Category Archives: human potential

May28

Pondering Why I Write What I Write, Then Maya Angelou Died

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Gabriel Garcia Márquez said, “All human beings have three lives: public, private and secret.”

Clearly, I write lots of things about myself and things that have happened to me and my family on this blog. I used to judge myself and accuse myself of unabashed narcissism; that my writing about my life must be a token overcompensation due to my incredibly low self-esteem. But I don’t really have low self-esteem, as a chronic condition; most of the time, I’m quite OK with who I am. What’s funny is that I’ve read so much about narcissists over the years that I’d be mortified if I were one. The last thing I want is everyone agreeing with me or living the way I say.

But I have been mulling it over: Why Do I Write What I Write here, anywhere?

I started the blog as a form of love letter to my sons. As a glimpse into my head and as a testament to how I wish to live a rich, succcessful and fulfilling life, without mansions, yachts, white parties and our names in lights. I continue it because I find that life is constantly throwing curve balls. Just when you think it’s time to sit and relax, that you can exhale and zone out, up sprouts another “adventure” (that’s what we’ll call them, ok? cheers!).

So why DO I write about what I write about here? I had been thinking about it for several months. I had an idea, I was inspired several times, to march out onto the worn, grainy wooden stage of my blog, with a top hat and cane. I would push through the massive, tattered, heavy and dusty midnight blue velvet curtains, move forward in a giant hip-swingy, little kid “big step” and SIIIIIIING in my best Steve Martin, “It’s beeeeeecaauuuuuuuuusssszzzzzzze …. >inhale< …. I'm ahhh-liiiiiiiiiiivvvvvvvvve!"

Then Maya Angelou died.

Reading about her life, has made me feel like a princess in an ivory tower. Immediately: I felt small, stupid, uncertain and silent. I thought I had a story to tell. I thought I was a survivor. But I know that if she were here right now, she would put her hand on my shoulder and look into my pitiful face and say to me, "Molly, we all have a story. You don't have to feel small. You don't have to compare, because comparing and competing and trying to be first and measure up… against what? Against who? All of that is to no use. Have you not been listening dear? You write because you simply ARE. That's why. And no one knows your life but you. So you sing it." And she would lean back gently and laugh in that amazing, loving and confident way she had. And she would vanish and I would be OK. But not really. But eventually.

It's because of writerly women: Maya Angelou, Joyce Carol Oates, Joan Didion, Anne Lammott, Dorothy Parker and other bloggers, that I feel I can go on.

I've had people in the flesh, tell me, "Wow. What you write is sooooo revealing. Be careful of what you write… Don't you want to protect your children?"

I answer: "From what? The truth? My absolute WORST fear in life is that my kids won't know who the hell I am; that they won't know how I'd deal with something long after I'm gone and that they'd have no one to consult… Much as how I did not know who my mother was nor what she would have done…" Some moments absolutely exist when I know what Mom would do. (And that's not necessarily a good thing she'd do.) For other moments? Maaaan, she was completely unpredictable. Her capacity to indulge caprice was boundless.

So for those moments I don't share, my third, secret life? I have plenty of things I needn't nor will ever share. Boxers or briefs? Who cares?! How you overcame unbridled narcissism in your mother, only to unconsciously rehash it again and again in females you met as you matured until you FINALLY! realized the damage it had done and broke the pattern it manifested in you? I think people want to know about that.

Some stuff you just can't make up. Some things that people do –intentionally flying airliners into buildings for instance or falsely impugning a child in his own home– defy common, rational imagination. That Maya Angelou accessed the strength inside herself to share her truth which let people in on her harrowing past, is the reason people continue to write. She is the reason I will Write What I Write.

There will always be plenty of other things to write about.

For now, I simply write because I Am.

Thank you, Maya Angelou, for giving all of us, each and every single one: a voice.

Thank you.

Apr12

Friday Fiction 2.0 — Beyond the Edge

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The choice was simple. Stay or go. Put up and shut up or push out and change, evolve and grow.

“If you stay here, you see more of the same. You experience more of the blows and more of the highs and more of the lows. Maybe different depths and steeper heights, but essentially the same,” she thought to herself. “The same kinds of people, the same limited thoughts, the same pedantic ways,” she knew.

