Attention to Detail:
I get up in the morning and I pray in bed, because it feels like a lot of work to get out of bed and into a comtemplative position. This makes me feel guilty,because God is definitely worth assuming a position of reverence. Not just that but God is worth soaring Cathedrals and intricate Art and complicated, vibrating music. Worship deserves attention to detail. I tell myself that God is unconditional love, and although he/she would really appreciate an intricate, precise, planned out act of worship, that he also knows exuberant, slaphappy me inside and out. I imagine God clucking his/her tongue and smiling, and at the same time knowing that I will not reach the level of Oneness and Awareness that I aspire to without attention to detail.
When I get dressed, I pull out the adorable dress that needs ironing and many days I'll hang it back up because I'd rather go for a run, blog, or think about the world and people I know or I've just met than iron. I pull my shoes out to put them on. They look dusty. It'll take too long to shine them,so I put them on, wipe them quickly with a damp rag, and rush headlong into the world, eager to eat, eager to meet and greet, eager to see what's new and different, eager to love, eager to see and be seen. I want to gobble up life, even though it would be so much better to slow down and chew each delicious morsel as it's presented to me.
I take dance classes at our local Ballroom Dancing Studio. It's called "Shall We Dance?" There's a group class and a party afterwards every Friday so all the students can socialize and practice what they've worked on during the week. At the class, we change partners after we practice each move. Once there was a young cowboy there and he was sparkling with attention to detail. His shirt was starched to perfection and his blue jeans had an amazing crease creating perfect symmetry, perpendicular to his shining belt buckle. His boots were shined, his hair combed with just enough hair pomade. I drank in the completeness of the picture he made, oh, the attention to detail! When it was my turn to dance with him, I hesitated to place my hand on his shoulder, I did not want to mess up that beautifully starched red plaid shirt! He conjured up a vision of an exquisitely neat stable somewhere, rows of shiny tack displayed just so, hay bales stacked, pristine covered bins of feed in a perfect row, and well-behaved horses, contently munching thier oats out of pristine wooden feed trays. I did place my hand on his shoulder and we fox-trotted along. All the while I was secretly amused and distracted by how stiffly starched his shirt really was and wondering just how long he stood at the ironing board to achieve that amazing tribute to neatness. The next day at work I described with awe that amazing starched shirt and my co-worker said that most of those cowboys take their shirts and jeans to a laundry to be starched into submission. Oh.
Each time I meet someone like that:
a University professor with an exquisite ascot and matching hanky, usually burgandy or navy, mirror-glossy shoes, and snowy white hair gleaming over shiny pink skin,
or a rapper, his baggy pants crisp-clean, his plaid shirt starched and ironed, the white t-shirt underneath glowing with newness, the expensive hi-tops pristine, his hair and beard trimmed with geometric precision, his dark skin glowingly oiled,
or an elegant woman, perfect coif, teased and heat-pressed into artful shape, make-up applied in shimmery detail, killer designer shoes to sigh over in amazement, and exquisitely fitted skirt, perfectly arranged shirt, sparkly waterfalls of jewelry to top it all off.......
I love it! I love you, you people with your attention to detail! You are walking works of art. You are the people who work for perfection. You have sent us to the moon. You have created works that take years and years of precision to make. Gargantuan Cathedrals! Tiny Computers! Monumental Sculptures! Democratic Constitutions! Human Rights Advancements! Mind-blowing Novels! Sweet Soul-saving Music!
Oooh, I'm inspired. I think I'll go shine my shoes, or iron. sigh.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Simpleology.com
I've been a member of Simpleology.com for sometime now and started over several times because I haven't made it all the way through the program. This time I'm on day 9, and I'm staying with it!
The lesson for day 9 says in one part, "Did you know that there is really no such thing as 'procrastination' or 'laziness'? These two words presuppose 'inaction'on the part of a person, but such a state does not exist. Again, you are always doing something. 'Procrastination; and 'laziness'are really just ineffective actions masquerading as inaction."
This really hit me. I listened to it four times. I always believe that I have a big problem with procrastination, but maybe it's more of a decision problem. Simpleology asks: "Will you choose to take action that brings you closer to or further away from, your desired Target?" "Will you make decisions that Strengthen your Power or Weaken your Power?"
