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Archive for the ‘Roots’ Category

hello my name is

I was encouraged by this report of Matt Chandler’s apology to Karen Hinckley. I don’t agree with Matt Chandler on a lot of things, but that apology? That’s how it’s done.

Logically, it’s so simple. Admit what you did. Listen to how it affected them. Apologize without qualification or an attempt to justify your behavior.

In reality, though, it’s a challenge to apologize in a way that doesn’t make it worse.

It’s hard to just say “I was wrong” without saying “But this is what I meant…so you’re also mistaken.” The latter statement has no place in a real apology. It reveals that the words “I’m sorry” were more of a compliance to others’ expectation of a mea culpa rather than personal recognition that an apology was in order.

It’s sometimes difficult to know when an apology is needed. As a woman (and to compound it – a woman raised Southern), “I’m sorry!” is a default I’m still trying to unlearn. I hate to cause offense. HATE. IT. So sometimes I apologize, but when I think about it later, there wasn’t really anything to apologize for. This happens most often when I’m being assertive (which is approximately 92% of the time – because INTJ) but because I’m female and we’re “supposed” to be nice and accommodating, it’s seen as aggression. Then I get mad, particularly when the person to whom I apologized is a male who is often verbally aggressive (I know – not all men. Not even most of the men I know. Let’s move on. Not everything is about you.) and sees no need to ever apologize for his behavior. I am learning that there are at least two sides to kind communication – the responsibility to speak as kindly as possible but also the responsibility to perceive others as kindly as possible. Both are important, because assuming the worst possible interpretation of someone’s behavior shuts down dialogue just as quickly as saying insensitive or thoughtless things does.

But eventually, it is pretty clear when I’m being tone-policed and when I’m being an ass. I am learning to assess the reality of my behavior regardless of its intention. Because that’s what counts. When I abuse or deny the privileges I have in society, it doesn’t matter if I’m merely doing it out of ignorance; it matters that I’m doing it. When I misjudge an interpersonal situation and react without full knowledge of the other person’s position (again – out of ignorance), it doesn’t matter that I didn’t intend to be wrong (and why would I ever intend that); it matters that I was.

A third side to kindness? Learning when and how to apologize.

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It’s My Party

Lesley Gore died yesterday. This makes me sad.

I used to listen to my mom’s old 45 single of It’s My Party. It reminds me of my Junior High years spent lying on my bed on my stomach, writing in my diary (complete with lock and key) about my various trials with age-appropriate melodrama. Overhearing people talk about a party to which I wasn’t invited. Boys whom I like-liked who didn’t like-like me back (and the confession of boys a few years down the road who did like-like me but never said anything because I was so focused on like-liking someone else. A likely story.). A drive in the park with Mom when we talked about things that she had overheard – when she wanted to make sure I was okay.

It’s a song that reminds me of Mom. The song came out when she was about twenty. I often tried to picture her listening to the song on her bed when she was younger, just like I did.

The song might not be the feminist manifesto that her later hit – You Don’t Own Me – became, but its lyrics fit my junior high heart just fine. I named my first Barbie Lesley. She often had parties, and she, too, acted how she wanted to act at them.

Rest in peace, Lesley Gore.

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31 Days Blog 2014

When I was a little girl, I was given a necklace with a tiny, gold, oval charm that, printed in dainty script, read, “Tuesday’s child is full of grace.”  It’s a line from a nursery rhyme that, as far as I can tell, dates back to A. E. Bray’s 1838 collection of letters entitled Traditions, Legends, Superstitions, and Sketches of DevonshireThere are various versions of this nursery rhyme, but the first one I read in its entirety was in my Mother Goose:

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace;
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go;
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for its living;
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

Anyway, this necklace became a bit of a joke around our house, because if there’s anything I am not, it’s graceful. I can trip myself up walking across a smooth floor. I was pretty sensitive as a child, so the joking didn’t always sit well with me. One day, over our standard breakfast at MeMaw’s house of toast and syrup, she said to me, “There are different kinds of grace.” She went on to explain that, while physical grace is all well and good, an even better grace to have is grace for others.

I liked that. I was good at that – seeing the image of God in other people – even when it was buried deep. I was quick to forgive and quick to make peace. I was interested in their side of the story.

I wasn’t so good at having grace for myself.  Even though I was buoyed by MeMaw’s affirmation that I was graceful of heart, I wanted to be graceful of body, too. This desire was due in part to my own stubbornness, but it was probably mostly due to my parents’ wisdom of encouraging me to do things that were a challenge to me and not letting me settle for just doing what came easily or naturally. They enrolled me in gymnastics and dance lessons, and though I struggled, I did learn to be more graceful.

[Public service announcement – if you want your children to grow up at home in their bodies, gymnastics is a great way to teach that.]

One of the first lessons I learned in these classes was the importance of stretching, and I have carried this lesson with me ever since. Stretching warms the muscle up before movement, and it keeps the muscle from seizing up after movement. I stretch every night before bed, and I stretch every morning before I get out of bed. If I don’t, it is almost a guarantee that I will trip on my way to the bathroom. Muscles need to wake up, too.

I vary the stretches I do based on which muscle group seems to need it the most, but many of the stretches I do are basic, like the ones illustrated here. If you don’t know where to start, start with those.  Hold each position for 10-15 seconds before moving on to the next. And because I know you’re curious, if you do this for 20 minutes, you can burn approximately the same calories as you would burn running half of a six-minute mile.

