long had it been since I was reminded that God likes me?  He enjoys my company!  What an amazing reality.

As C.S. Lewis once wrote in the Screwtape Letters, through the character of Screwtape to his younger trainee, "God loves the hairy little bipeds.  He really does."  It was amazing to the evil Screwtape and his master.  They kept looking for "the catch" - some other explanation.  But there was none.

                                            # # # # #

Has it been awhile since you remembered that God enjoys your company?  If so, spend a little time with Him today, and be reminded of how valuable you are to Him.

Until next time ...Marsha

Mendacity: Or Lack Thereof - Monday Wrinkled Brows

Last evening we went to dinner at the home of some new/old
friends.  They are new/old because the lady  (B.)is an old friend of the *LOC's, whom he had not seen in thirty years, and whom I had never met. Neither of us had ever met her husband (A.), so another new friend.  (*Lovable Old Coot)

They are "foodies" and pet lovers.  I could readily relate to the latter category, but admittedly struggle with the former.  One of their pets was a basset hound named Freckles and he was a sweetie.  Thankfully, he liked us, because B.  told us frankly that if Freckles disliked a guest they never invite that person back; because Freckles has impeccable instincts. 

Apparently Freckles does not have a mendacious bone in his long, low-slung little body.  We don't hear much about mendacity these days.  That tendency toward dishonesty, the little social fib meant to amuse, distract or entertain is par for the course.

The strict definition of mendacity is, of course, dishonesty or a lie; but the more nuanced meaning is the untruth told without the intent of really convincing the listener, but more of distracting or entertaining, such as "the tales of his adventures were offered tongue-in-cheek."

I engaged in a little mendacity myself during our visit and was not proud of myself.  However, I could not - simply could not - think what else to do.  Later the LOC called me on it, too; and that rankled.

My mendacity (almost sounds like a song title, doesn't it?  along the lines of "My Cheri Amour") came about this way.  B. was getting ready to cook our dinner.  She had many ingredients laid out on the counter, just beneath her high-caliber cookware which hung from a stainless steel oval rack overhead:  shades of Emeril, Rachel Ray, and the like.

Now I am from the Midwest and I know how to fry things.  I also can bake, and when pressed, I can occasionally saute with a certain flair.  But the sight of all those shining pots and pans hanging overhead (and everyone knows that only serious cooks hang their cookware overhead) already had me a bit intimidated.  And then she goes and pulls out a super-sized wok as she says with a lilting smile, "I hope you like Thai food.  No one has any shell-fish allergies do they?  We are doing shrimp and calamari."

The LOC says, "I've only had it once or twice, but I love seafood."  And I just murmured assent - mendaciously.  I've never knowingly eaten calamari (squid) in my life, and I only like shrimp deep-fried in a nice egg batter!

The evening progressed with lots of conversation accompanied by a wonderfully mellow Barberra red wine.  I only had about two or three ounces because I rarely imbibe, and am one of those folks for whom alcohol has only one effect:  I need a nap.  Since it is impolite to fall asleep in the middle of Thai food at new/old friends house ... well, you can understand.

Actually the vegetables - and there must have been about a hundred (now that was a mendacious assertion :) - in the platter B. served were delicious.  They were all home-grown, in their raised, organic beds right in their own backyard.  I tried not to think about what I was ingesting whenever I happened upon a bit of the calamari among the veggies.

Our post-dinner perambulation took us through their three distinct gardens.  One contains a patio, a koi pond with a waterfall, and wonderful shade trees; a second consists of the aforementioned raised vegetable beds; and a third is where they grow their fruit trees (for all the homemade jam she cans) and various dwarf trees like the pomegranate in a large pot.

Out front was a lovely grassy yard, with a bird bath and more shade trees, and with a nice horseshoe pit off to the side.  B. explained that their summer parties are all held outdoors and guests ramble through all three garden areas at their pleasure.  I could well imagine.

As we prepared to leave (I needed to get back "down the hill" to K.'s house where I am care giving while my son recuperates from surgery) B. insisted we take a jar of her pomegranate jam, which we were glad to do.  During the course of the evening, A. and B. had asked how I came to be staying at my son's, and thus were aware of his situation.

Therefore, B. also offered a container of her homemade vegetable soup for K. I smiled politely and said "That is very kind of you."  Later when I gave the container to the LOC, just before I pulled out of our driveway to head back to K.'s, he said, "But that is for K."  I explained that K. does not like soup, and I did not want to waste it; whereas I know very well that the LOC loves soup, especially vegetable soup, so this would be a real treat for him, during these days as he is making do mostly by himself.

This is when he "called me" on my mendacity.  "But you said K. would like it.", he challenged.

"No, I said 'That is very kind of you' ". I did not want to hurt her feelings.  But he was right, I had left the impression that the soup would go to K. Sighhhhhhh.....