I've made a lot of Weakening decsions, and some Strengthening decsions. I am already beginning to use these questions in the daily choices I am making, and even if I do choose the weakening choice over the strengthening one, I am clearly weighing my options before doing so. I know that my decision is a concious one. That really does make a world of difference.
Simpleology.com is a free website and the first module is absolutely free. Try it today and let me know what you think!
The lesson for day 9 says in one part, "Did you know that there is really no such thing as 'procrastination' or 'laziness'? These two words presuppose 'inaction'on the part of a person, but such a state does not exist. Again, you are always doing something. 'Procrastination; and 'laziness'are really just ineffective actions masquerading as inaction."
This really hit me. I listened to it four times. I always believe that I have a big problem with procrastination, but maybe it's more of a decision problem. Simpleology asks: "Will you choose to take action that brings you closer to or further away from, your desired Target?" "Will you make decisions that Strengthen your Power or Weaken your Power?"
I've made a lot of Weakening decsions, and some Strengthening decsions. I am already beginning to use these questions in the daily choices I am making, and even if I do choose the weakening choice over the strengthening one, I am clearly weighing my options before doing so. I know that my decision is a concious one. That really does make a world of difference.
Simpleology.com is a free website and the first module is absolutely free. Try it today and let me know what you think!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Persian New Year's Preparations
I really meant to blog a lot more often about Now Rooz during the actual Now Rooz celebrations, but an unexpected Spring cold has had me feeling tired and listless lately. I’ve been spelling it as it sounds: No Rooz, but most Iranians spell it Now Rooz, even though it sounds like “NO” not “NOW”
Preparations for Now Rooz start way before the actual first day of Spring, or the time of the Vernal Equinox. For at least a month or maybe more, Iranian housewives begin to literally turn their households upside down. Each room is emptied of its furnishings and the walls are scrubbed and the ceilings brushed to get any cobwebs or dust. The windows are washed inside and out and made to sparkle. One of my sisters-in-law believed the best way to do this was for two people to wash the window, one inside and one out so there would absolutely be no streaks left anywhere to be seen. Then the curtains, blinds and carpets are all washed and left in the sun to dry. Meanwhile the furniture is completely wiped, polished and cleaned from top to bottom. Any contents of drawers or closets that are not needed are discarded and everything else organized. Finally the room is put back together, fresh, clean, and pure. This is done for every single room in the house, until everything sparkles. If it is needed, this is the time when homeowners will paint, paper, or buy new furniture.
After the house is renewed, then the woman of the house turns her attention to her family. She buys a new set of clothes for each member of the house. This includes shoes and socks.
When I was a child, I can’t remember ever having seen my mother wash even one window. The concept of Spring Cleaning was one I’d read about in books, usually pioneer books. When I saw the effort and the zeal that Iranian women put into Spring Cleaning, I was hooked. I fully embraced the idea of a fresh clean start each year. My problem was that, being my mother’s daughter, I didn’t fully embrace all the work it took to get the house that clean. Our home in Iran was a very large four bedroom home with a huge living and dining area. I was always afraid of not getting my house clean on time. I would start at the beginning of February and usually pull out the 3 bedrooms at the back in a frenzy of cleaning that lasted about two days. Then on to the living room, kitchen, and last, the bathroom. Sometimes I would get lucky and two or three of my sisters-in-law would happen by and roll up their sleeves and help me. I would never actually ask them for help though, because I didn’t think I would be able to reciprocate. I worked, played basketball (my guilty pleasure), and liked to do other things with my time besides cook and clean. I rarely had free days when I could just meander over to their homes and spend a day helping them scrub. I did make an effort to help with my mother-in-law’s home, because it was culturally expected that the wives of married sons help their mother-in-laws out. They were always ready to lend a helping hand to me, however, and I was always glad and grateful when they did, even if they did arrange the furniture to their liking, not mine.
