Say what you mean and mean what you say was one of the “snaps” my friends and I used to say when we were growing up in St. Louis.  We didn’t really understand what we were saying  given the ferocity of our delivery of those words but as I’ve grown, I’ve come to understand them.

They’ve come to mind a lot recently as I’ve heard people, particularly politicians and reality TV characters, deny something they’ve said even when their exact words are replayed or repeated to them.

“I didn’t mean that…”

“What I meant was….”

“My comments were taken out-of-context.”

“I didn’t say that.”  (Yes, you did ---, here are your exact words.”)

"I didn't say that."

It seems there is a culture of denial  and we expect people to know what we mean when we say it and to know that what we mean is ever-changing as it suits us to fit the situation at  the time.

As a result of observing this in others and seeing in their words and behavior my reflection, I’m becoming quieter, more thoughtful, and much slower to respond.  I’m trying to choose  my words carefully with everyone from my spouse to my children to my friends to my acquaintances, basically to everyone that I have occasion to speak with.

This is difficult to do but a wise practice in this world of the quick retort, the promotion of sound bites, and the elevation of the negative/dramatic/silly (by the social networks and by the media amny of whom seem to lead/slant as much as they reflect).

In this age of denying and flip-flopping, which happens on all sides of the political spectrum, I crave honesty and  forthrightness .  As girls –  my friends and I had it right: Say what you mean and mean what you say! – even if we didn’t fully understand the truth of those words.

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This or That? (depends)

The Missives are in the Air

A mother, a brother, a teacher, a spouse, a child, a coach, a stranger, a friend – any or all or other than these can be a source of encouragement.

Written, spoken, whispered, bellowed, frequent or rare – words of encouragement are precious.

I have received, witnessed and given encouragement to others. Allow me a few examples –

• My sister encouraged her friend who lived next door to aim for and go to college when they were in high school – something her friend hadn’t considered, intending instead to do a civil service job.  They both became teachers and have made great careers in edcation.
• Mr. D – my supervisor in my first job at a public television station in St. Louis encouraged me when he discovered I’d talked my way into a clerical job but couldn’t type.  He gave me a month to get it together.  My uncle encouraged me not to quit said job and bought me a typewriter that I practiced on every night.  He also gave me insight to go early and stay late to get the work done.
• I encouraged two women who were mere acquaintances at the time I met them, to pursue careers in facilitation and training.  I coached them, had them assist and shadow me, and they both went on to have significant success.

Dreams, goals, desires and sometimes fantasies get achieved with encouragement, such as

External, internal, earth-bound or from a realm beyond encouragement abounds.

There are so many ways to for us to support each other.  Encourage and noursh!

I don’t have to hunt through the trash to find the forks.

I’m not a referee for “whose turn is it to wash the dishes.”  You know how that goes:

It’s her turn to wash dishes., child 2 says to child 1.

No, it isn’t. I washed them last night. 

No you didn’t!

Yes, I did.

I have a full set of matching glasses.

All my pots that had tops, still have them.

None of my pots are missing.

One of my morning rituals is to put away the dishes that were washed by hand, mine or my husband’s, the night before.  The tea kettle is boiling or I’ve poured myself a glass of orange juice and set it on the counter for a few minutes to take the chill off.  As I was putting away the dishes one recent morning, it occurred to me how quickly everything is getting done and how much I like the order of the plates and bowls stacked neatly and the utensils lined in order.

No one’s battling over dishes, I thought to myself and stopped to savor the peace and take a walk down memory lane to the dish battles.

My sister would hide unwashed dishes, especially pots, in the oven.  And the dishes she did wash were usually not that clean.  She had better things to do than clean the kitchen.

I once got punished for washing my sister’s dishes, which I found grossly unfair, because I was just trying to be helpful:

At the time my mother worked in the evening,. She left instructions on who was to do what before we did our homework and went to bed.  My sister decided she didn’t feel like washing the dishes, period, end- of- discussion.  I pleaded with her to do them so mom wouldn’t get mad.  She wouldn’t budge.  So I washed them, crying and muttering to myself about the unfairness of it all, because I didn’t want to hear my mother’s tirade about the dishes not being done when she came home.  Unbeknownst to either of us, my mother had doubled back into the house and was sitting quietly in the living room listening to us. I was happy that my sister got punished but ticked-off that I also got chastised and punished because I did the dishes for my sister.

A more pleasant  memory popped up of I my mother teasing me about how wet my clothes would get when I washed the dishes – something that still happens to this day.

The worse memory about dishes from my childhood was the time my mother woke my sister and me up early one morning, around 4 o’clock because we hadn’t cleaned the kitchen to her satisfaction.  That was dreadful – being snatched out of the sound sleep of the young and made to snap alert and start working!  After that, I learned to just do the dishes quickly and all the stuff that goes with cleaning the kitchen, a habit I’ve retained to this day.