You know, it is very hard to be a completely honest person.  I am just saying....
                                    * * * * *

Hope you are contemplating your integrity with more satisfaction than I am this evening.  I am considering how to engage in less mendacity going forward.  Of course, I could just be over-thinking this whole thing:  it's been known to happen.

Until next time, your less than totally candid, wrinkled brows friend...Marsha
Note:  Wrinkled Brows is an occasional Monday series on a word or quote of interest (perhaps only to me).

                                                  

Stilettos -They Can Kill You (Wrinkled Brows)

                                                                                                      
Stiletto:  a slender dagger with a blade thick in proportion to its breadth, a pointed instrument for piercing holes.

Clearly, from the two definitions above, stilettos were never intended to be worn as footwear.  As body armour, perhaps; as a weapon of self-defense, possibly; but as fashion?  I have heard it said that it must have been a man who invented these instruments of torture; because  you notice you never see a man wearing them.

Actually, this is untrue.  According to Wikipedia (that bastion of intellectual veritude) the inventor was a woman name Kristin Wagner, although there is some disagreement as to the very first maker of these things.

They came to mind today only because we have a guest staying at our house and as I placed an extra blanket on the guest bed, because the nights in the foothills are getting chilly, I could not help but notice a pair of black patent leather stiletto heels sitting by her suitcase.

My knees almost buckled in what must have been the podiatry equivalent of post-traumatic stress syndrome.  How many board rooms did I walk into over the years dressed in high-heels, while all the other attendees, all men, of course, were wearing Florsheim's or Ferragamo loafers?  Certainly something a good deal more comfortable than those loathsome stilettos.

Health-wise they are disastrous.  The very definition of a stiletto heel dictates that at the base of the heel stem where it meets the floor, it should be no wider than one-half an inch!  Really?

If you asked any sane woman whether she might like to just hop up and balance her entire body on the tip of her nose, she would justifiably look at you as if you were deranged. 

And yet, trying to balance your entire body on a half-inch diameter spot under your foot doesn't make a whole lot more sense, if you ask me.  (Of course, now that I come to think of it, no one did.)  I'm just saying.

Every foot doctor will tell you they are bad for your feet, bad for your back,  bad for your posture, .... bad, bad, bad.  I am telling you, women, Manolo Blahnick and Christian Louboutin (you know, the guy who makes all the soles of his shoes bright red) are NOT your friends.

Now don't get me wrong.  I have spent my fair share of filthy lucre on footwear.  At one point in my corporate career I had a different pair of shoes for every suit I owned, and in colors that were the height of fashion.  I like a well-coordinated ensemble as well as the next woman.  Well, I did before I retired.  These days my idea of an "ensemble" is a clean pair of jeans and a polo shirt with a sharp looking pair of Reeboks.

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Those awful dagger-heels that will give you bunions the size of cantaloupes, plantar fasciitis, hammer toe, and probably dropsy, too - although admittedly I do not really know what dropsy actually is.

Sensible shoes.  The very phrase makes some women who fancy themselves "fashionistas" shudder at the thought.  Okay.  Fair enough.  It may be true that only lonely librarians and women of a certain age wear sensible shoes.

But I've got a news flash for you.  At least they are not making Dr. Scholl's richer than he already is, by buying corn plasters, toe splints, ointments, callous pumice, etc. by the gross.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever heard was from a woman giving a lecture to a bunch of us professional women during a seminar.  She said, "By the way, ladies, whatever else you do or don't do for yourself over the next few years, for goodness sakes, stop wearing those awful high heels and buy some good looking, but comfortable shoes.  Twenty years from now you will hunt me down to thank me."

I took her suggestion to heart and began from that day onward to select more comfortable footwear.  Do you know that stiletto heels are often associated with "foot fetishes"?  Now that cannot be a good thing.  And I am telling you that wearing your soft, fuzzy slippers for an hour or so before bedtime, isn't going to undo the damage to your feet you inflicted upon yourself during eight hours at the office, or wherever you labor.

So do yourself a favor.  The next time you are tempted to blow a wad on instruments of self-torture, stop (or at least hesitate) long enough to ask yourself this:  Will my feet thank me tomorrow?

If the answer is "no" - keep walkin'.  :)

Until next time  - your sensible brogan-wearing compatriot - Marsha

Note:  Wrinkled Brows is an occasional Monday series on a word or quote of interest (perhaps only to me).

It's Hard to Scratch A Knuckle - Wrinkled Brows

Note:  Wrinkled Brows is an occasional Monday series on a word or a quote of interest (perhaps only to me).

Itch:  an uneasy irritating sensation in the upper surface of the skin usually held to result from mild stimulation of the pain receptors.

Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to satisfactorily scratch one of your knuckles when it itches?  It is an odd thing, isn't it?

As I was trying to drift off into slumber land the other evening, I noticed my ring-finger knuckle was itching like crazy.  I turned on the light and checked out my annoying digit.  No welt - so not a mosquito bite - no rash, no nothing.  Just itching.