My early start for fear of not finishing usually had the effect that I would be finished with my Spring Cleaning long before everyone else. Then visiting female relatives would lament, “Oh, you’re so lucky, you are already finished, I’m just getting started. I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish in time.” I would feel relived and a little smug, but I would also know they were just talking to have something to say, because they would finish, even if they stayed up till midnight to get it done. Iranian people are fanatics about cleanliness and about getting stuff done when it’s supposed to be. I learned a lot about cleanliness, housework, and discipline when I was in Iran. I wish I’d learned more.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
No Rooz
Spring again!!! Time to dance and sing and love! It's so wonderful and completely apt that Iranians celebrate the new year in Spring just as all is born again. It starts at the exact moment of the Spring Equinox, whenever in the day that occurs. One year we celebrated the moment of the new year at 4 AM! That was the year we went to Abadan to celebrate. My ex, my mother-in-law (God rest her soul), my darling Laila, and my two sons, Bijan and Jahangir.
The Azaleas in Abadan were lovely papery masses of fushia, tree sized because of the humidity and warm weather there. The mosquitos were huge as well, that reminded me of Houston. Actually Abadan, and Khuszestan in general, has striking similarities to Texas, if only in my opinion. There's the oil of course, both are oil-rich. There's the mosquitos, robust and large! Then there are the people, larger than life, or at least that's what they want you to think. Both Texans, and Abadanis are famous for thier powers of exaggeration. Everything is bigger, better, purer and simply sublime in an Abadani or Texas world viewpoint, especially if you are talking about their hometown, their family, or their ability to fight, fish, or hunt.
I digress, sorry, there's so much beauty and humor and silliness in the world, I need hours on end to tell you about it, but I'm forced into a prison of minutes!
That year we spent Eid-e-no rooz in Abadan was the year Laila was 17, Jahangir was 11 and Bijan was 9. We'd arranged to travel with the family of the man who owned the shop just down the street from my ex's restaurant. They had teenage daughters, so Laila was happy spending time with them. After a long drive we arrived at our hotel in Abadan. It had recently been remodeled and was shiny and new, with one exception. They had deliberately neglected to cover the bullet holes in the hallway. The bullet holes had been left there as a reminder of the Iran-Iraq war and how Iran had been able to hold back the Iraqis. We had a lovely hotel and after checking in and doing some sightseeing, we came back and went to bed early. My mother-in-law and I woke everyone at 3:30 AM. Somehow, we showered, put on our new clothes and made our way to the lobby, where a beautiful new year's display had been set up.Not many of the guests were there, including the group we traveled with. We hugged and kissed each other, exclaiming "Happy New Year!", my-ex gave out the traditional gifts of money to the kids, and then we all went back up to the rooms and back to bed.
Bijan had seen a toy car in the hotel gift shop and talked about it non-stop until my mother-in-law couldn't take it any more and took him downstairs to buy it. (Such is the tenacity of Asperger's syndrome) His sparkling brown eyes and curly brown hair made him look like a cherub, and everywhere we went people were irresistably drawn to him. They were always pinching his cheeks and rubbing his belly and if he protested, it made him that much cuter. (I've often wondered what would happen if all autistics had a huge Iranian family to poke, pinch, prod and kiss them to death. It would be socialization by sensory overload. Bijan is much better at social than the average American Asperger's child)
Later, at lunch in a local kababi, (that's kabab restaurant to the uninitiated), she asked Jahangir what she could give him for Eide. He was sitting there in his brand-new new year's clothes. (Everyone is required to have a new set of clothes for eide. New clothes to start a new year.) His hair was slicked back to one side. His large, beautiful hands were resting on the table. He blushed, and said, "Hair gel." My mother-in-law didn't laugh often, but when she did, it was the most magical sound in the world. Anyone who ever heard her laugh was bound and determined to hear it again and so would go to great lengths to make her laugh. She laughed now, and asked him again, "What? Hair gel" We all teased him good-naturedly about looking good and girls, then the two of them headed off towards the bazaar to buy hair gel.
