The Sweetest Thing

December 6 – Make.

What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?

I made a Christmas gift this weekend. I won’t go into details about what it is so no surprises will be ruined, but it was a good experience. I thought of this idea a while ago and debated whether the effort would be appreciated by the receiver of the gift. In the end I decided it would be, partly because I think it’s a good idea, but also because I realized that I really wanted to make it. The project is something that I’m good at and enjoy doing for myself, it seemed special to share it with someone else. It took more effort than I thought it would, but I finished it with a great sense of satisfaction. I think the gift receiver, even if they don’t particularly want the gift itself, will appreciate the thought. Making versus straight buying adds something to the experience for both the giver and the getter.

If You Start Me Up

So, I'm trying this out: reverb10

I've been crazy busy recently and have missed writing. I'm hoping this will be a good way to initiate an entry or few. Plus, I love me some self-reflection.

On The Road Again

I saw an interview with Willy Nelson where someone asked if he ever played Branson, Missouri. His immediate response was, “No,” and a vigorous shake of his head. He explained that audiences were “different” there. Having visited Branson recently I think I understand Willy’s reaction.

Branson seems to be diametrically opposed to itself. On one hand it is a beautiful part of the world: leaves changing colors, clear skies, streams winding through scenic cliffs. On the other hand, it is home to some of the tackiest buildings in the world: a recreation of Titanic running into an iceberg, King Kong scaling a sky scraper, Andy William’s Moon River Grill. The attitude of Branson also seems a bit contradictory. There was blatant patriotism on display, but several of the most popular attractions are foreign. Small town charm smothered by tourist commercialism. There was a slight tension to the place that is hard to explain.

My Aunt described one of the shows as, “Dolly Parton’s version of Medieval Times.” The fact that such a sentence could exist and make sense...but, seriously, that sort of sums it up. Las Vegas in the woods. But with no booze. Then there are the audiences. Willy is, no doubt, used to laidback beer-drinking good ol’ boys. Branson features a lot of retiree Church groups who splurge on ice tea. I wasn’t miserable in Branson, but I wasn’t quite comfortable there either. Imagine the South without hospitality. Or booze.

Then again, perhaps the contradiction lies within me. I would never say I need alcohol to have a good time, but clearly I missed it. I love tackiness, patriotism, and ice tea—why am I suddenly a snob about them? Perhaps, I just prefer such things to be a little more self-aware. (Not necessarily the ice tea, but...) I like Las Vegas because Las Vegas is proudly tacky. Las Vegas managed to make marble tacky and yet shows it off with élan. Branson has wrapped itself up in Americana so tightly that it seems to have missed the fact that it no longer resembles down-to-Earth America. Even as I criticize, however, I am aware that there were many parts of my Branson trip I thoroughly enjoyed. Below the bizarre exterior, there was quality. The restaurant didn’t have a beer list, but it did have the amazing goodness that is fried green tomatoes. The show might have been in a ridiculous building and have had a ridiculous premise, but it was a good show. The Titanic museum might be in a building made to look like the ship ramming into a papier-mâché iceberg, but it is a worthwhile museum. (Trust me, just get past the front door.) So why the hesitation in saying Branson is great place to visit?

Am I just too cool for Branson? Have I wrapped myself so tightly in my chic liberal merlot-drinking ways that I can’t enjoy something that doesn't fit into my preset notions of enjoyment? I’m choosing to think, no. I had fun, I took pictures, I bought the souvenir magnet. I tried to get as much out of the vacation as I would any other place in the world. I would even go back to Branson—no, really. Now that I’m a little more prepared for what to expect, I would pack my own bottle of wine, and enjoy this different type of kitsch for what it’s worth. Even if Willy and I happen to think other places are a little more worthwhile.

Here It Goes Again

I haven’t written an entry in a while, but that’s because I’ve been a busy little bee buzzing away happily. I found my motivation. Well, that’s not entirely accurate, because I’m not sure when it got back or where it’s been (and my motivation isn’t talking). The important point is that it is back and I am enjoying the sensation.

Though I’m not sure I’ve got any insights into the mysteries of motivation, I have realized that a big boost of confidence in one area of your life will spill over into other parts of your life. My job has become challenging again, rather than just being a challenge. There are new and interesting tasks at hand and, so far, I’ve been accomplishing them well. I am meeting the challenge and being appreciated for it. At work! Who would have thought!?

Strangely enough, this has made other little bothersome things in my life seem less bothersome. I’ve already crossed a few “to do’s” off my Should List. I’ve even taken on a new personal project that could become quite complicated, but I’m going for it anyways. Perhaps, I’m just a little heady in the rush of positive emotions. Perhaps, I do thrive on stress and I just wish I was one of those laid-back gals. I’m not sure it matters, I’m just enjoying my motivation while it’s here.