And every night and morning, while I’m stretching physically, I use the time to also stretch myself mentally and emotionally. I review or prepare myself for the challenges of the day. I pray for people with whom I have been annoyed or angry, and I let it go. I think about what I have done well, and what I could do better.

Tuesday’s child becomes full of grace.

This is Day 15 of 31 Days of Movement, and a link-up with Marvia Davidson’s Real Talk Tuesdays (even though it’s Thursday – don’t think about it too much).

31 Days Button 2014

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I am from Barbies and toy tractors.

From cute shoes and impossible standards,

From hard work and making things grow.

I am from a writing desk with lion pulls on its drawers, 

From roaring before I knew what roaring was for.

I am from a name that means lily but is not Lily,

From surprises just under the surface.

I am from macrame owls and cross-stitched ornaments,

From a people who create.

I am little black dresses and big black boots,

From pretty with pearls

And not taking any mess.

I am seasons and liturgy and praying the hours.

I am also feet washing and laying on hands and re-dedication.

I am all the places I’ve ever been 

But also none of them.

(I took wild liberties with this template to piece this poem together)

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Drink the Wild Air

“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.” – Emerson

I am playing catch-up with my 31 Days of Beauty posts.  Sunday was supposed to be Day Three and the third installment of my Emerson inspiration.  Then my car decided to freak out and stop working on my drive back to Denton.

I don’t even have a picture.

I suppose it would have been very easy to grab a selfie in the wind (because West Texas…and trucks speeding by at 75 miles an hour WITHOUT GETTING IN THE OPPOSITE LANE) while I was waiting on Dad to come rescue me. But I was not feeling beautiful.  I was feeling annoyed and stranded. Also, after the car completely shut down, the air conditioner didn’t work so well, so I ventured into the grass on the side of the road, and most of my attention was focused on looking our for rattlesnakes (because West Texas.  The struggle is real.).

Suffice it to say that I did not get a picture in time for this post.

I am actually pretty surprised that I don’t have a picture of me with my hair all wild and swarmy around my head in the wind.  I love that. My love of strong breezes comes from growing up on the farm, where the land is so flat you can actually see the sides of the roads meet at the horizon in the distance. Mesquite trees (bushes – let’s be real) are no match for that wind. There’s nothing to stand in its way. Think Chicago – only not knife-like and stabby in its frozenness. Imagine warm gusts whipping around your body, throwing hair, clothes – basically anything not pasted down (and even some things that were) – into a frenzy.

And yet you stand. Embracing the wind but withstanding it as well. Strong.  Grounded.

Beautiful.

Drink it in. Drink the wild air.

I’m writing about personal beauty for 31 Days.

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31 Days of Beauty

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“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.”  – Ralph Waldo Emerson

This weekend, I am hanging out on my parents’ farm.  The first thing I did after petting all the animals was check out the garden. If the picture above looks a little fuzzy, it’s because it was taken mid-duck as I was trying to avoid the dive bomb by some sort of flying insect.

I have a love-hate relationship with sunshine. I am fair-skinned, so my skin is pretty sensitive to the sun’s unforgiving rays. A day spent outside means bathing in a vat of high SPF sunscreen, as well as multiple reapplications throughout the day.  My shoulders are freckled from the day nineteen Mays ago when I spent the day at a Duran Duran/Deep Blue Something concert to raise money for the families of the victims of the Oklahoma City bombing. I didn’t reapply the sunscreen, and I walked away with water blisters.

Not pretty.

But if I take the necessary precautions, the sun is my friend. I love the feel of it on my arms and face when I’m driving or out for a walk. I love watching the sun rise (well, at least when it’s not coming through my office window, stabbing me in the eye). It means a new day.

This month, I’m writing 31 Days of Beauty. Every day, I will discuss a different aspect of personal beauty.

Day One – Live in the sunshine.

Day Two – Swim the sea

Day Three – Drink the wild air.

Day Four – At the club

Day Five – Badass boots

Day Six – Beauty is hard

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When I went through my mom’s recipe collection in order to find things to make, I told her, “I want a variety of things – comfort food, desserts, main courses, side items, etc.” I came across the recipe for Western Salad, and I remarked, “Oh – Western Salad – good!  This gives me a healthy option, too!”

She gave me the oddest look.  I was confused at first, but then I read the recipe.

It started well:

  • 1 head of lettuce
  • 1 cup chopped onions
  • 1 pint cherry tomatoes
  • 1 can ranch-style beans

But it derailed from there:

  • 2 cups shredded cheese
  • 1 cup Catalina dressing
  • bag of corn chips

You mix everything except the chips. The chips are added as you serve, to avoid sogginess. And you end up with this:

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I did leave out the onions, because when there are raw onions in something, that’s all I can taste, and I doubled the amount of tomatoes. But I followed the rest of the recipe exactly.

Calling it a salad is an exercise in willing suspension of disbelief. I can picture the creator of this marvelous foodstuff debating whether or not s/he could actually call it salad and get away with it, finally ending with the deciding factor – “Does it have lettuce?  Yes!  Okay, then – salad, it is!”

So I’m giving in to my nostalgia, deceptive as it might be, and sticking to the name Western Salad. Just nod along, everybody.  Be cool.

My memory of this dish is that it was light and healthy.  The reality of this dish is that it is the sort of thing one might buy from a concession stand. This explains why Mom never actually served it as a meal but as a decadent side item in an otherwise healthy, balanced dinner.

As I have mentioned before, I am not my mother.  Totally ate a large bowl of Western Salad as a meal.

I regret nothing.

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