Alone Not Lonely

Living on one's own is, at first, somewhat daunting. Widowhood presents a lifestyle that always comes in a surprising way. It's not something you can truly prepare for. You were part of a couple and suddenly, from one day to the next, there is no one walking beside you with whom to share your life. That someone, isn't replaceable, just as each human being is unique, so it is in the matter of pairing. At the beginning of your solo flight, there are countless lessons and finally you reach the altogether independent stage. You look back and wonder what you used to be. Some widows fall into the lives of their children and stay there. Others launch into a next marriage or relationship and it's like a transfer on a bus; they arrive at the same destination quite safely. Others, like me, find that they have become a different person altogether. Decisions become the sole property of one. Responsibility falls directly into one's lap and has to be dealt with by one. You. Any problems or successes are the charge of one. You. Looking at the couple world is like seeing quite another planet. And usually, it isn't one you are invited onto. As a result of your new independence, you lose the group thought mentality and begin to see life and its myriad of experiences, as something you and you alone must contend with. Of course, you consider your family and acquaintances, but in truth, the buck stops with you - sometimes literally. Grouping is a natural activity amongst living creatures. You see it in nature and you see it in mankind. Mostly, it is for protection. The single creature has to watch its back and be constantly aware while at the same time, blending in. The latter is not an easy matter as I am discovering. My new-found independence is often seen as rather threatening to those enveloped in groups. They are kind of mystified if my opinions or actions are not what the majority decides. For example, in a book club I was involved with, a change was made that put all the management of it into the hands of one person who did the business with a library and then distributed the material out to the other members. While the system worked like a machine, the choices of books were more or less controlled. The time frame for borrowing was controlled and who ran the show, was controlled. Now for most groupies, this is what they like. It takes the responsibility off their shoulders and puts it on those of someone  who loves it. But, it didn't feel good to me somehow, and politely, I informed the others that while I thought it worked well for them, sorry, I would opt out and continue to arrange my own borrowing as previously with all else remaining the same. I had never encountered a problem with my borrowing and didn't see the need for me, personally to change my method. After all, it had nothing to do with the workings of the others.  My decision, I thought, would not interfere with theirs to enter this new phase, so all was well.  I was wrong. It became evident, reading the on-line tersenesses,  that one cannot be an independent in the company of a group. It doesn't pay to be a zebra with a red stripe. While the comments were polite, it was clear that an offense had been committed in Groupiness. I had to live with the notion that groups require solidarity and to remain in the group, I  must learn to follow the group "rules" or launch out on a solo flight. I made the decision.

A Man Is A Man Is

A man's a man for a' that says Shaw and he's right. A man's a man and nothing more. There are some women who harm their own dignity by assuming that "their" man is their god. They live their lives in the shadow of a man forgetting that they, too, have worth. This is not to say that women wed to powerful men live in the shadow of his fame, but that they must constantly be aware that while their men are needful of their support, they are a person of equal human value. This kind of woman must be especially conscious of that fact as she walks beside, not behind, the person she has vowed to "love and honour". She does not obey; she cooperates. On the other hand, there are women who, sadly, change when they mate and make their lives, their man. They morph into someone else and leave all that they were gladly. And while that is an early romantic gesture, romance of that kind is relatively temporary. It's not a cynical outlook, it is simply a truth. Romance is replaced when it fades, by all sorts of other wonderful things but, it is always dangerous to make one's life solely that of another's. First of all, it would be devastating due to a loss of that individual. It means trying to find oneself amidst a morass of what was and not was is or what should be. Over and over again, divorcees, widows and those "broken-up" with a man, are left bereft even if they are the ones who decided to leave the relationship. It seems that the nature of woman in most cases, is to give, to serve and to go beyond caring and almost disappear themselves in their love for another.  I have widow friends who tell me they have lost not only their man, but themselves: "I was one of a couple and now my friends have gone. Who am I?" Somewhere along the way in their lives, they have submerged their own ids into that of their partner's, and in doing so, have lost who they are. Finding that lost personality takes a good deal of time and effort. Sometimes it is overwhelming, but the you that is you, never quite disappears entirely. It's a bit like tea. While tea leaves look unidentifiable as what were once leaves, put a little water on them and they return. In their way. It takes steeping and perhaps that's what these woman have to do. Add a little time and a lot of thought and the lost can and will be found once again. It's too bad, though, that often bonding in marriage or a partnership we  disappear into the other and gradually forget and lose who we are as  individuals. It seems to me that those who retain their own self rather than sinking it into someone else entirely, might also be more interesting people. Growth can still occur while keeping who you are and expressing that worthy person, even though engaging in a union of two.  The union means the addition of another to your life experience, not leaving what you were behind, but melding the newness of this person to you so that you have the joy of a committed companion along on your life's journey.