This was the first Eide ever that my mother-in-law had not stayed home to oversee the endless cooking and recieving of guests that Eide-e-No Rooz entails. It was a status symbol to be able to travel to a vacation spot for the new year's holiday. She now had the money and the time to travel and she could tell her family and neighbors that her son had taken her to a nice hotel for Eide. The truth was that after the first two days, she missed everyone, and was lonely and bored. The family we had traveled with was modern and not traditional enough for her. She pestered my ex until he agreed that we would not stay the five days we'd intended but go home. So we said goodbye to our traveling companions and set off for home, a 16 or 17 hour drive away. We went home in a round-about way through the mountains at night. When my ex got it in his mind to go somewhere, he would buy a bag of sunflower seeds and drive until he got there. All night long the car wove through the mountains, on narrow, harrowing roads. Sometimes we'd see foxes on the sides, thier trotting gait interupted rudely by the glare of our headlights. If we'd been able to see, we probably would've been all scared stiff by the sheer drop-offs on the side of the road with just flimsy aluminum barriers to warn us away. I'd read somewhere once that if the person sitting in the passenger side stays awake, it helps the driver to stay awake. However once I get into a car to go any distance, if I am a passenger, I am instantly drowsy. I felt guilty about sleeping in the passenger seat, and my mother-in-law who was fearfully wide awake almost the whole time, refused to sit in the front seat, preferring instead the safety of the back seat. So we drove through the endless night, the sound and nauseating smell of the constantly cracking sunflower seeds filling the car. I would awake periodically to ask my ex if he was ok and if he wanted me to drive. He never let me drive if he was in the car. I don't know if he was afraid of my driving or afraid to let go of his control, but the result was the same, I never drove.
Finally, we arrived home to tell our stories, to hear the latest gossip from visiting family and to start the shiny new year together, as best we could.
The Azaleas in Abadan were lovely papery masses of fushia, tree sized because of the humidity and warm weather there. The mosquitos were huge as well, that reminded me of Houston. Actually Abadan, and Khuszestan in general, has striking similarities to Texas, if only in my opinion. There's the oil of course, both are oil-rich. There's the mosquitos, robust and large! Then there are the people, larger than life, or at least that's what they want you to think. Both Texans, and Abadanis are famous for thier powers of exaggeration. Everything is bigger, better, purer and simply sublime in an Abadani or Texas world viewpoint, especially if you are talking about their hometown, their family, or their ability to fight, fish, or hunt.
I digress, sorry, there's so much beauty and humor and silliness in the world, I need hours on end to tell you about it, but I'm forced into a prison of minutes!
That year we spent Eid-e-no rooz in Abadan was the year Laila was 17, Jahangir was 11 and Bijan was 9. We'd arranged to travel with the family of the man who owned the shop just down the street from my ex's restaurant. They had teenage daughters, so Laila was happy spending time with them. After a long drive we arrived at our hotel in Abadan. It had recently been remodeled and was shiny and new, with one exception. They had deliberately neglected to cover the bullet holes in the hallway. The bullet holes had been left there as a reminder of the Iran-Iraq war and how Iran had been able to hold back the Iraqis. We had a lovely hotel and after checking in and doing some sightseeing, we came back and went to bed early. My mother-in-law and I woke everyone at 3:30 AM. Somehow, we showered, put on our new clothes and made our way to the lobby, where a beautiful new year's display had been set up.Not many of the guests were there, including the group we traveled with. We hugged and kissed each other, exclaiming "Happy New Year!", my-ex gave out the traditional gifts of money to the kids, and then we all went back up to the rooms and back to bed.
Bijan had seen a toy car in the hotel gift shop and talked about it non-stop until my mother-in-law couldn't take it any more and took him downstairs to buy it. (Such is the tenacity of Asperger's syndrome) His sparkling brown eyes and curly brown hair made him look like a cherub, and everywhere we went people were irresistably drawn to him. They were always pinching his cheeks and rubbing his belly and if he protested, it made him that much cuter. (I've often wondered what would happen if all autistics had a huge Iranian family to poke, pinch, prod and kiss them to death. It would be socialization by sensory overload. Bijan is much better at social than the average American Asperger's child)
Later, at lunch in a local kababi, (that's kabab restaurant to the uninitiated), she asked Jahangir what she could give him for Eide. He was sitting there in his brand-new new year's clothes. (Everyone is required to have a new set of clothes for eide. New clothes to start a new year.) His hair was slicked back to one side. His large, beautiful hands were resting on the table. He blushed, and said, "Hair gel." My mother-in-law didn't laugh often, but when she did, it was the most magical sound in the world. Anyone who ever heard her laugh was bound and determined to hear it again and so would go to great lengths to make her laugh. She laughed now, and asked him again, "What? Hair gel" We all teased him good-naturedly about looking good and girls, then the two of them headed off towards the bazaar to buy hair gel.