Some Grief, Some Joy

I spent Labor Day at my grandparents’ house. For the past few years, various members of the family have met there to enjoy one another’s company. Somewhere along the way, we solved the logistical problems of feeding a large group of people multiple days by deciding that a different branch of the family would cook each night. Last year, the dinner assignments split naturally among my mother and her siblings. This year, we were short an uncle and his branch to prepare food. My mother, half joking, suggested that my cousin and I take up the slack and make dinner one night.

I went for it. After all, I am a wannabe foodie and I knew that my cousin has some wicked entertaining skills—we could totally take on dinner one night! I am proud of my cooking skills. I have had lots of helpful instruction from various people in my life, and have watched a lot of Food Network, but a considerable amount of my skill is the result of me experimenting on myself. While I don’t think I have a natural talent for food creation (I would never be able to come up with a dish on “Chopped”), I know the cooking basics and can work a recipe. I consider my modest cooking abilities to be an accomplishment of practice and study and am always excited by the chance to show off a little.

The problem is, I have stage fright. That’s the best way I can put it. It is very similar to public speaking for me. I can know my topic, I can practice my speech, I can feel confident in myself...until I stand up in front of people. Then, without fail, my stomach back flips, I break a sweat, and my tongue seems much larger than it did before. No matter how prepared I am for a speech, I will always be nervous while giving it. I can have a recipe down, I can have cooked it a hundred times successfully, I can know my kitchen inside and out, but as soon as someone is in the room while I’m cooking I become hugely self-conscious. As soon as someone is about to take a bite of what I’ve cooked, I am convinced it is horrible-tasting poison.

I come from a loving and supporting family. I was in no way heckled while cooking. In fact, both my cousin and aunt were extremely helpful as I eeked and oohed my way through fixing dinner (eeking and oohing being my traditional method of dealing with nerves). My Mom, who I was determined to give the night off, even tagged in for the occasional assist. It was a team dinner, no doubt, but I knew that the main dish was still my choice and my responsibility, and the thought of that nearly gave me hives. I comforted myself with the thought that we could always get pizza delivered, even as my entire family was making affirmative comments. Only after everyone had eaten, after many compliments, after two family members asked for the recipe, could I relax a little bit and believe I hadn’t poisoned my loved ones.

What I find fascinating about all of this is that I feel at the same time both the need to show off my cooking talents and the secret doubt that I’m culinary disaster waiting to happen. I both want to cook for people and am terrified to cook for people simultaneously. I know I will continue to welcome opportunities to prepare meals for others, but history tells me that I’m going to freak out a little every time I do so.

As we were eating the shrimp and pasta dish that I had prepared, my aunt noticed I wasn’t eating very much. (My entire body was clenched as I waited to see if my grandmother would keel over onto her platter.) She told me that when she entertains that she often has “cook’s mouth.” She’s spends so much time and energy making sure everything is perfect for her guests she is unable to enjoy the meal for herself.

The idea of cook’s mouth makes me feel better about my love/hate relationship with cooking for others. Perhaps that duality is just a result of caring so much about the people I’m cooking for. (I really don’t want my grandmother to keel over while eating.) Perhaps, the stage fright is just proof of how invested I am in perfecting my dish. Or, perhaps, I’m just a tad insecure.

Still, I keep cooking. I keep welcoming the opportunities to cook for others. I’ll just have to keep on managing the minor freak outs as well.

Doing Pretty Good

I have a sinus infection.

I have been congested and have had headaches, including one that went into migraine, but I thought to myself, “Stupid allergies.” I’ve also been somewhat achy (“Stupid working out.”), and keep going between feeling really hot (“Stupid Texas summer.”) and really cold (“Stupid Texas air conditioning.”). Then I was in tai chi class and was sweating buckets (“Stupid humidity.”), but tried to power through even as I felt weaker and weaker (“Stupid limbs made out of cement.”). At that point, my tai chi instructor walked over and told me to go lay down because I looked like I was about to pass out. When I got home that night, I cooled off, ate something with lots of protein, and generally rested. However, I couldn’t help but notice that I still felt light-headed. The next morning I felt the same.

Finally, I went to the doctor. I told her all about the light-headedness and the nearly passing out. Luckily, my doctor was a better detective than me and she thought to ask questions to find the other pertinent symptoms. After a very thorough examination, which included an EKG, a blood test for anemia, and a head x-ray, I got the diagnosis of a sinus infection.

Rather than feeling relieved that I didn’t have some bizarre light-headed disease, my first reaction was to be embarrassed. I had another sinus infection? Shouldn’t I know what those feel like by now? As I added up all the symptoms it seemed perfectly obvious...you know, right after somebody pointed it out to me. How could I have not realized it was a sinus infection?!