Silence Is Gilt

The saying "silence is golden" is untrue. Getting out there what you mean, is truth and that's what you need to know. Having escaped from a situation during which I thought silence was golden, I realize that silence is dangerous. For years, I held on to my concept of a scenario because I thought that bringing doubts out to bear might jeopardize my position. I held on thinking that it was the safest way to go about matters. And even when, more and more, it became clear that something was not fitting my idea of the thing, I clung to the belief that if I simply didn't speak my mind, all would work itself out. It took a long time and much angst to come to the unhappy conclusion that where I was, was where I shouldn't be. I was being consumed by an illusion. Finally, I ended the association and took  time to develop distance from it so that I could assess what it all was and what had been going on for many years. Why did it take that long? How many of us do this and how many wait until it is too late to make the changes that are self-benefitting? First, we have to take care of ourselves before we can be whole. Second, human nature fears change. Once we become involved with something that shows promise, we cling to it thinking, "oh well, things will get better, therefore, I will hang on". What we forget, is that the clock doesn't stop ticking while we wait patiently for something that is not going to happen. In my case, it was a relatively minor event to rid myself of, but for some, the rift is cataclysmic and the ending of what is already bad, becomes tragic. Silence is not golden. The way we have to approach all doubtful associations, is to speak out and to speak truth. Demand it of yourself and of others. Constantly sweeping doubts and concerns under a carpet and expecting they will disappear is fruitless. They simply build up. Fear is the enemy, fear of speaking out because it could destroy the bond, needs to be discarded. Fearing to speak ends only with your holding of what you believe to be the right interpretation, without considering what someone else has in mind is bad business all 'round. It is so comfortable to make excuses for another and convert the truth with your colouring of it, rather than face truth, what might clash with your ideas of it. It's called self-disillusionment. You kid yourself because it feels so much better. So, okay, say you are brave enough to speak your mind and it blows up in your face. Or not. But if it does turn out badly, you have learned something, a harsh lesson, but one that could save you a lot of time that you can spend on other developments instead of wasting time on the unhappy mess you just left. Instead of grieving, you should be celebrating! Starting all over again, isn't all that bad. Give yourself a space to consider what you've learned and promise yourself, you will, from that moment on, forget silence and ask the questions that shouldn't be kept on that proverbial back burner. Better to find pure gold than scrape later on to see that the glow is mere dross.

Picture Perfect

Rooms in magazines are picture perfect. There is a high fashion mag that besides skin and bone models in impossible clothing, features the rooms of  rich people. The filthy rich, not just the ordinary ones. None of the pages are festooned with other than the subject, of course, adorned in designer garb on a well-toned, personally trained body draped on the shining accoutrements. The rooms are either sparse in glass and steel, all whites and greys with slashes of hot coloured oils on the walls above the white leather or they are draped in antique textiles hundreds of years old, in riots of exotic and faded but studied intone shades. Now, that is all well and good since few of us could or would endure the prices of the attire or the furnishings that run well into the thousands, if not more, but what are we mere commoners looking at? Do these jet setters live in the surroundings we see? Do they put their feet up on the gold elephant coffee table, drink in hand, to watch a game on TV? Likely not, since a high moment of cheering for the team, might cause a spill on that four hundred year old piece of delicacy or worse still, onto that hand-knotted Egyptian silk carpet of yore. And the kitchens are not for cooking. I don't see the holder with spoons, tongs and ladles hanging out anywhere, and with all of those ovens and fridges, where is the towel rack and pot holder? The sinks are wonderful and taps, oh my, such taps: even ones right over the stove so the cook doesn't have to walk over to the sink to fill up the pasta pot.  The counters are so gorgeous you'd never think of disgracing them with a lump of dough or a blob of batter. But when we leave the kitchen and head on down to the bedroom, yep, there is the closet. There are five pairs of immaculate shoes, all designer, and even the jazzed-up runners are spotless. The clothes are hung with actual air space between each en tone suit, an unheard-of luxury amongst  people I know. The bed has never been slept in obviously due to its pristine ironed appearance, and the number of pillows would stun even Cleopatra. What do these people do with  twenty different pillows when it's time to go to bed? Then there is the bathroom. No one in this house brushes their teeth apparently, for there is no air-dry holder visible and used toothpaste tubes? Not to be seen in fashion homes. The jars are all crystal of course and there are so few, that I can't imagine the residents rushing around in the morning getting ready for work with Chanel and Gucci perfumes only. The bathtubs are enormous and must take three tanks of hot water and an hour to fill. The floors are marble of course, nice for skating when wet.  But no one is wearing a cast, so they must good at it, when exiting the swimming pool of a tub. Nothing looks used. It's all without spot. In fact, I suspect that no one lives in this photo perfect wing but that somewhere in this ivy covered mansion, there is a cramped, cosy spot where one can put feet up on the couch, loll back in a tacky bathrobe with the family dog and drink hot chocolate, mug in hand to see Casablanca for the fourteenth time and shed tears on a pile of old threadbare cushions.