With my own children, I don’t remember much about their kitchen battles .  I believe that I had them wash dishes on alternate days.  I have a friend whose mother used to give her a week of kitchen duty – so she had one week on and one week off.  It worked for them.  Other parents I know don’t have their kids wash dishes at all; they either use paper plates (yucky-lazy!) or do the dishes themselves.

If I could, I would turn back the clock and revisit those noisy meals and kitchen battles.  Actually, I get to do that now when I visit my daughter and her family, only I'm "canderella" when I'm there - cooking and washing dishes from the moment I arrive until the moment I leave.

What about you? 
What are your dish battles and who are they with – your roommate, children, spouse, or yourself?

Opportunities (actual) and leads (possible) are delivered fast and furious in this age of instant communication.  I am learning that I have to be as fast in my response.  To hesitate, even for a day, can often mean that the opportunity that knocked has left your doorstep, your street, sometimes even your city.

Knocks

In the past week – two opportunities came to my inbox.  One delivered by an acquaintance of some years, the other by a friend. 

I paused on one and even though I got the materials in (encouraged by an email exchange with the organization) I didn’t do it quickly enough and received a short email:  “I am sorry to tell you the grants for the workshop are committed.”   I was encouraged to watch for other opportunities on their website and apply again in the future which I will but...

Dang!

I hesitated.  Didn't read the email until the evening I received it.  Filled out all the narrative information but messed around in getting the financial information.  Then my home fax machine said that the fax # I had was wrong.  It turned out it wasn’t, my machine is whack, but that meant I waited another day to a fax.  (Still, how could an opportunity that was still open on Monday morning be lost by Monday evening? Could it be that they didn't like my stuff?  No, it couldn't possibly be that.)

Cut & Paste is my friend

So, on Tuesday morning when I got an email from a friend alerting that an organization was looking for people to read grants, I actually delayed my departure for a meeting to craft a quick cover letter and send my resume.  Thank goodness for cut and paste and old documents quickly accessed.

I cut and pasted relevant bullet points from other correspondence, read the letter 3 times (and spell-checked) and off it went.  I got the gig and go for a short training session on Monday.  Even though it meant I was 15 minutes late for a standing Monday meeting (which usually starts late but of course didn’t this time and, yes, I alerted them, consummate professional that I am J), I carped the frickin' diem.  I’m glad I did because the email I sent was sent to other people and the grant reading spots were filled quickly.

Stupid, Slug

And, yet, I hesitate, again. (Why, Candelaria, why?!) I have successfully bought around 14+ different items from Craig’s List for my home.  I have lost many more beautiful items when I hesitated because of cost or because I was trying to figure out how to get the item or didn't send an email indiciating my interest the first time I saw the object I desired. This time, my hesitation cost me two beautiful lamps that would have been perfect for my tiny bedside tables (purchased from Craig’s list for a song).  The lamps only cost $20 each!  (Told you I was stupid and a slug!)

In my defense, I contacted the seller early and was ready to pick them up on Thursday  but the seller was going out of town until Monday.  She sent an email Monday morning saying that it was a traffic zoo downtown where she lived (because of the marathon).  I wrote that I would pick them up the next day and gave her some times.  She wrote back.  Something told me to go on down and brave the crowds and get them but – having had a couple of exchanges I thought we were cool.  Chick wrote me back that night:

Really?  Yeah, really.  And I have only myself to blame because I ddn’t  jump, jump, jump on it to borrow from the Aretha Franklin song (Jump, Jump, Jump to It, where she sings, “when my baby calls” and her back- up singers sing “jump to it.”)

When opportunity raps on my door  – I’m jumping.  In fact, bye-bye…got a cover letter to write for a freelance facilitation gig.

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Falling Asleep at the Wheel of Your Life

The fact is, there is always a choice.

Even if it’s a bad choice.

Even if it’s something you don’t want to choose.

Even if it’s a choice that scares you.

We always have a choice between what we’re doing now and something else.

Don’t like the life you’re living now?

Choose or make another life.

Don’t like the job you have?

There are choices: find another job, leave the job, make the job you have more interesting or stop trying to  like it and just doing it.

People have made choices like:

Getting a divorce or staying married (despite wanting to divorce).

Abandoning their children or holding on to their children for dear life.

Moving to a place where they don’t know anyone or staying where all is familiar.

Saying NO!

Saying YES!

You…me…we always have a choice no matter how untenable it seems, no matter how difficult it feels, no matter how elusive it proves, or no matter how inconvenient it is.

You…me…we made choices even when we thought we didn’t.  You know those times you’re just living your life and next thing you know months or years have passed and things have been completed or timed out or opportunities passed.  Doing nothing , staying on track, running in place – all choices.

Doing the right thing or doing the wrong thing or doing the sanctioned thing or doing nothing at all – choices.

You…me…we made choices and even if those choices, in hindsight weren’t the wisest or most fulfilling or most lucrative, we made them and we need to stop pissing and moaning about what we didn’t or did do, because what has passed is gone forever.  There are no “do-overs” to quote President Bush.

Got it?