I tried scratching it, but that just didn't seem to do it.  I tried rubbing it, too.  No joy in that either.

I gave some thought to why it is so hard to scratch a knuckle in such a way that it will actually stop itching, and I decided it is the wrinkles.  They prevent getting to the "root of the itch" if you will.

This is not like the spot between your shoulder blades, which can be scratched effectively, provided your arms are long enough.  Mine are not, so I usually have to enlist the aid of a back-scratcher.

But if you can reach that trouble spot, you can usually alleviate the problem.  Not so with itchy knuckles.  This also holds true for itchy heels, elbows and knees.  None of these areas can be effectively scratched in such a way as to stopping the itching.  It is a nuisance.  Fortunately, for me at least, it is a rarely occurring nuisance, but still.

Finally, it dawned on me what all of these spots have in common.  They all have naturally occurring wrinkles, or little folds in the skin.  (Of course, that could just be me.) Ah ha, that is the answer. 

While I lay and pondered the significance of this discovery, I suddenly thought, "Oh my goodness.  Those poor Shar Peis, how do they ever scratch an itch?"  You know, that odd breed of dog which have so many wrinkles everywhere that they are "so ugly they are cute."           

And as for me, my knuckle finally stopped itching, and I drifted off to sleep still empathizing greatly with those poor wrinkled pooches famous for their folds.
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Life can be like an itchy knuckle.  An ill-defined uneasiness, not quite pain, but not something that can be ignored.  Inchoate hopes and dreams.  Unspoken promises we wish we had kept anyway.  Life is a Shar Pei, with lots of wrinkles built right in.

Hope you are in a good spot this evening, with nary an itchy wrinkle anywhere. Until next time ... Marsha

We tried ..... But It Didn't Work ~ Wrinkled Brows

Note:  Wrinkled Brows is a sometimes Monday series on a quote or a word of interest (perhaps only to me.)  

"We tried to legislate morality and ended up enshrining hypocrisy."

.... Ken Burns as quoted in Parade, October 2, 2011 in reference to his new PBS series on Prohibition.

I really never thought much about the Prohibition movement, or even the fact that it involved an amendment to the constitution, which was later repealed.  It was, after all, from my grandmother's era.  But now that I have given it some thought, it was a pretty amazing chapter in American history.  I watched the first episode last night on PBS as perhaps you did, too.

But it was the Ken Burns' quote above that really stopped me in my tracks, because it resonated with so much of what I have observed in various religious institutions during my lifetime.

Talk about legislating morality, or trying to.  I was raised in one of the very strictest conservative Protestant denominations.  We did not drink (probably why Prohibition never interested me very much), nor dance, nor wear makeup, nor wear jewelry (except for a wedding ring), etc. etc. etc.  I bought a red dress once, and made the mistake of wearing it to church, only to be soundly denounced by some of the older women for looking like a "Jezebel."  It was very wearing - every pun intended.

As you can readily see, many of the "prohibitions" in my religious upbringing were directed more toward the women of the congregation than the men.  I found that galling, even as a teenager.  But I obeyed because we were taught that was the way to holiness.  Unfortunately, I don't think I obtained holiness, except for often feeling "wholly ticked off."  Legalism - believe you me the pharisees had nothing on us in that department.

Not long ago, I stumbled onto a website - which I do not plan to name here because it was so discouraging to read, and because the authors seemed to gloat over the fallen - which listed dozens of major scandals involving well known preachers over the past fifty or sixty years.  Talk about "enshrining hypocrisy" - and they did a bang up job of it.  Some of those they listed were "legends" in my youth and others were held up as "heroes of the faith", when they were mostly egotistically driven frauds.  Sad, but true.

I don't really have many heroes any more.  Too many turned out to have feet of clay.  I really, come to think of it, only have one and they crucified him.  But I can relate to him more and more, partly because he hated the religious hypocrisy of his day and made no bones about it.  Neither was he an abstemious prude; in fact, he himself said they called him a drunkard and a glutton (neither of which was true).

Nevertheless, he did not allow it to cause him to become alienated from his Father, nor bitter toward others, nor isolated from the fellowship of believers.  He recognized hypocrisy, named it for what it was, and then just went about his Father's business.

Now there is an example worth following.  Until next time ...Marsha

Competent - Don't I wish ? - Mondays Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows is a Monday series on a word or quote of interest (perhaps only to me.)

Competent: having requisite or adequate ability or qualities; legally qualified or adequate; having the capacity to function in a particular way.

Most of us have a few personal pet peeves and one of mine happens to be incompetence, especially in areas where it really matters.  I'll just own it; incompetence makes me cranky.

As a young girl, even just ironing dresser scarves, my mom expected that they would be done correctly.  "If it's worth doing at all, then it is worth doing right."

Let's face it, when one is less than fully adequate in "flopping whoppers", or perhaps greeting customers just so at the local wally-world store, the ripple effects are likely to be little more than mild irritation.  No big deal.