Not Dead Yet

On the job in a brand new location, during what is called "my middle age", I was fellow employee to a number of beginning educators. Fresh out of their own schoolings, they considered that their learning was superior to that of the more experienced because their sparkling new degrees outshone those of we more tired looking individuals who had "been through the mill". Our experience of some ten to fifteen years in the game, didn't seem to hack it with these folks. We were considered "over the hill" and although there was cooperation and companionship amongst the staff, it was evident that the younger breed of cat felt themselves far more apt. And they certainly did have all the energy and enthusiasm that they were due. It required patience during meetings at which the fresh young things were verbal about their innovative ideas and suggestions. To those of us who were beyond that "hill" and had come down safely to the other side, it was another go on the merry-go-round and patience was greatly required. Some of us were just in our forties, but were given certain "easy" tasks while the younger staff jumped about doing what they loved. They were "one of the kids" and their popularity was heady stuff. Time went on and time is a great teacher. Energy and enthusiasm are good things but they don't always have that lasting quality when the chips are down. The chips are the things that rip off when times are rough on the job and "tough" is needed in order to survive. What our fellow newbies learned was that they had to pace themselves and take time to assess each situation and learn from it whether it turned out well or not. It's called "rolling with the punches". It's a big lesson and not always a happy one. As the years progressed, most of our young colleagues came through successfully and were able to greet their new faculty with all the patience and understanding that we, the old and gold members, had learned over the years. What always surprises me is when the young and fresh talk about their being The New Generation. One day after listening to someone in that category speak of "Your Generation" and comparing it to his, I reminded him that I was not dead yet and that I used a computer and all of the other devices if that was what he was speaking of, and that apart from not doing "shooters" at the bar, I was still alive and participating fully as a member of this generation. Most of the latest inventions that we use are off-springs of former ones and those that are not, other than such as Facebook et al, have been the products of persons older than twentyish. That fact should be considered by those just starting out. I recall someone once in her twenties, who said to a respected and venerable fellow staff member : "I read research that proves workers after their seventh year, enter a period of steady decline." The elder and wiser person, smiled and nodded. I, sadly, was the speaker and later when I became a contributing staff member of more than seven years, often blushed recalling that thoughtless comment.

I'm So Smart

The world's most intolerable bore is the individual who may or may not have the numbers to prove how "smart" he is but who works hard at bragging about it endlessly. As an educator, I have learned that IQ figures don't mean much in terms of real meaning. They are like sharp knives on the kitchen counter of someone who doesn't cook. Unless they are used, the bearer just can't cut it. In my working days, I came across both students and fellow workers who openly bragged about their intellects. Some spoke of their degrees and awards, others, of their pedigree in universities and yet others in terms of their illustrious friends, successful acquaintances and fraternity brethren or sisters. To me, that sort of snobbery is akin to lauding over how many pairs of shoes one owns or how many carats are in their diamonds. The folk whom I most respect are those who actually use their education, not that the formal kind means a lot, and brains to create something that has value for his or her fellow kind. Those who use their natural talents to form what has meaning and purpose as well as beauty of its kind, are those who are truly the "smartest". Take my plumber or mechanic, for example. If I were so darn smart, why can't I change a tire, fix a tranny or cure that interminable drip in bathroom tub. Do I know how to survive living on the sidewalk during the winter like street people? Can I solo sail a ship across the Atlantic? Could I survive a tsunami or an insurrection or a huge personal loss without falling apart? To me, that's what calls for admiration. These are the people who have to be smart. They survived. The sillies who are constantly sending each other catchy little puzzles on line or strutting down hallways with their degrees hanging out or ogre-ing scores of employees about, don't buy my respect. They are the ones so sadly insecure about their intelligence and have failed to produce any kind of evidence  to show what they have done with their imagined brilliance. Their claim to fame is to tell all and sundry that they achieved such and such a score on their IQ tests (whatever significance that might have) but fail to continue on to what they have done with that stunning fact. In the truly gifted, this information is given by others since the latter are too busy reeling out their contributions to society. In The Blue Book, the rich come up with the highest IQ rates. Go figure. When you can afford the best schools, the most educative life ( it costs money) and all the right connections available, of course you are going to be rated "most successful". I think back to valedictorians from high schools. How many among them became highly successful in their lives?  Few, in fact. It proves that being the most popular kid or the prettiest or the best sport's player doesn't necessarily add up to being the most productive to society just as the highest IQ doesn't mean the smartest kid on the block. It's a matter of show, not tell!