A few of my friends have been dealing with medical problems lately. I’m at least number four on the list of sinus infections, there have been a couple stomach bugs, and then there were some more serious, long-term issue diagnoses. All these problems run the gamut of corporeal existence, but I noticed a theme as I was discussing them with my various friends.

Embarrassment. Every one of my friends seemed to be embarrassed by the idea that their body was weak in some way. At least two friends used the word shame when discussing their medical condition. There was even a sense of guilt expressed.

It’s not a far leap, I suppose, for women in our society to be embarrassed by a medical hindrance. After all, we tend to spend a lot of time being self-conscious about our appearance. I suppose it all falls under that master category of “physical defect.” I know more than one woman who has trouble taking a compliment—

“Your hair looks nice!”

“I just wore it pulled back today because it’s windy outside.”

—so it’s no wonder then that we react poorly when someone actually confirms that something about our bodies is wrong. It’s as though someone announced out loud the dirty little secret we all know: our bodies aren’t perfect.

Even though this is just the universal human condition, we tend to act like it is some terrible mistake we have made. We immediately analyze our behavior to see how we brought this upon ourselves, how we could have avoided it, how others will treat us if they find out. We find we need to forgive ourselves for something we never chose to have happen to us. We find we have to account to others how this situation could have occurred.

Even for something as dumb as a sinus infection. I can’t tell you how much it bothers me that I haven’t done my laundry because I am exhausted from being sick and taking antibiotics. I feel I need to explain myself to people for the fact that I’ve been sleeping more than housekeeping. I have a good reason, really! Please, don’t judge me too harshly! Certainly, not as harshly as I tend to judge myself.

When I was in the doctor’s office, I received a reminder why I shouldn’t be so hard on myself for uncontrollable physicality. As the doctor reviewed the results from my EKG, she said, “You have a beautiful heartbeat. You work out, don’t you?” I was so surprised that I didn’t have a chance to retort with my usual, “Not as much as I should.” The fact of the matter is that I don’t feel I work out enough because I’m not losing weight. The outside part of me—the part that I’m used to feeling guilty about—seems to be pretty much same. It took an expert to point out that I do exercise regularly and that it is having a very good effect somewhere.

So I remind myself: I’m a healthy, beautiful woman who does not have medical training. It’s okay if I don’t immediately spot potential symptoms of minor illnesses. It’s not only okay, it’s normal, to occasionally be sick and tired. What is important is that I take care of myself as best I can, that I say “thank you” when someone compliments me, and that I give myself time to recover from minor illnesses before doing my laundry.

(Stupid sinus infections.)

Keep Pushin’

What is motivation?

I know what inspiration is. I remember what it feels like when a new concept enters my mind. I remember what that excitement feels like. I know what satisfaction is. I know how the certainty of completion feels as it moves in my chest. I know what frustration is. I know how it lives in the back of my throat and behind my eyes. I know how it travels in waves.

But, what is motivation?

A clever, beautiful, strong-willed woman of my acquaintance is successful at family, education, and career. If I was asked to give examples of people who have their stuff together, she’d certainly be at the top of my list. Today she suffered a setback and decried that she had lost all her motivation.

It’s been bothering me ever since. I’m not particularly worried about her as she’s the type of gal that regroups and attacks from the left if the right isn’t working. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already moved on with a well-itemized action plan to counteract the situation. What she said, however, has stuck with me.

For a long while now I’ve been struggling. “I’m having a problem with my motivation,” has been a great little sound bite for me to describe this sense of personal struggle. Yet, when I heard it come from the mouth of a woman who seems to be so—I don’t know—well-organized at life, suddenly the statement seemed…

Meaningless? Stupid? Overly-dramatic? No. It was an honest moment of frustration and I knew how she felt and I sympathized. I responded with encouragement because I wanted her to get it back. It: that mystical motivation that we apparently all know we need.

But, what is motivation?

If you peruse Merriam-Webster long enough, you will get to motive. It comes from a variation on the Latin verb that means “to move.” Literally, motivation is what makes you move.

I think it’s what’s you have when you don’t have inspiration. I think it’s why you keep moving even when it doesn’t feel wonderful to move. I think it’s what convinces us that if we keep moving, eventually it will feel wonderful, eventually we’ll get inspired again. I think it’s the metaphorical moat that keeps despair from invading.

After an unexpected and negative outcome, my friend told me she didn’t feel like moving. Oh, how I know how that feels. I guess it seemed funny coming from her because she’s not good at sitting still. She’s isn’t the type to stop moving. I guess it bothered me because I worry that I am.

Am I moving or sitting still with a lot of talk?

I suppose it’s like sanity, if you are worried that you are losing it then you must still have some left. So, I have motivation.

Anybody know where I can pick up some of that inspiration stuff?