But when competence is inadequate in areas where health, safety or even financial dealings are at stake, I have a fairly low-threshold of tolerance.  This past week has been a stiff challenge in remaining professional and polite while dealing with people who lacked "the capacity to function in a particular way."

Necessary paperwork authorizing critical medical treatment gone awry, missing, or in one case delivered to the wrong patient, for the wrong diagnosis with the wrong treatment.  People!  What happened to professionalism?

Deadlines were ignored or missed.  Arrangements which had been double-checked for confirmation due to necessary, and very specific logistics, had not been communicated to the right person despite assurance that they would be.

I made a living for a lot of years in a tough corporate environment where you either delivered on your promises and met your deadlines, or you were invited to seek your future elsewhere.

Say what you'll do and then do what you say.  Walk your talk.  Plan your work and then work your plan.  However it was phrased, you darned well better come through or there were serious consequences to be faced.

Apparently that type of commitment to keeping one's word is no longer in vogue.  It is a lackadaisical society in which we live.  More's the pity.

I don't know about the rest of you, but this week's miserable demonstrations of incompetence have caused me to determine to do even more going forward to:
-     communicate clearly wants, needs, and expectations
-     follow through on exactly what I say I will do
-     remember to thank those who services I value and respect.

I no longer get paid to behave this way; but I still believe it is worth the effort.  Someone, somewhere is depending upon each of us to be competent.  I say let's come through for them.

Hope you are enjoying the waning summer days and remembering to thank those who demonstrate competency.  It apparently isn't all that common anymore.  (And I am not just being cranky.  At least I hope not.  :) Until next time .... Marsha

A Happy Medium - Wrinkled Brows

Note:  Wrinkled Brows is a Monday series on a quote or a word definition of interest (perhaps only to me).

Today's quote:          

"The happy medium was something that eluded the world..."
from The Scarlet Feather by Maeve Binchy

The happy medium - it must be almost as elusive as the bluebird of happiness.  I mean people just do not seem to be able to get a handle on it.  Personally, I find it as puzzling as trying to chew cotton candy - you think you have a mouthful and suddenly it is just gone.

Perhaps we should define it first, before we go off opining on how difficult it is to achieve. 

A happy medium is a phrase that generally means a balance point, or place of pleasant compromise.   Nothing too extreme, nor too terribly stressful, but not at all boring.   

Sounds easy enough, doesn't it?  But somehow, human nature being what it is, we just do not seem to be able to arrive at this mystical "happy medium" more than once in a blue moon, and generally only then quite by accident.

For example, take getting the room temperature fixed at a happy medium.  In the winter, I like to think 72 degrees is a nice spot, but the LOC* tends to think 67 will do just fine. (*Lovable Old Coot)

One would not suppose that a mere five degrees could be all that significant, but one would be sadly mistaken in that view.  If I happen to slip the thermostat up to 72 for a few minutes, the first thing I know the LOC is muttering about peeling the paint off the walls.

And if he edges it down a few too many notches, pretty soon I am swaddled in two pairs of socks, a warm fuzzy robe, and all this topped off with my electric throw set on high, wrapped around my head and shoulders with only my eyes to be seen.  I have considered getting a ski mask too, because my nose is always cold; but I am afraid that would invite ridicule from the other party to this little tableau.

And then there are vacations.  Few happy mediums to be had in that department.  Some of us think a vacation is for lounging about with a good book in a shady spot.  Others think it means "mapping out an agenda" days in advance so that we may shoehorn in as many tourist sites as possible within a minimum twelve hour day.

I spent a week in Washington D.C. with my oldest son a couple of summers ago, and trust me, you have not lived until you have seen the U.S. Dept. of Printing and Engraving (where they actually print the money), the Holocaust Museum, and the Washington Monument all before noon on the same day.

I might think a happy medium to the vacation bifurcation would be to read all morning and visit perhaps two sites in the afternoon; however, some people who shall remain nameless tend to call that "wasting half the day." 

Small wonder the character in Ms. Binchy's book states that the happy medium eludes the world.  I have pondered this whole happy medium thing deeply, for at least five or ten minutes anyway, and have come to this profound conclusion.

I do not know why happy mediums are so hard to find.  I do not know how some folks seem to achieve them.  I do not know how Tibetan monks can chant for hours without getting sore throats either, but I digress.

The fact is - happy mediums do not proliferate the way smiley faces do, more's the pity.  They are, to be blunt, illusory.

So I'll just go with something easy - here's a smiley face to you.  :)
Until next time ....Marsha
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Question:  Do you find a happy medium hard to achieve?

The Nature of Patience - Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows:  A Monday series on a word definition or quote of interest (perhaps only to me.)

Patience:  endurance, forbearance, fortitude;  constant diligence in the performance of a task; capacity for waiting without complaint.

To be honest, I have never considered myself a patient person.  At least not by natural temperament.  I walk fast, talk fast, and generally do most things with a good deal of zip.  Well, maybe not quite so much zip these days. 

