Walking on the sunny side of the street

 

Jordan's Cobb Salad for our dinner
So good, and a great way to use what's in the fridge;
with a quick, creamy dressing I've just discovered

For many of us, internet exchanges these days are too often confrontational. There are so many outrages in our world, so many lies and distortions, that I cannot resist commenting. So a couple of recent pleasant exchanges were wonderful surprises.

One had to do with fast food. When someone mentioned Chick Fil-A, I commented that I liked the food but will not patronize them for political reasons. A woman I don’t know responded that she chose her food for taste and not politics nor friendship and wasn’t that okay. I responded that of course it’s okay, but I just choose not to enrich the coffers of a corporation that espouses inhumane philosophies. The same, I added, is true of Hobby Lobby. It’s okay for people to believe whatever they want, but when it negatively affects and hurts others, it breaks a certain boundary. I can, at least, I said, give my beliefs some weight through action. The woman who asked thanked me for explaining my position and commented that it would be nice if all of us could talk in that way on social media.

The other incident was a few days ago. A woman posted from a very conservative point of view, and when I disagreed (I must learn to keep my indignation to myself) she wrote, “That’s my opinion, and you are entitled to yours.” I replied that while I totally disagree with her, I admired her civility, and she thanked me, said she wished everyone could be polite.

This has also been a day of introspection for me. I have realized that in addition to being outspoken about politics and social culture, I am really good at knowing what other people should do with their lives. It’s hard for me to keep quiet. But with age, hopefully, comes a bit of wisdom. Today a good friend told me she was going to do something I thought totally wrong for her situation, but I managed to say why, once, and then let it go. And I will be supportive of the course of action she chose.

The weather is part of the reason I’ve been so introspective today. Rain has threatened all day but stayed to the west of us. Tonight, it is moving closer, and Jordan says we expect a storm with possible hail by nine. Actually, I have found the last two days kind of depressing—gray skies, heavy humidity, neither hot nor cold. And apparently tomorrow is supposed to be even worse. Ah, springtime in Texas.

Jacob, with the wisdom of fourteen years, said tonight it would be cool if we had a tornado, and I wondered what had become of the little boy who was so terrified of storms. Once he insisted that I hide in my closet with him. Fortunately, it was a long, walk-in closet with plenty of room. He had put a chair, a candle, and a glass of wine in there, getting it all ready for me. Then he settled himself with a pillow on the floor. If I remember correctly, I had a book and contentedly read until he deemed it safe for us to emerge. Other times, in storms, he would silently come from the trundle in “his” room to my bed and crawl in without a word of explanation. Sadly, those days are long gone, but now, Sophie comes close to that, though if she gets on the bed, she is uncomfortable and antsy and soon jumps off, all of which is not conducive to my sleep.

So here I sit, the world growing dark around me, with a glass of wine and a good book. Let it storm—only no hail or tornado, please!

So Many Books, So Little Time

I’m going to change the cliché in this post title to “So Many Good Books, So Little Time for Others.” Recently I’ve found myself reading two books, both by noted and established authors, that simply didn’t engage my interest. And I gave it the old college try, kept reading. No, I’m not going to reveal either author or title.

 Somewhere I picked up the notion that it was well not quite immoral but maybe a minor sin not to finish a book once you started it. I’m here to tell you that is not true. Most of us have a TBR list that is too long to waste time being bored.

Both were fiction. The first was set in an area of Chicago I know and love, peopled with names and places familiar to me and in an era that I barely remember from childhood. I looked forward to plunging into that world. It didn’t work. The heroine, who had an interesting and suspenseful story, kept wallowing around in her own mind, blaming herself for all the ills of the world. It finally came down to God was punishing her through the Holacaust. Yes, bad things happened to her and her family, but no they weren’t God’s punishment to her. That seems almost egotistical to me. At any rate, I got tired of her extreme introspection.

The second book was a cozy mystery. I’ve enjoyed several books by this author and was surprised by this one. For nine chapters I read about the author’s background, profession, details of the field of work involved, places visited—it was an information dump. Finally, Chapter 10 introduced a body. I am not of the school that says a body is required on the first page or even in the first chapter, but I think almost a quarter of the book is extreme. I stuck with it but found even unraveling the mystery went slowly, with, again, lots of introspection.