This was the first Eide ever that my mother-in-law had not stayed home to oversee the endless cooking and recieving of guests that Eide-e-No Rooz entails. It was a status symbol to be able to travel to a vacation spot for the new year's holiday. She now had the money and the time to travel and she could tell her family and neighbors that her son had taken her to a nice hotel for Eide. The truth was that after the first two days, she missed everyone, and was lonely and bored. The family we had traveled with was modern and not traditional enough for her. She pestered my ex until he agreed that we would not stay the five days we'd intended but go home. So we said goodbye to our traveling companions and set off for home, a 16 or 17 hour drive away. We went home in a round-about way through the mountains at night. When my ex got it in his mind to go somewhere, he would buy a bag of sunflower seeds and drive until he got there. All night long the car wove through the mountains, on narrow, harrowing roads. Sometimes we'd see foxes on the sides, thier trotting gait interupted rudely by the glare of our headlights. If we'd been able to see, we probably would've been all scared stiff by the sheer drop-offs on the side of the road with just flimsy aluminum barriers to warn us away. I'd read somewhere once that if the person sitting in the passenger side stays awake, it helps the driver to stay awake. However once I get into a car to go any distance, if I am a passenger, I am instantly drowsy. I felt guilty about sleeping in the passenger seat, and my mother-in-law who was fearfully wide awake almost the whole time, refused to sit in the front seat, preferring instead the safety of the back seat. So we drove through the endless night, the sound and nauseating smell of the constantly cracking sunflower seeds filling the car. I would awake periodically to ask my ex if he was ok and if he wanted me to drive. He never let me drive if he was in the car. I don't know if he was afraid of my driving or afraid to let go of his control, but the result was the same, I never drove.
Finally, we arrived home to tell our stories, to hear the latest gossip from visiting family and to start the shiny new year together, as best we could.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
More Optimism!
Maybe this is serendipity, maybe not, but I just found this in a journal from April 18, 2009.
Optimism is when your heart breaks but you still smile again. Optimism is when you've done awful things but you still believe in forgiveness and you are able to forgive. (On an everyday ongoing basis you face the reality and harshness and yet still love.)
Hate is when your heart breaks and you decide not to smile again, or to forgive yourself for having a broken heart.
We oftentimes break our own hearts by not being heros to ourselves. When we do ugly and depraved things, then we disappoint ourselves.
Some of us face our fears and learn to understand weakness and forgive it in others.
Some of us face our fears and learn to understand weakness and exploit it in others.
Some of us hide from our fears and abhor the weakness we see in others, pretending to be more; stronger and better.
Some of us drown in our fears on a day to day basis, barely surviving, believing that at any moment the fear could take over and sweep us away.
Be your own true Hero. Bravely accept your weakness, and forgive it. Courageously acknowledge your glorious strength, and be grateful. If you would save your life, surrender to the inevitablity of humanity. Become intimate with fear, but never allow fear to take the lead. The paradox is that true power comes to those who truly surrender to the whole mess, both good and bad.
Optimism is when your heart breaks but you still smile again. Optimism is when you've done awful things but you still believe in forgiveness and you are able to forgive. (On an everyday ongoing basis you face the reality and harshness and yet still love.)
Hate is when your heart breaks and you decide not to smile again, or to forgive yourself for having a broken heart.
We oftentimes break our own hearts by not being heros to ourselves. When we do ugly and depraved things, then we disappoint ourselves.
Some of us face our fears and learn to understand weakness and forgive it in others.
Some of us face our fears and learn to understand weakness and exploit it in others.
Some of us hide from our fears and abhor the weakness we see in others, pretending to be more; stronger and better.
Some of us drown in our fears on a day to day basis, barely surviving, believing that at any moment the fear could take over and sweep us away.
Be your own true Hero. Bravely accept your weakness, and forgive it. Courageously acknowledge your glorious strength, and be grateful. If you would save your life, surrender to the inevitablity of humanity. Become intimate with fear, but never allow fear to take the lead. The paradox is that true power comes to those who truly surrender to the whole mess, both good and bad.
Optimism
I just took Oprah's How Optimistic Are You? quiz in her lastest magazine. Guess What? I'm "one of the few super-optimists. Only 10% of people score above 10 points."