Thus, in these very limited circumstances in which I currently find myself, I am finding my patience sorely tried.  But I am trying to be intentional about developing a greater capacity for patience.

It is an interesting fact to note that among all the gifts of the spirit listed in I Corinthians 12, patience is not among them.  There is no such gift, which leads to the old joke, "Lord, please give me patience, and give it to me right now."

There is, however, a fruit of patience, which is listed among the fruits of the spirit in Galatians 5.  Ah ha - now we begin to come to the heart of the matter.  A gift is nearly instantaneous.  It is presented, it is accepted, and voila' there you have it.

But a fruit - oh, dear, you see where I am going with this don't you?  Every fruit begins with a small seed, which must be nurtured, tended to, watered and grown, over a considerable period of time.

And even then, there are no guarantees of successfully producing an actual edible piece of fruit.  There are the threats of disease, bad weather, foolish gardening mistakes ... why there are all kinds of obstacles to successfully growing good fruit. 

So lately, while I am on caregiver duty, I am also keenly aware that even though I may be doing "honorable duty" in serving, if I do so with a resentful attitude, an angry chip on my shoulder, or an "oh me, poor me sigh", I will be no closer to developing more patience than if I had flat out refused to help at all.

In a much earlier post, I wrote about a lady I worked with in painting our church kitchen one weekend, who sighed and sighed, until I finally asked her what the problem was.  She acknowledged that she knew she was going to "lose her reward for this job, because I have complained the whole time."  I laughed so hard, she eventually started laughing too.

But we do that to ourselves sometimes, don't we?  We sabotage our own spiritual growth by adopting the very heart-stances that will prohibit such growth.  We are self-defeating creatures to be sure.  No wonder the Apostle Paul wrote, "Oh, miserable man that I am, who shall deliver me from this body of death?"

The answer, of course, was and is Jesus.  He is our great example of patience.  He was patient with Peter when he denied him, with James and John, as they argued about who could sit on his right hand, and with Thomas when he doubted him unless he could put his finger in the nail scars.

He has also been patient with me - during times too numerous to count.  Thus, I want to be more patient with others, and even with myself.  I'm presently not very good at it.  But I am honestly working on it. 

Hope no one is trying your patience today, but if they are, I hope you are taking the opportunity to grow.  :)  Oh, go on, it could be fun.  Until next time ...Marsha
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"Love is patient, love is kind."  I Corinthians 13:4

Hard Scrabble - Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows:  A Monday series on a word or quote of interest (perhaps only to me).

 Its a word, its a game, its SCRABBLE! 

Scrabble:     –verb (used with object)

1.

to scratch or scrape, as with claws or hands.

2.

to grapple or struggle with 

3.

to scrawl; scribble.                    

Phrase - "a hard scrabble life" meaning to scrounge around for a little of this and that, always with insufficient resources.  (Crud, now that is prophetic.  See pitiful tale below.)

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So it is Sunday evening and my  grown son, K., says to me, "Mom, what have you got on your agenda this evening?"

I reply, "Well, I was thinking of going out for a little line dancing and then knocking back a few mohitos."

You have to know the context for this conversation.  K. is bedfast for two or three months, following a tough surgery.  He cannot leave the bed - at all - 24/7.  It is a tough gig.

I'm his mom, and his 24/7 caregiver, and glad to do it. Nevertheless, asking me what I have on my agenda is a bit of a moot point at the moment.  Still, I suspect an ulterior motive and he is not long in revealing it.

"So if you are sober enough to spell, after the mohitos, do you want to play some Scrabble?"

Ah ha!  Now we are coming to the real issue here.  The gauntlet is thrown, the die is cast, and the Scrabble tiles are DOWN!  Bring it on, big boy.

We quickly review the rules (our family rules - not those nonsensical suggestions on the inside of the box lid), agree on how disputes will be handled, and like two prize fighters coming to the center of the ring for their instructions, we touch gloves in a gesture of respect and draw for who goes first.  The game is afoot.

I draw an F and place it down with some confidence.  After all, out of 26 letters, there are only five higher than this.  Take that, my eyes tell him with a withering glance.

Rats!  The kid pulls out an A and lays it down with a smirk that just begs to be wiped off his face, like I used to scrub it when he was four.

So he comes out of the gate with a five letter word, scores nicely and lays back.  I am looking at the possibility of using all seven tiles, nailing a 50 point bonus and putting him on the run from the get go.  I miss by one letter, but still six letters on the opening shot isn't too bad.

He responds with "Zero" putting the Z on a double word square, scoring thirty-four points and putting me clearly on the defensive.

Reeling from this right jab, I come back with a left hook, snapping down "Steins" and retire to my corner, pleased with myself.

He grins and uses the S on the end of "Steins" to engineer a stunning triple letter score placing "Beast" crosswise on the bottom of that word.