I don’t think introspection is wrong by any means. And a book that was action only would be lightweight. We do want to get to know the characters, but we do that through their words, their attitudes, the way they interact with others, a thousand ways. We don’t have to spend pages in their minds.

Two lessons I’ll take away for my own writing involve basics: plot and character. I like to think I write character-driven fiction, but I’m also aware—and will be even more aware--of pacing, of keeping the reader’s interest. A well-known writing instructor has decreed that every scene must contribute to the whole—that may set a high standard but it’s good advice. I also believe chapters should end with a hook so that the reader can’t wait to start the next chapter.

I have a Facebook friend who was reading a book that bored her but she was determined to finish it. At one point, she posted, “Only 60 more pages.” I told her to give up, but she triumphantly soldiered through to the end. Not me. No more.

PS I see that I’ve used this title for a blog post before. Ah, old age—forgetfulness is one of the first symptom. If I repeat myself, forgive me. I guess I just feel the need to revisit the idea occasionally.

An old friend visits

My old friend, anxiety, paid me a visit over the weekend. She doesn't come very often, and this time her visit was sort of like a whisper. First she descended on me when I was at the grocery, but I'm a good faker--I visited with friends I ran into and one of my favorite checkers and drove home without incident. After lunch and a nap, she was gone.
She came again Sunday and gave me shaky hands, which I so hoped Jordan wouldn't notice as we fixed poor boy sandwiches for lunch. But she said, "Why are you so shaky?" I didn't know, had no idea. I fiddled at my desk until about 10:30, then got up and did a bunch of housework in a hurry and suddenly was shaky. Of course when someone notices, then you become self-conscious about it and get shakier than ever. A good lunch, a little wine, and a nap fixed it.
But anxiety leaves a hangover behind her. I spent much of the morning being terribly introspective: How do I feel? Am I all right? Am I anxious? By noon I went to lunch with a good friend who happened to mention another friend who has such severe anxiety attacks that he calls in desperation for someone to sit with him. I realize the value of sitting is distraction, and lunch did that for me, got me "out of myself." But I also realize that I'm lucky that anxiety's visits to me are lighter and less frequent and that I am not the only one afflicted with these unwanted visits. Anxiety tends to isolate you--you think you're the only neurotic one who experiences these visits when, in fact, it's much more common than most people realize.
In retrospect, it was a good day. And tonight I'll get some reading done if not some writing. My neighbor--the good-looking one--came over to dislodge a dead fluorescent bulb (usually I can do that) and free a corkscrew from a cork I couldn't budge--he said he figured that would be an emergency. We had a nice, front-porch visit.
I can feel the lazies leaving my and my ambition returning. Feels good.


 

Anxiety is a funny critter

Anxiety is a funny critter. It creeps up on you for no reason and blindsides you when you’re not expecting it. Then it plants itself in your mind, so if you’re not actually aware of it, you’re asking yourself, “Am I anxious? Is it going to come back?” It’s like living in a state of anticipation, even if you keep telling yourself to live in the moment.

Currently I’m having a bout with anxiety though some of the symptoms seem to be getting better. The good thing is I know this too will pass—just as that critter snuck on me, one day soon it will slink away and I will go back to feeling I can conquer the world. So I hold on to that thought.

I once told a friend that I wished I could stop being so introspective, and she replied, “Oh, that’s what I like about you.” I don’t think she understood: yes, being introspective and taking stock of yourself, analyzing your reactions to people and events, is good. Hopefully it will make you a kinder, more gentle person. But constantly taking your emotional temperature is destructive, a habit to break.

I find that days at home are long and difficult, even though I have plenty of work on my desk. I need the diversion of people, so I am grateful for lunch and dinner appointments, sometimes even doctor appointments—though I’m not looking forward to the dentist in the morning.

A more cheerful report will follow, I promise—a promise I make to those of you who read my blog but more importantly to myself. Thanks for listening. I post this in part to express myself but also because in posting before about anxiety I’ve found several of you share the problem. Maybe my words will help all of us.