Chicken Soup for the Soul
Page 16
“C’mon, Lisa. Did it ever occur to you that change could be good?”
“No!” I screamed, and hung up on him.
I fumed for the next few days about our argument. But what if Jon was right? Why was I so afraid of change? Why did I assume that every change would be bad? Why was I so negative all the time? Yes, I had a bad break losing my job, but why couldn’t change be good sometimes? Maybe my life needed to be shaken up. Maybe I was in a rut.
The fact was I had let myself go in too many areas. When was the last time I had tried to do something with my writing skills? Or with my weight, which had gotten out of control in recent years? When was the last time I did anything outside of my routine? When was the last time I felt positive and hopeful about anything?
That summer, as I started looking at apartments, I began to think about new possibilities. Maybe I could get better furniture, be a better housekeeper, and have an apartment I could be proud of again.
It was a good thing Neil had given me six months to find a new place because I needed most of that time to save money and find an apartment, which was frustrating. I loved the view from the first place I looked at, but the landlord had already promised the place to someone else. Other apartments had parking issues, or were too small or expensive. And some of them had landlords who seemed just plain weird, like the woman who asked me four times whether I was planning on having a baby even though I was in my late forties.
But as the leaves started falling that year, I wondered if I was being a little too picky and was in denial about having to move. I prayed that I would find a place that was right for me. When was it going to happen? Time was running out.
Finally, that October, I spotted the apartment of my dreams in a new home in a nice neighborhood. The place had a stainless-steel refrigerator, stove, and microwave oven. Great overhead lighting. A built-in washer and dryer. Central air conditioning and heat. No more having to rely on crummy AC window units. The floor was beautifully tiled, unlike my old apartment’s worn-out wood floors. This apartment also had a luxurious bathroom that looked like a spa. My old bathroom looked like a crime scene.
The new place was also close to the train and the express bus. While it was farther from Manhattan than my old place, the public transportation was better and more convenient. Plus, the neighborhood had a pharmacy and grocery store less than two blocks away. I could get along well without a car, something that wasn’t the case at my old place.
But the apartment was $200 a month more than my current apartment, and it was more than I wanted to spend. It took me two weeks of agonizing, but I finally decided that it was the place for me. I signed a lease and agreed to move in right after Halloween. Moving was very stressful, but I got through it.
Once I had a new place, I was motivated to have new — and better — furniture. I was able to get a fancy new bed at a great discount thanks to one of our clients at work. I also saved a few pennies and bought some good, gently used furniture. My brother bought me a dresser. And Jon put together a bookcase, TV stand, and coffee table for me.
It took a few weeks to get the place fully in order, but I remember how proud I was to show my new digs to my friends, Jon and Ann, one Saturday night when they came over for dinner.
As time went on, I found myself doing more things out of my comfort zone and feeling more positive about life. I started to address being overweight. I began a regular exercise plan and started making meals in my new kitchen, instead of wolfing down junk food. I became more conscious and mindful, and ran regularly — another thing way out of my comfort zone — which helped me lose eighty pounds. I became so dedicated to running that I completed over 250 road races, including eight marathons.
I also started to get out of my comfort zone professionally. I took a risk and pitched The Washington Post website about an article idea. To my surprise, they said “yes.” Not only did they run “The Redemption of A-Rod” on the website, but they also ran it in the Outlook section of the Sunday edition, which I consider the most prestigious section of the paper!
As change upon change built up in my life, I felt like I was a different person. My life had improved in so many ways, and it all started when I shed the cocoon of my old apartment, took a risk and found a new place to spread my wings. There’s a reason they say that the end of your comfort zone is where the magic happens.
— Lisa Swan —
The View from the Back Seat
If you surrender completely to the moments as they pass, you live more richly those moments.
~Anne Morrow Lindbergh
The back seat is not a place I ever sought out — literally or figuratively. I loved being behind the wheel, enjoying the adrenaline rush while navigating unpredictable traffic. I was a control junkie in all the other areas of my life, too — the take-charge person who could sort out a situation and make things happen.
But that all changed abruptly when the career I loved ended with no notice. My world turned upside down. No longer did I oversee any people or projects. I was shattered.
When two part-time jobs came my way some months later, I was ready to take them on. One required some travel, including two road trips with co-workers. Each time we spent as much time in the car as we did at the events. While preparing for the trips, we talked about who would drive. It turns out that all three of us preferred to drive. Being the newest to the team, I felt it was expected of me to step back.
Not driving reinforced the fact that I was not in control.
This was a new experience for me. Sounding more confident than I felt, I said I would leave the driving to them and sit in the back seat. Surprisingly, I found contentment there, as well as a new direction.