Outside her bedroom window, lay the lush and vibrant landscape she had frolicked on as a child and as her mother was a child and her mother before her. Generations of oaks, cascading wisteria blooms, putting greens, bowling greens, livery stables, pristine sculpture gardens and gleaming marble water fountains, the hypnotic gurgling and gentle splashing from the koi and frogs. It was a paradise to anyone else. But to Elise, it was a prison. Her years of privilege stymied her perceptions, her outlook and her understanding of what the real world was all about.

“Harvard or Oxford? Gucci or Prada? St. Tropéz or Athens? These are not the choices of a real human being,” she mocked herself, tossing the offer letters from her satin sheets and watching them land on the silk Persian carpet beneath her feet. Rising from her bed and running to her window she flew it open and shouted, “These are not the choices of a real humaaan beeeeing! These make a mockery of their lives and challenges! They must! Right?!”

Her mother rushed into Elise’s room, her sheer robe billowing behind her, lather on her face from her morning wash, her eyes were wide with concern and fear.

“Elise! Whatever is the matter? Oh my sweet! It’s so early yet. What troubles you so today?” she asked.

“This! All of this! Those letters! My closet! My great fortune! My life! I want to live with purpose; I want to have meaning. All of this is for nothing if people suffer and I turn my eye from it,” she said to her mother with tears welling, suspended and glistening on the lip of her chocolate eyes’ lower lids.

Her mother rushed to her side, “Now now… dear child! Here! Here’s a lollipop! Or your happy bear! La-la-lala… HO HO HO, I’m Chunky the happy bear, I’m coming to tickle yooooooou…” said her mother in an odd deep voice, intoning and bouncing the bear, a robust brown furry stuffed animal adorned with a rhinestone-studded dog collar Elise had bought for him as a gift when he turned five. Her mother was desperate at the moment to change the mood.

Elise was an ugly crier. It can be said of some people that they cry gracefully and so beautifully that their mere sensation of sadness is powerful enough to provoke a sniffle from even the most coarsened and granitic souls. For Elise, it was not this way. Her face contorted in a fashion not unlike the gargoyles atop Notre Dame, her voice became like that of a banshee harbored in Irish lowlands and the moaning, oh, the moaning it could truly break not only glass, but also porcelain vases from ancient Chinese dynasties. For Elise, crying was a weapon; but she would wail unaware of her effect, lest she would exploit it, the townspeople feared.

So when she was born, her parents made a pact with the villagers. Elise would cry only in her house and only with the windows closed; if she were outside and having fun and all of a sudden suffered a boo-boo or a moment of perceived unfairness during a game, she would be scooped up and whisked into the house to cry it out. But everyone knew, that eventually Elise would not be forever entertained by a lollipop or a dancing bear. In the meantime, alchemists tried to develop a glass that wouldn’t shatter when she cried. But how to test it? She’d have to cry and no one wanted that.

Since puberty, her crying became more desperate and unpredictable. Elise was not only unaware of her punitive sadness, but she was also connecting to the way it made her feel: worn down, exhausted and defensive, which only resulted in more frustration and ultimately more tears. Being a teen with the unbeknownst power to bring police squads to their knees and ducking for cover from the spraying shards which were as dangerous as random gunfire was confusing to her.

“I don’t WAAAANT the BEAAAAR!” she shrieked at her mother, turning her head out toward the gardens, deaf to the screams and mayhem from the house staff downstairs. Her own windows rattled; a single crack in a pane grew across the base of the glass along the frame, catching the light from the sun, and her attention for a brief second, long enough to make her catch her breath.

“Wha? What was that?” she asked, bewildered, an eyebrow raised.

Downstairs the human clamor was slowing but the vacuums started up to clean up whatever was left of the mess from her recent outburst.

“Waaaah!” she cried.

The window shook.

“Waaaah-ahh-aaaah! Noooooowaaaaah!” she wailed again, deliberately this time to study the effects, as though testing her shadow for its truth or an image in a false mirror. The crack spread across the entire window; all four corners were vulnerable to implosion and a single piece, the size of a bottle cap, popped out and dropped at her feet.