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Note: On Friday I made a small, inconvenient choice.  What happened was I got on the always packed #23 bus out of Dudley Station.  A man who smelled horribly sat next to me.  I could have dealt with the smell.  What I couldn’t deal with was the loud cursing he was doing about another passenger, seated near me, who had somehow offended him when he told the driver he had no money on his card.  “Bitch I got money,” was how his tirade started.  “I’m disabled.” (He had crutches.)  He then proceeded to talk about his lover who pays him good for his sexual prowess.  The bus, now packed to the brim, pulled out of the station. The tirade continued with people rolling eyes and his cohorts egging him to be even louder and more outrageous.   I pushed the signal and got off at the first stop out of Dudley Station, exercising my choice to not listen or sit next to foulness.  Inconvenient for me but I was free.  As I got off the bus, another passenger said that she was sorry I had to hear such filth; I told her I was sorry for her, too.  A minute or so later, a #19 bus approached and I hopped on.  It offers another, less-colorful way to get home.  The #23 bus often has drama which is why I tend not to take it - an inconvenient choice, but a choice nonetheless.

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Don’t let the packaging prevent you from opening the gift!

I have a friend who wraps the gifts she gives with exquisite paper and elaborate bows.  They are a thing to behold.  Many times the wrapping is better than the gift inside.  I am a lousy gift wrapper.  If you placed my gift next to my friend’s gift, you’d always go for her gift first because hers just looks like it going to be good.  Meanwhile, my simply-wrapped gift goes untouched even though I do give thoughtful, useful, all-around great gifts even when they are thrifty.  (This always happnes when I participat ein Yankee swaps.)

Remember folks that:

In the quest for love – or just even a date – people miss each other because they want their romance wrapped in a particular package.  They know the height they want and the weight and the color and the type of hair and they won’t look outside of these trappings to the gift within.

Remember folks that:

• The package is not the gift and

• The icing is not the cake and

• The cover of the book is not the story.

• You have to open the package to find the glory.

Goodness, kindness, joy, honor, humor, strength, and others of these most important attributes come from within and they come from all the faces, races, ages, stages, neighborhoods and livelihoods of our human tribe and that’s no jive.

Remember folks that:

• Pretty is as pretty does and

• Handsome is as handsome lives and

• The proof of the pudding is in the eating*

• Not in the package.

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*According to Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, the phrase dates back to at least 1615 when Miguel de Cervantes published Don Quixote. In this comic novel, the phrase is stated as, "The proof of the pudding is the eating."

I don’t have an opinion – a new year’s resolution I just made.

The cat will have my tongue more this year.  And my fingers will hesitate, too.

I will have few opinions that I’m willing to share.

Next time, I will not respond to the email dialogue about the lack of diversity in the speaker-candidates put forward.

I will not verbalize  the fact that I’m working at yet another place that has more than 100 employees but only 1 full-time person of color and 1 part-time person of color.

Minding my business.

When various friends ask what do I think about their kids, their situations, their partner-candidates, or their  clothes, I’ll just make pitter-patter utterances.

Zipping my lip.

When told “this is the way I’ve always been” I will not suggest that change is possible or desirable.

Not filling in the blanks.

People don’t really want you to fill in their blanks. They want you to listen.  Agree.  Accept that the way it is, is a-okay.

To make a suggestion, give an opinion or even just offer an observation is taken as criticism, as a judgment, as rbeing a boat-rocker.   It makes people uncomfortable and geez-Louise I certainly don’t want to do that.

I’ve realized that not everybody wants feedback even when they ask for it, even from an ally who has their best interest at heart.  Institutions can run just the way they’ve been running.  Mediocrity seems to be an acceptable level at which to function.  Pretending the elephant is not in the room is current practice.  Leave the naked emperor unclothed.

I won’t stop caring but I will stop sharing.

I resolve.

 Four words that you don’t want to hear, especially when the call comes in the morning at a time you don’t usually hear from your son, the night owl-worker:  “Are you sitting down?”

"No."

"Sit down, Ma, sit down."

He was hit...by a cab…while crossing the street.  He looked both ways, “like you taught me to.”  The cab came out of nowhere.  He was tossed into the air, his head slammed into the front window, he rolled off the car and started walking until he was stopped by witnesses.

“I’m okay ma, but I could have been dead…"

Lots of bruises, a few scars, lingering pain, some stitches. Tremendous gratitude, tremulous wonder.  Why did I survive? he thinks.

A few weeks earlier, another budding comic, a young woman, his friend was in a car accident.  Her call went differently.  There was no happy ending.  She died.

Why her and not him?

It wasn’t his time?

And it was hers?

Seems so.

But why?

We don’t know why.

So, let’s accept it, embrace it, and move on.

You didn’t have to have a car accident for your Mom to come see you.

Let’s not let another year go by that we don’t see each other.  Let’s not take for granted that we have all the time in the world because we don’t.  Let’s bury the hatchets that need to be buried, repair the estrangements that shouldn’t be, and be and do love in the world. 

I am beyond grateful, thankful, prayerful, and mindful.  I almost lost my son, he dodged another bullet (figuratively and literally a while back).

Amen.