Not driving reinforced the fact that I was not in control. I did not have to focus on directions, road conditions, traffic, or timing. I set up the entire back seat as my little kingdom (perhaps using that word “kingdom” means I still needed a bit of control). I had my thermal bag with my drinks, a book, my phone and charger, a blanket, sweater and assorted sundries.
Now I found myself in the position of a learner. I listened to the conversation in the front seat and picked up subtleties I might have missed if I had been driving. I wasn’t idle in the back seat. Instead, I was asking questions, seeking clarification, and learning to use new tools and get to know my traveling companions. By the time of the second trip, I was looking forward to riding in the back.
As I journeyed, I found that these trips gave me a framework for the next phase of my life. Most of my years of work had focused on creating, developing and leading various aspects of ministry and teams. I enjoyed that and found it was a good fit for my gifts, passions, and that stage of life.
My other part-time job did not require travel, but it placed me in a subordinate role to my co-workers. All but one were significantly younger than me. Many were on track for future promotions and career growth. Not me. My responsibility was to copy, scan, index, confirm appointments, make transactions, and assemble mailings. But it was good. I learned I no longer wanted or needed to prove myself. I was content to do what I could to help my colleagues shine.
And changes were taking place in other areas besides in my employment. My marriage improved when I let go of the need to control or always be in charge. A weight came off my shoulders. I’m not saying I never try to step into the position of leader; long ingrained habits change slowly, but I’m working on them.
I learned that the view from the back seat is beautiful. I am more aware of others and situations around me. I am not anxious to change that any time soon. If someone had told me years ago that I would find joy and fulfillment by stepping back I would have scoffed. Now, after a few years as a supporting player, I find it refreshing.
— Joan M. Borton —
The Review Is In
You must be the person you have never had the courage to be. Gradually, you will discover that you are that person, but until you can see this clearly, you must pretend and invent.
~Paulo Coelho
It was a beautiful summer day in 2000. I had just returned to my desk from my lunch-hour walk along Mirror Lake in the small city of Camrose, Alberta. The scenic walk was just what I needed after being cooped up inside the children’s library all morning. I loved my job, but the sun glinting off the water and wind murmuring through the poplars always left me feeling refreshed and ready for the rest of the day’s challenges.
Back at my desk, I found a message saying that the editor of a prominent regional magazine had called while I was out. In addition to my job in the children’s department at the library, I was a part-time writer. Very part-time. I was so part-time that, back then, I would never have called myself a writer, even though many of my poems had been published in literary magazines and anthologies across Canada and the United States. I had noticed several months earlier that this magazine published poetry now and then, so I sent their editor a few of my best poems for consideration.
Immediately, I returned the editor’s call.
“Hello, Carol! I received your letter and submission, and I wonder if you might be interested in reviewing for us. You’ll have a month to turn in your review. And we pay.”
Reviewing?
It’s amazing how quickly your brain sorts and weighs through options, scenarios, and possibilities in the few seconds between pauses in a conversation. I had never written a review before — at least, not of the sort that would appear in a glossy magazine with a substantial readership. I had written short, enthusiastic book synopses for our library newsletter, created to entice our library patrons to read new acquisitions. Any assessments were always positive because I only discussed books I liked. This would be something quite different.
Could I do it? I questioned if I had the skills, but more to the point, I questioned whether I had the right to critique the work of others. After all, who was I? I was an occasional poet and library assistant in charge of the children’s library. My heart fell. They didn’t even mention my poetry. They wanted me to review other people’s writing.
“I have a novel here. It’s by a fairly well known author. Would you like me to send it to you?”
For a split second, my internal critic quieted and I heard another internal voice speak to me even louder: You can do it. It’s a writing gig. Go for it! Worry about the details later and say “yes” now!
“Certainly,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Send me the novel.”
The book arrived the next day. Holding the review copy in my hand, I felt like quite the imposter. Whatever gave me the idea I could do this?
Again, that little voice spoke up. Take it one step at a time. First, read the book.
So, I did. Initially, I read it through as I would any book for pleasure. Then I re-read it carefully, taking notes. I was relieved to discover I enjoyed the story.
Now what? I sat at my computer, fingers poised, frozen. Think! Think! Think! What are you going to say? I remained still for several minutes.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself. “Just start typing. Anything. Just start typing.”
My fingers dutifully responded by typing a sentence, then two. Before long, I had a paragraph. Then two. After that, I was immersed in the task, oblivious to everything around me. Many hours later, I reached the end of the review and let out a huge sigh. First draft completed.
I had been writing long enough to know that you need to let a piece sit for a while, and then edit it with fresh eyes. Since I had a deadline, I couldn’t let the review languish too long, so I began my edits two days later. Then, I put it aside again. In the meantime, I read through the novel once more. I revised the review again. And again.