Gerald Matthews, PhD, the author says, "Research has found that super-optimists tend to be prone to unrealistic expectations. When they're driving, for example, they often believe that they're invunerable to crashing."
While I am a super-optimist, unrealistic expectations and all, I never allow myself to believe that I'm invulnerable. I am all too vulnerable to the whims of nature and the karmic consequences of my blind faith and bad decisions. I do believe from extensive experience surviving a variety of life changing catastrophes and reading about other people's incredible resiliency that every thing bad gives way to good and that almost anything can not only be survived, but surmounted. If you're really unlucky and then survive to smile again, you might even have a unique story that you could make into a book, and do public speaking gigs for years. Just a thought about looking on the bright side.
I practice constantly to stay in a state of joy. It takes constant maintenance. I have a technique where I give myself a mental slap or shake whenever I feel depression drifting over my mind and heart like a creeping fog.
If that doesn't work I go for a run, or put music on and dance. I lift myself up on the way to work by singing at the top of my lungs to my favorites on the radio. It does happen that I get cut off in traffic by idiots from time to time. I feel the rage surge through my heart, and fill my brain, making my eyeballs want to pop out. Folks, rage hurts my body, my heart, my mind. It makes me want to cry. What I do these days is kind of crazy. I take a deep breath, I put my open hand over my heart, I imagine pulling all the rage out of my body. I throw it as hard as I can back to the person who cut me off, or honked because I didn't get out his way fast enough. I shout, "This isn't mine. You can have it!" It doesn't always work the first time, because all those chemicals from the anger are still in my body and have to clear. I don't let them win. I keep pulling out the imaginary anger and throwing it to the wind. (I think I must be very entertaining to other drivers, a female Jim Carey on the road.) I find the loudest, happiest song and smile so hard it probably looks like a grimace, and I sing! Yes, it's ridiculous, completely ridculous. When I think about it, I laugh. Hard.
That's a way optimism can be cultivated. I'm raising the cup to super-optimism. Wanna join me?
Gerald Matthews, PhD, the author says, "Research has found that super-optimists tend to be prone to unrealistic expectations. When they're driving, for example, they often believe that they're invunerable to crashing."
While I am a super-optimist, unrealistic expectations and all, I never allow myself to believe that I'm invulnerable. I am all too vulnerable to the whims of nature and the karmic consequences of my blind faith and bad decisions. I do believe from extensive experience surviving a variety of life changing catastrophes and reading about other people's incredible resiliency that every thing bad gives way to good and that almost anything can not only be survived, but surmounted. If you're really unlucky and then survive to smile again, you might even have a unique story that you could make into a book, and do public speaking gigs for years. Just a thought about looking on the bright side.
I practice constantly to stay in a state of joy. It takes constant maintenance. I have a technique where I give myself a mental slap or shake whenever I feel depression drifting over my mind and heart like a creeping fog.
If that doesn't work I go for a run, or put music on and dance. I lift myself up on the way to work by singing at the top of my lungs to my favorites on the radio. It does happen that I get cut off in traffic by idiots from time to time. I feel the rage surge through my heart, and fill my brain, making my eyeballs want to pop out. Folks, rage hurts my body, my heart, my mind. It makes me want to cry. What I do these days is kind of crazy. I take a deep breath, I put my open hand over my heart, I imagine pulling all the rage out of my body. I throw it as hard as I can back to the person who cut me off, or honked because I didn't get out his way fast enough. I shout, "This isn't mine. You can have it!" It doesn't always work the first time, because all those chemicals from the anger are still in my body and have to clear. I don't let them win. I keep pulling out the imaginary anger and throwing it to the wind. (I think I must be very entertaining to other drivers, a female Jim Carey on the road.) I find the loudest, happiest song and smile so hard it probably looks like a grimace, and I sing! Yes, it's ridiculous, completely ridculous. When I think about it, I laugh. Hard.
That's a way optimism can be cultivated. I'm raising the cup to super-optimism. Wanna join me?
Monday, March 7, 2011
If Momma ain't happy.....
If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
I'm gonna add to this: if Momma don't know how to be happy, noone else knows what to do with her either.