And so it goes, back and forth, feinting, jabbing, scrabbling around for a U when that dratted Q shows up on your rack.  He is pulling ahead now, scoring 5 to 10 points more than I do on 3 out of 4 plays.  He's up 30 then 50, oh no, he is now punching with real momentum (and where, I ask you, are those mohitos when you need one?).  I am staggering against the ropes like a drunken sailor, and I haven't even had the pleasure of shore leave.

His grin is getting wider, my frown is getting deeper, and the blows just keep coming.  I will spare the reader being dragged through the entire sad match.  Suffice it to say that I am probably developing cauliflower ear from listening to him crow.

When the game ended, I was bleeding from both eyes, and he was grinning from ear to ear.  He is crowing, while I am coughing up the phlegm of defeat.  Disgusting.

As we put the pieces back into the box, he picks up the score sheet and begins to review the pattern of play throughout the game.

"Oh, come on", I remonstrate.  "Now you are going to analyze my demise?"  He says he is just going to do a little statistical analysis on the scoring pattern in preparation for our re-match TBD very soon.

I respond haughtily that I have better things to do with my time - like reading the dictionary!  We have decided that we will keep track of both game wins and losses, and total scores each.

It is going to be a marathon, not a sprint.  Kind of like this thing he and I are doing over these next few months. Thank goodness, we are in it together.  Otherwise, it might get a little tedious.  :)

Hope your day is a triple-word score kind of day! Until next time ...Marsha

My Assigned Portion - Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows: A Monday series on quotations or word definitions of interest (perhaps only to me.)

Portion: an individual's part or share of something; a share received by gift or inheritance; one's share of good and evil.

Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup. (Psalm 16:5 NIV)

When skies are blue and days are bright - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When nights are long and sleep is a wistful hope - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When budgets are tight and bills are large - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When generous gifts and inheritance comes my way - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When I stepped onto stages and sang to hundreds - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When I sing quietly, alone, with only You to listen - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When I had a strong position and much authority - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When I was weak and no one listened, but You - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When I am in great need, and do not see a way forward - Lord, you have assigned me my portion ...

When I have sound assurance that You will meet my every need - Lord, you have assigned me my portion.  Selah - So be it.

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"...for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.  I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty.  I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation ..." Colossians 4: 11-12 (NIV)

Hope your portion today is a good one.  Until next time ...Marsha

A Permanent Wave

Mondays - Wrinkled Brows

(A weekly - more or less - Monday post of a quote or word of interest.)

Permanent:  to endure, to continue to endure, lasting or enduring without marked or fundamental change,

Permanent:  a chemical hair treatment of long-lasting nature which may also be known as a permanent wave.

Clearly I am not "permanent" - as there have been a number of marked, and fundamental, changes in me over the years.  I am not as tall, nor as small, as I used to be.  Something changed.  I seem to have shrunk vertically, and not-shrunk horizontally.  Now that just doesn't seem fair, but it is what it is.

Neither is my recall quite as quick as it once was.  I recently lamented that I only got four out of five Jeopardy "questions" correct in a category.  The look the LOC* shot me had not changed from the last time he gave me one of those.  (Lovable Old Coot*) 

I used to regularly wax those TV contestants, from the comfort of my own easy chair.  Lately my "wax jobs" are a little streaky.

And my hair, well, now that is an interesting thing.  When I left the world of business, and became a stay-at-home person of a certain age, I decided to go au naturale.  That is I stopped putting any coloring on my hair, and over the past year or so it has turned a nice shade of....well, I am not quite sure what shade it is.  Seems to be several at once, but I am okay with it.

I was strolling down the aisle at Walmart the other day, and a lady stopped me and said, "You have beautiful hair."

I was startled, as that had not happened in a while.  So I smiled, and said, "Thank you.  It just grows right out of my head this way."  I don't know quite know why I said that, but I did.  Like I said, I was startled.

Those permanent waves were not.  Trust me on this.  You had to get them "renewed" about twice a year, and then you had to avoid all human contact for at least a week while the smell died down, or your hair quit smelling like something had crawled into it and died.

Thus, nothing stays the same.  Everything changes.  Nothing is really permanent at all.  But sometimes that can be a good thing.  Here is to waving goodby to what used to be, and to looking ahead to whatever is coming our way.

Happy Monday ...  Marsha

Who's The Boss ? - Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows:  a Monday series on either a quotation or a word definition or meaning.
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Remember the TV show of this title?  It starred Tony Danza, as I recall, although my recall is vague because I never really watched it.  I just remember the title because I always thought it was a little inane.  I mean, after all, who doesn't know who their boss is?

But then, I have been told that even as a child I was a bossy little thing.  My Aunt still laughs about the time she took me to a county fair when I was about four years old and she was a teenager.  I wandered off a little ways, while she was talking with some of her friends, and managed to fall down in a mud puddle and get myself all dirty.