When it came time to e-mail the finished piece to the editor, I sat motionless at the computer, hand on mouse, cursor poised over the Send button. I knew once I hit the Send button, it would be out of my hands. I pulled my hand off the mouse. I re-read my review and accompanying e-mail one last time to make sure it was clear of typos and obvious grammatical errors. I took a deep breath and hit Send.
I was certain I would receive a reply from the editor immediately, one that called me out as the imposter I was. “You’re not a reviewer! You can’t even write properly! Who do you think you are?”
I was right on one point. I received a reply from my editor a short fifteen minutes later.
“Hi, Carol. Thanks for sending in the review. I did a quick read-through, and it looks great! I’ll send you updates on any edits I make. Cheers.”
A month and a half later, I held the glossy magazine with my review in my hands. Shortly after that, I received another call from the editor. She had two books that she wanted me to review for upcoming issues. I accepted both assignments.
I enjoyed the work so much that, on one particularly optimistic day, I decided to approach two of the largest reviewing magazines in Canada and the U.S. to see if they would take me on as a reviewer. I sent them copies of my published reviews as examples. I cannot say that my imposter complex had disappeared by this time. It had not, but that little voice that kept telling me that I could do these things only had to win out long enough for me to hit the Send button. Both magazines said “yes,” and I went on to write hundreds of reviews for their publications as well as for other magazines.
Reading and reviewing so many books over a relatively short period of time increased my knowledge of contemporary literature tremendously. It also inspired me to do more of my own writing. In 2002, I sold a story to a prominent children’s magazine, the first of many magazine and anthology pieces I’ve had published. In 2017, my first picture book for children, Lily in the Loft, was published. Today, I no longer write reviews. The quiet but persuasive voice that I listened to all those years ago when I said “yes” to the book-review assignment suggested that I should focus on my own writing for a while. I’m so grateful I found the confidence to listen.
— Carol L. MacKay —
When the Blind Taught Me to See
It’s a funny thing about life, once you begin to take note of the things you are grateful for, you begin to lose sight of the things that you lack.
~Germany Kent
A number of years ago, I experienced a lot of frustration and sadness related to a number of things that were happening in my life. It was a daily struggle to simply think about something positive, let alone take action to change my circumstances.
One of my challenges was having recently moved to Chicago from a small Canadian city. I was trying to get used to living in such a large, bustling city.
One day, I saw an ad asking for volunteers to help at a resource center for the blind and low-vision community. I hadn’t thought about this kind of volunteering opportunity before and I was a little afraid of it. Nonetheless, I signed up to attend a volunteer orientation session. I was hoping I’d feel better by doing something good for the community.
At the orientation, I sat around a large table with about ten other prospective volunteers. As the orientation facilitator asked each of us why we wanted to volunteer to assist blind and low-vision folks, I began to feel uncomfortable. Every person who answered mentioned they wanted to volunteer because they had either a family member or a friend who was blind or had low vision. I didn’t have either. When it was my turn, all I could think to say was that I loved helping people. I was pleasantly surprised when the facilitator commented that helpers were just the kind of volunteers they were looking for. Suddenly, my nervousness began to melt away.
I started volunteering within the week. One of my first assignments was to accompany a blind woman for a walk to a downtown department store. Since I was fairly new to the city, I wasn’t completely familiar with the area. Trying to figure out how to get to a certain store proved a bit daunting. As we approached one street corner, I suggested to my companion that we “go to the right.” “No, we actually want to turn left,” she replied.
I wasn’t prepared for her to answer this way, so I asked, “What makes you say that?”
As I continued to volunteer at the center, I learned a lot. I discovered that we all strive to do things in life to make us happy. However, we just do them in different ways. One day, I heard a group of folks talking about attending a local theater production. I was trying to figure out how it could be enjoyable for them since they couldn’t actually “see” the performance. Slightly hesitating, I asked, “Can you tell me about your experiences at the theater?”
A gentleman replied, “The theater we go to is great! We get to attend a ‘touch tour’ before the performance. We walk onto the set and are shown where things are placed by touching them. When the play begins, we know what the actors are referring to, such as where the couch is located. Getting to touch all of the props on the stage helps us enjoy the play a lot.”
“Don’t forget about the headphones,” another person said.
“Yes, we get to wear headphones. An assistant lets us know whenever there is movement by an actor, or if there is a particular facial expression,” commented the gentleman.
Yet another person said, “We always get the best seats in the house!”
Over time, I started a reading group focused on inspirational and uplifting books and anything with a slice of humor. I’d read the book to everyone, and we’d discuss it. The meetings always morphed into incredible talks. I remember reading a passage in a book that mentioned a character’s hair color. A member of our group asked, “Cher, what color is your hair?”
“I have blond hair,” I replied.
“What color is my hair?” the same book-group member asked.
“Your hair is a beautiful, shimmering gray that catches the sunlight coming from the window,” I answered.
“Oh, it sounds nice,” she said.