My mother used to get up after a random bout of depression, having decided that things could be better, and she would give us some variation of her "Let's all be happy" speech. She would beseech us, "Please kids, please, just for one day, one day, let's be happy. Please just for one day no one fight. Let's just all get along."
What none of us knew, including my mom, was how to accomplish this. I'd sit there frozen in fear and guilt, wondering why it was we couldn't just be happy.
Are any of you out there parents? Of more than one child? I am, and I still remember the awkwardness and feeling of wanting to figure out a smooth way to stop the bickering. I read some good parenting books that helped, but nothing ever takes away the feeling that things probably could've gone better. I used to sympathize with my mom, when that would happen. I stll never, never allowed myself to blame them because I wasn't good enough. My guys are practically grown now and they are pretty cool people, so I guess I did something right. Thank God, for "How to Talk so Kids Will Listen, And How to Listen So Kids Will Talk": that book saved my life.
Growing up, none of us four kids had a clue at the time about how to be happy. We'd only ever seen miserable. Our single, stressed-out, bi-polar, alcholic mother had no idea what to do with herself, let alone four kids. The minute she said, "Please don't fight", it was just a matter of time until someone pushed or poked or teased. We knew, even while we were doing it, what the outcome would be, but it was all so inevitable. "OOOW, MOM! She hit me!" "NO I DIDN'T. YOU STARTED IT" That was it. Our happy day blown to smithereens! What was wrong with us? We might get a violent spanking or not. It would definitely end with Mom, boo-hooing down the hall, a trail of accusations spewing over her shoulder to lie heavily over our hearts. "You kids destroy everything I have. I don't have anything because of you kids." Then she would sob dramatically, the muffled sounds making us sick to our stomachs. It was always our fault. Even today I take responsiblity for way too much.
Fast forward to Iran, 1994, there I was. Stuck. I was in Iran, with no hope of leaving, because my husband at the time had taken my passports and refused to give them back. I had come to Iran with the intention to live, but I'd been promised I could come back to the States once a year. There was no difference in the physical situation, total difference in the psychological. I was devastated. To top it all off, even though, we had our own house, I was forced to live with my sister-in-law, her husband, and child against my will because they needed help. God forbid, a family member should not get help when they needed it. Never mind that I was going out of my mind with culture shock and lonliness. Momma was not happy, she was very unhappy. I cried a lot, we argued a lot. Then I realized what was happening to my children. They were spending a lot of time trying to make me happy. No, No, NO!! Not what I wanted for my kids. Not at all. I made peace with the situation. I used the serenity prayer. There were things I couldn't change. There were things I could've, but I either didn't have the courage, or it wasn't worth the peace of mind it would've cost me and my kids. I made peace with my ex. I probably enabled him by doing that, but the cost to my sanity and my family's happiness to go on fighting wasn't worth it. I decided to create peace, come hell or high water! The kids and I met him at the door each day with happy faces, shouting, "Baba's home!" I cultivated a wonderful group of foriegn ladies married to Iranians. We'd get together and drink coffee, share cultures, and share our problems and give each other advice and support. I exercised like crazy to relieve stress. First it was aerobics classes, then later I joined a women's basketball team, and those girls were my family for the next 11 years. I would leave my house rabid with frustration over something inane and unfeeling my ex had done. After a two-hour practice of running, drills, and practice, I'd come home drained of all negativity, loving the world, a perfect angel. I read self-help books constantly. It was amazing, there were no English bookstores there selling novels. Yet everytime I had a problem that I couldn't solve, a book would materialize. Something on someone's bookshelf would attract me and I'd get to borrow it. Or I'd find a something in dusty used book store. Towards the end, there were a lot of unaproved copies of books that had been made for English students. I once found an entire copied set of Anthony Robbins CDs. (Sorry Anthony. No copyright laws in Iran, and I was desperate!) I prayed. I made the determination that if I was happy, then people around me would be happy. Thank God, that through grace, and an addiction to reading, and a burning desire to know what happiness is, I learned what it takes to feel joy in the worst of circumstances, to look at small everyday things and be comforted. My mantra in times of trouble is"This too shall pass" and whether it passes well or in throes of agony, yep, it all passes on.
It sure does pass better, baby, if Momma is smiling! :)
I'm gonna add to this: if Momma don't know how to be happy, noone else knows what to do with her either.