Indignantly, I marched up to her and told her, "If you can't take any better care of me than this, you can just take me home!"  Even at the age of four, I was clear about who the boss was supposed to be.
                                           
                                                * * * *   
For quite a few years, I was "the boss" in one role or another. At one time in my career, I managed the western region for a Fortune 500 company, and had responsibilities in the Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Sacramento offices.  I would fly into L.A. and someone would pick me up at the airport and drive me to our offices on Wilshire Blvd.  This was heady stuff for a girl who didn't get a drivers license until she was twenty, and who didn't own a car in my own name until I was forty.

The actual word "boss" is derived from an old Dutch word "baas" and literally referred to the straw boss.  This was the person who decided how heavy a load was to be placed upon the backs of those doing the heavy lifting.  Having learned this little tidbit early in my management days, I determined not to be the kind of person who made others' loads heavier. 

I always thought a good boss was there to take the heat when necessary, shed some light if possible, and never ask anyone else to do anything you were unwilling to do yourself.

Two years ago I downsized, so to speak, and it is a whole new ball game.  I went from being a "voice of authority" over about twelve hundred employees, to being responsible for one LOC (Lovable Old Coot) and one Lhasa Apso (Holly) a smallish but feisty little dog.  That's it.  And sometimes trying to get either one of them to do something takes more patience and savvy than it used to require to negotiate a million dollar contract.  I'm just saying....

The LOC calls for more iced tea, and I step lively.  Holly yips about her empty food or water dish, and I step even livelier.  So now I am the one asking the (still) inane question, "Who's the boss?"

I suspect that I may not really want to know.  :)
Hope everyone is clear about who's who in your domicile today.  Until next time ... Marsha  (No longer the boss-and glad of it)

A Little Satisfaction - Wrinkled Brows on Mondays

"...everyone who makes a sacrifice needs a little sense of satisfaction."  ~ Hans Keilson (1909 - 2011) German author and WW II refugee / survivor
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The rock legend Mick Jagger famously sang on one of the Rolling Stones best known hits, "I can't get no satisfaction."  Sometimes what we want and what we get are two very different things.

Those who go through life seeking their own satisfaction do, in fact, rarely find it, or not enough of it to fill their lust for self-indulgence.

But those who sacrifice, for others, for the "greater good" or for some cause which they believe to be worthwhile, often find that what they gave provided them with a greater return in soul satisfaction than they ever anticipated.

Satisfaction is an interesting word, in that the root is "sate" or "sated" meaning to be full.  Empty people sometimes pursue their own satisfaction with blood, sweat and tears, only to find themselves more empty at the end of that blind alley than they ever thought possible.

However, even those who give cheerfully (and God said he loved a cheerful giver) often hope for a "little satisfaction", a small sense of "I did a good thing" or "I hope that makes a small difference."

Altruistic giving is that which expects no reward or return at all.  Nothing.  No smile, no "thank you", no gratitude.  That goes against our human nature.  We are both givers and takers.  Hopefully many of us try to stay a little more on the "giving" side of the spectrum than the "taking" side of life.  I read somewhere that we should not go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands, because we need to be able to throw something back once in a while.  Too true.

Let us not, however, confuse mild generosity with genuinely sacrificial giving.  And even more to the point, let us not fool ourselves into thinking that when we do give sacrificially, we are not, in some small secret place in our hearts, hoping for just a little satisfaction.  It is, after all, only human.

What we may want to keep in mind, however, is that God does not necessarily look at what we gave, but rather at what we have left, after we have given.  It is just a thought.....
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As he looked up, Jesus saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury.  He also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins.  "I tell you the truth," he said, "this poor widow has put in more than all the others.  All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on."  Luke 21:1-4

Trial by Existence - Wrinkled Brows

{Note:  The general posting schedule for my blog is as follows-

Mondays - Wrinkled Brows -  essay on quotes or word definitions
Tues/Wed - In Other Words - a Christian blog group
Thurs/Fri - Travel with the Youngs, or a series on corporate life entitled A Country Christian in Corporate America
Sat/Sun - anything or nothing at all . }

Wrinkled Brows:  a Monday series on word definitions or a quote of the week.

And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
   The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
   The obscuration upon earth.
                           ~ Robert Frost from The Trial By Existence

Isn't that the truth?  Sometimes life does just feel like it is "trial by existence." 

Almost every experience feels like some kind of "test" and you simply are not convinced you are putting up a passing grade.

There is an old Mosie Lister (famous gospel songwriter of the 1950s and 60s) that says:

Many times I'm tried and tested, as I labor day by day.
Oft I meet with pain and sorrow and there's trouble in my way.

Yep.  Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.  And during such times every little thing irritates you. And every other thing just gets on your very last nerve.

I am reminded of a story about a perpetually irritated fellow who died.  Some witty family member had his headstone engraved with the following epitaph:
                                    Here lies John. 
                                  Irritated to death.
We have all known those Type A personalities - always speeding up to the the next red light, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel while they wait for it to turn green.

Scarfing down their meals without ever really tasting anything, much less taking a moment to appreciate all the work that went into preparing the meal in the first place.