“Oh my…” she said, bending over to pick up the piece, gently examining it in the sunlight and taking great care to not cut herself.

“I’ll… I’ll uh, I’ll take that, honey. Give it. Give it here, Leesie,” begged her mother, with the bear in one hand, his eyes now cracked, one completely off his face. Her mother’s other palm was patiently outstretched, waiting for the piece. “I’m worried you’ll cut yourself on it…”

“No. No, I’ll be fine. In a second. If I cry again, mother, what will happen to this window?” she asked.

“If you cry again, dear, the glass with break completely and you and I could be injured. It’s something we’re trying to … to understand. We know that if you are simply angry, then the glass won’t break, but if you are truly sad or melancholy, then the glass will break and porcelain vases as will most lead crystal and fine china within a 5-mile radius,” she said, nervously nodding and pressing her lips together when she was finished.

“Oh,” said Elise. “That explains a lot. I am so sorry. I never meant ….” and her breathing deepened as her lower lip trembled.

Quickly, her mother rushed to her side and said, “I don’t know what to do. We’ve never let you just let it out. We’ve always stopped you. We don’t know what will happen if …”

“If I just let it out?” Elise asked, regaining her composure. “Is this why…? All this stuff? My bedroom is all puffy and fluffed with things that aren’t hard, nothing shiny? Why my mirrors are all plastic and warped? Why I ride a bicycle everywhere and I drink out of plastic or steel? Why all my stuffed animals have button eyes? Oh my goodness…” she blew a breath between her lips as though blowing on a coffee to cool it, she was working very hard to keep her emotions in check as her words were paced and thoughtful.

“Yes. That is why,” said her mother, as she pulled her daughter close to hold her near, her facial lather had dried to a flakey foam by now. “But I think you might be ready because now you know,” she added.

“Where? Where will I be safe, or where will I be able to cry so others can be safe?” she asked.

“UCLA,” her mother said. “You can cry at UCLA; it’s near where Lindsay Lohan is incarcerated, so they have a place that can handle it; it’s like a sound stage, but it’s all made out of Kevlar, Nomex, titanium and Lexan, it’s a sort of panic room for divas. But you’re not a diva, you’re just a homely and painful crier. Are you interested? I will go with you and if it works, you can go wherever you want after that.”

Elise sat on her bed, or more appropriately, flopped on it. Sighing, she flew her hands up and asked, “Why me? What is this? What if it doesn’t work? What will happen then?”

“I don’t know,” said her mother, “but I think we need to try, to take you to that edge or beyond it, to find out.”

(c) Molly Field 2013

=-=-=

Well, that was the most random thing I’ve ever written. Today is the Friday of a crazy week here; only to continue into next week. I started this post not know what I was going to write about. I had no clue and I was even mad at the prompt, but once I typed, “Elise was an ugly crier” I knew I was on to something. So I added the bit about the bear and her mom. It comes about as my husband remarked today that Claire Danes is an ugly crier and that sentence became this story.

Here is the prompt: Use the quote below to tell the story of how your primary character comes to the edge (a cliche). Note: Your character may/may not fly. However, he/she encourages others to start a new beginning – i.e. to “fly.” Spring offers new beginnings to grow and soar. Tell this story in no more than 1,500 words (no less than 800) with a balance of dialogue and imagery. Now let your story fly!

“Come to the edge, He said. They said: We are afraid. Come to the edge, He said. They came. He pushed them, And they flew . . .”
— Guillaume Apollinaire
French poet

Please check out these other participants in today’s Friday Fiction Friends challenge!

http://www.susannesworld.com
http://www.clearlykristal.com
http://www.worldsworstmoms.com
Val’s fiction

Thank you!

Mar7

Three Things Thursday 6 — Self, Health & Laugh Lines

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Today I’m sharing three things you can do for yourself to improve your health and fitness for your mind, body and spirit in less than 800 words.

Mind: Self

Determine to include yourself in your life. I saw this card (below) by an artist named “Leigh” (http://www.curlygirldesign.com/) at a fancy boutique in Connecticut in 2006 right after my husband was laid-off from his job.