My mother used to get up after a random bout of depression, having decided that things could be better, and she would give us some variation of her "Let's all be happy" speech. She would beseech us, "Please kids, please, just for one day, one day, let's be happy. Please just for one day no one fight. Let's just all get along."
What none of us knew, including my mom, was how to accomplish this. I'd sit there frozen in fear and guilt, wondering why it was we couldn't just be happy.
Are any of you out there parents? Of more than one child? I am, and I still remember the awkwardness and feeling of wanting to figure out a smooth way to stop the bickering. I read some good parenting books that helped, but nothing ever takes away the feeling that things probably could've gone better. I used to sympathize with my mom, when that would happen. I stll never, never allowed myself to blame them because I wasn't good enough. My guys are practically grown now and they are pretty cool people, so I guess I did something right. Thank God, for "How to Talk so Kids Will Listen, And How to Listen So Kids Will Talk": that book saved my life.
Growing up, none of us four kids had a clue at the time about how to be happy. We'd only ever seen miserable. Our single, stressed-out, bi-polar, alcholic mother had no idea what to do with herself, let alone four kids. The minute she said, "Please don't fight", it was just a matter of time until someone pushed or poked or teased. We knew, even while we were doing it, what the outcome would be, but it was all so inevitable. "OOOW, MOM! She hit me!" "NO I DIDN'T. YOU STARTED IT" That was it. Our happy day blown to smithereens! What was wrong with us? We might get a violent spanking or not. It would definitely end with Mom, boo-hooing down the hall, a trail of accusations spewing over her shoulder to lie heavily over our hearts. "You kids destroy everything I have. I don't have anything because of you kids." Then she would sob dramatically, the muffled sounds making us sick to our stomachs. It was always our fault. Even today I take responsiblity for way too much.
Fast forward to Iran, 1994, there I was. Stuck. I was in Iran, with no hope of leaving, because my husband at the time had taken my passports and refused to give them back. I had come to Iran with the intention to live, but I'd been promised I could come back to the States once a year. There was no difference in the physical situation, total difference in the psychological. I was devastated. To top it all off, even though, we had our own house, I was forced to live with my sister-in-law, her husband, and child against my will because they needed help. God forbid, a family member should not get help when they needed it. Never mind that I was going out of my mind with culture shock and lonliness. Momma was not happy, she was very unhappy. I cried a lot, we argued a lot. Then I realized what was happening to my children. They were spending a lot of time trying to make me happy. No, No, NO!! Not what I wanted for my kids. Not at all. I made peace with the situation. I used the serenity prayer. There were things I couldn't change. There were things I could've, but I either didn't have the courage, or it wasn't worth the peace of mind it would've cost me and my kids. I made peace with my ex. I probably enabled him by doing that, but the cost to my sanity and my family's happiness to go on fighting wasn't worth it. I decided to create peace, come hell or high water! The kids and I met him at the door each day with happy faces, shouting, "Baba's home!" I cultivated a wonderful group of foriegn ladies married to Iranians. We'd get together and drink coffee, share cultures, and share our problems and give each other advice and support. I exercised like crazy to relieve stress. First it was aerobics classes, then later I joined a women's basketball team, and those girls were my family for the next 11 years. I would leave my house rabid with frustration over something inane and unfeeling my ex had done. After a two-hour practice of running, drills, and practice, I'd come home drained of all negativity, loving the world, a perfect angel. I read self-help books constantly. It was amazing, there were no English bookstores there selling novels. Yet everytime I had a problem that I couldn't solve, a book would materialize. Something on someone's bookshelf would attract me and I'd get to borrow it. Or I'd find a something in dusty used book store. Towards the end, there were a lot of unaproved copies of books that had been made for English students. I once found an entire copied set of Anthony Robbins CDs. (Sorry Anthony. No copyright laws in Iran, and I was desperate!) I prayed. I made the determination that if I was happy, then people around me would be happy. Thank God, that through grace, and an addiction to reading, and a burning desire to know what happiness is, I learned what it takes to feel joy in the worst of circumstances, to look at small everyday things and be comforted. My mantra in times of trouble is"This too shall pass" and whether it passes well or in throes of agony, yep, it all passes on.
It sure does pass better, baby, if Momma is smiling! :)
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