Whizzing through life at the speed of aggravation, while managing to pretty much aggravate the life out of anyone else who happened to be within shouting distance.

What say we all make it our collective determination today, that we NOT make ourselves anyone else's "trial by existence"?

A worthy goal, me thinks.  :)
Have a peaceful, easy day ...Marsha

A Little Progress

Pablo Casals was once considered to be the greatest cellist in the world.  I read that he practiced eight hours a day, every day, even into his eighties.

Someone asked him, in his latter years, "Pablo, why do you still practice so hard each day?  You are already the greatest cellist in the world?"

Casals replied, "Because I believe I am making some progress."
                                                                                                        
I love that quote.  The humility, the forward-looking hopefulness, and the confidence.  All of it.  I just love it.
                                                * * *

I received a call today from a former colleague of mine.  He worked with me on my staff for several years, and even though I retired a couple of years ago, he wanted to take me to lunch and ask for some advice about a career move he is considering.  I was touched by his respectfulness, and amused at his deference, as though my calendar is still as jam packed as it used to be.  He seemed to have overlooked the fact that I no longer have "vice president" after my name, and no one screens my callers.

He seemed to think I would need to "work him into my schedule."  That makes me smile, as these days I have no schedule, unless you count picking up the newspaper, reading it over morning tea, and then going out back to check out the hummingbird feeder.

I remember "power lunches" with leather briefcases parked discreetly at the chair legs of each person sitting at small tables with white starched linen tablecloths and both tumblers and wineglasses at each place setting.  Of course, once the days of the Drug Free Workplace came in, most of the wineglasses were discreetly removed before the waiter took our orders.  That was a good thing, as far as I was concerned.  Those three-martini lunches never resulted in any thing worthwhile, and had been known to impair a promising career.

So in a few days, my friend and I will meet for lunch and I will listen to his hopes and dreams of what he would like to accomplish in the next phase of his career.  He will ask for my advice, my opinion on prospective employers, who I believe will deal honorably with him, and which potential employer sometimes deals from the bottom of the deck.

I will give him my best shot at wisdom.  Hopefully there will be a smattering of insight in the conversation somewhere.  But mostly I will be listening, to hear whether he is set on advancement in his career, or upon making progress in his life.  While they are not mutually exclusive, they are not the same thing.

In my opinion, we all need to be like Pablo, making some progress.
Hope your day includes a little progress... Marsha

Keep On Truckin' - Wrinkled Brows

Wrinkled Brows - on Mondays - an eclectic series on quotations or word definitions.

 It was back-to-school night; one of those occasions when parents gather at school sites all over the country to meet their child's teachers, take a look at their student's handiwork, and hear a bit about how their son or daughter is doing.

Many parents look forward to these little get-togethers, some dread them, and others simply never know what to expect.  We fell into the latter category.

Our middle son was one of those kids that just kept you on the edge of your patience, as well as the edge of your seat, for his entire childhood.  He was a good athlete, but a so-so student, and he could be so charmingly unassuming about it that you didn't quite know how to reproach him.  Or at least we didn't.  He was a happy, carefree little guy, with a laid back attitude, and a wacky sense of humor.

Thus, one evening when he was in second-grade, we approached the school grounds with a by-now-familiar sense of "what will he do next?" tension.   On this occasion, we need not have worried, as he was on his best behavior, and he was glad to show us his art project.

First the teacher told the assembled parents that, for this occasion, she had assigned the children the task of drawing three pictures that illustrated how they saw the world and life.  Within those very broad parameters, they could draw anything they wanted.  Oh, boy....

We approached our son's first drawing and saw that he had drawn a big shining sun with grass and a couple of attempted trees, and the caption in his large left-handed scrawl read:  God Is Love.

Well, color us happy.  The next picture showed a big cross at the top, a smiling face in the center of the page and down at the bottom a stick figure of a little boy.  The caption read:  Jesus Loves Me.

I was about to burst into happy-tears of love and pride, thinking, "He gets it.  And this is pretty deep stuff for a seven-year old.  First a global view - God is love; then a personal application - Jesus loves me."  Wow!  Color us both happy and proud.

We then moved on to his final drawing.  It was a big rig truck, with the simple caption:  Keep On Truckin'.  We looked at each other and burst out laughing.  I have laughed about it every time I remembered it since.

Additionally, I have also used this little story numerous times in various talks and speeches to church groups, women's luncheons, etc. over the years, as it isn't a bad life-philosophy when you think about the whole of it.

God is love, that is the over all crowning truth of scripture, followed immediately by the fact that He loves us individually, not just as some collective lump of humanity.

And when all is said and done, no matter what has worked out well, or what has come crashing down around you, about all you can do, unless you are a quitter, is to "keep on truckin'."  It still makes me smile.

Hope it gave you a smile, too.  Have a good day. ...Marsha

P.S. Cartoonist R. Crumb is credited with originating the saying in the 1980's Keep On Truckin'.