We went on a weeklong vacation and stayed with family at their home. It was a very scary time for us and although I knew my husband had the chops to find another awesome job, the specter of only eight weeks’ salary to cover our mortgage and health insurance for a family of five was terrifying. The card was a piece of art and it cost $6; its sentiment is empowering. I bought it. I enlarged it and hangs in my office.

We came home from that trip determined to make it through the layoff with optimism, not obsession, and to come out better than we went going in and we did. He started his new job on my 39th birthday with not one day to spare.

"Spirit."

“Spirit.” Rekindle yours.

What has already happened to you in life is done and over. Decide to do something now for yourself today that is good. Do it again tomorrow and the day after that and own it like a boss.

Body: Get Up, Get Down, Repeat.

I started working out again Sunday and my mood instantly elevated and has stayed there. I have an extensive personal background and interest in fitness, health and nutrition. Yes, you can love Cap’n Crunch and be healthy. I have a lot of gear, but that’s because I love exercise gear. Do you have a question? Throw it at me in comments.

Here’s an awesome FREE! app for keeping track of your diet and exercise. “MyFitnessPal” <– click there for link. My SIL lost all her baby weight using that app in three months. I’ve been using it and I adore it. The sense of awareness and accountability it instills is amazing. It confirmed for me this: I don’t eat enough. More on that later.

The best thing we can do for ourselves is get up right now. Stand up, inhale, lift your hands over your head, exhale and lower your hands back to your sides and sit back down.

Do it again.

Again.

One more time.

Feel that thumpa-thumpa? That’s you. You just burned probably 3 calories.

I do all sorts of things: aerobics, strength (mostly floor work and for many of us our own body weight and gravity pose enough resistance) and yoga.

Sunday I worked on the elliptical trainer. I did High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT). To keep this description high level, it goes from a “0” being sitting to a “10” being an all-out sprint from a rhino or chasing after a baby-napper every two minutes (two slow, one high).

I have a heart-rate monitor (HRM), I use it. Is an HRM essential? No, but it keeps me honest. Just starting is essential. I will write about the benefits of exercise soon.

Start small, finish BIG.

I’m a weirdo: sometimes I do squats when I unload the dishwasher. I double up the stairs, I stand on one leg when brushing my teeth. I’m not normal, but I’m also not at all overweight.

Keep a journal, write this stuff down; you don’t have to step on the scale now. Numbers don’t matter, how you feel is what matters. When you write it down, you commit.

Cravings last 14 minutes. Beat the 14 minutes and you beat the craving.

Be sure you’re eating enough. Sounds like a nice problem to have unless your body does what it’s supposed to do: goes for the muscle (lean body mass / LBM) first for fuel because LBM burns calories the best. You definitely don’t want that, because you will lose your tone. I know this personally.

Drink lots of water. Your skin will love you for it.

Spirit: Gratitude. Express it Often.

Thank your body for what it always does: functions even if you think it’s dysfunctional. And especially if you stood up and raised your arms. Thank your awesome legs, your amazing hips, your kick-ass shoulders and your freakin’ lungs for getting you through every day. Do you stop, ever, to contemplate what a MIRACLE it is to simply be alive? The genius that goes into all our cellular functioning? It’s mind-boggling.

Thank your laugh lines for keeping you sane. Go ahead: look in the mirror and say, “I LOVE YOU LAUGH LINES” and mean it.

they are. they show you don't take yourself too seriously.

they are. they show you don’t take yourself too seriously.

As I always say, “the quickest facelift is a smile.”

Thank you.

Feb25

This is How I Roll: Some Parents Need to Grow Up

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Look, I’m not going to sugar coat this: I’m grossed out by people who think it’s funny to have kids and then bitch about them, or habitually talk about needing booze, or a line, or a joint or a valium or whatever to get through the day.

It’s all over the Internet. Apparently it’s what sells. “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.”- Henry Mencken. I prefer to not engage with the “foolish consistencies [which] are the hobgoblins of little minds.” -Emerson. I guess I will never hit it big. That’s OK, drunk people can’t read very well.

What those people need is a few moments alone and several deep breaths. That’s all. Oh, and likely therapy, which they are probably avoiding.

Ask anyone who knows me or who has interacted with me, and they will tell you, I’ve got a sense of humor, I am resilient, I can roll with punches. But just not this one. Not about parents who get their drink/joint/whatever on to cope with their holes, fears, inadequacy issues, mommy issues, daddy issues, shitty childhoods or whatever that are being activated by triggers that parenthood presents. I’m not talking anxiety, we all have that. I’m talking deep, real, soul-wrenching stuff. Oh, and regarding those who habitually make jokes about it? Grow up.

20130225-111055.jpg

So, here’s the deal: I grew up with crap like that happening to me. I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “You drive me to drink” as a kid. It’s sick as hell. Those days, and my decisions to talk about them are prickly. It’s partly my story to tell, in terms of how it affected me, but I can tell you this: if you need a drink, or think it’s funny to crack wise about being a mom or a dad who needs *needs* NEEDS something to “get through your day” I have a proposal for you: get fixed.

No, not with a shrink, that’s later, but tie your tubes, clip the lines, get your act together before you victimize your kids with your so-called, “I was just kidding” banter and jokes and Facebook groups and blog titles, and all that stuff. Because what you do to your kids, in the end, when they’re like me: 45 and wondering where the hell you were all their life, it’s not gonna be so funny then. You will be “Granny needs a drink” then. And that’s even sicker.

This is real. Kids are not saints, they are micro versions of me and you, and they have memories, and they have feelings and they have access to the Internet. If you find yourself turned off by their behavior, I have a suggestion: look around and look in the mirror. They learn from us, peers, teachers, siblings, but mostly from us, their parents, who appear godlike in their eyes. They believe everything we say, they don’t understand sarcasm until they’re about 15, despite our insistence that they get it beforehand. We are their go-to resource, unless we are half in the bag, spending the night at the office, on a little yellow pill, or pulling a toke.

But I’m just joking. Right? Because we all are. We’re all just trying to loosen up, have a little fun, don’t be such a stiff, Mol…

This isn’t our second shot at being in the cool group in high school or being popular with the pretty people. If you (like just about everyone) have some weird torch you’re holding for the glory days of your youth and you’re pinning your hopes on your kid to Make It this time… Wake up and smell the music. It’s pathetic. Get your act together and behave.

Maybe if you’re lucky, when you’re old and decrepit they will just feel sorry for you. Maybe if when they’re in a state where you will need them, when they have to take care of you, they will do the right, honorable and human thing: respect you and help you age and eventually die well. Or maybe they’ll get drunk and make jokes about it. You know, because it’s all in good fun, right?, crapping on the concept of being there for people who need our help. Or maybe they won’t resent the hell out of you for putting yourself first all. the. time. Or maybe they will do their best, numbly go through the motions, but be unable to give back what wasn’t given to them.

As a parent, I’m all for cutting loose and having fun, but not as a brand, not as an identity, and certainly not as a thematic function for who I am. Life’s hard enough sober and single. Marriage adds a whole new dimension. And then kids?! Innocent people who are legitimately needy and completely dependent on us for everything until they aren’t anymore?! Holy cow… I can’t imagine life drunk and with kids. And I certainly can’t imagine it being clever or glib or witty to make jokes about needing a mind-numbing substance to get through the day.

I can’t stand that stuff, it makes my blood boil. I have moments, trust me, of when I wish I could run away, or of when I wish I could be more resilient, more aloof, but no… This is life. When you get it on and make a baby, it’s not only all about you anymore. It’s about doing your best, everyday showing up mentally and physically and doing two very simple things on paper, but hard as hell to practice at times: love them with all your might and protect them. Love and protect. That’s all.

Therapy is cheap compared to how our glibness affects our children.

I’m dealing with my own set of challenges: I’m the PB&J in my family sandwich. My parents are getting reeeeally old and my kids are almost all teenagers. I will need every ounce of presence and sanity to navigate these waters. I could do the easy thing, do what my parents did: get drunk and avoid my responsibilities, but that’s not who I am.

If I’ve pissed you off, it’s okay. We aren’t right for each other. Just being real.

Thank you.