The lies we tell…

Have you ever caught yourself telling a lie – to yourself? The lies we tell ourselves are recognizable, and insidious, because they are heard in our own voice, but with a mean edge to it that makes us feel badly about ourselves.  This is our Liar Voice and when it is speaking to us it is helpful to be able to identify it as such.

For instance, do you have a blouse or shirt in a drawer or a pair of jeans in your closet that you can’t wear, but you keep because some day you’ll be able to squeeze your body back into them?  Nothing wrong with having a goal and if looking at a pair of too small jeans motivates you to take better care of yourself, then there’s no harm done.  But if every time you look at those jeans or that top and you hear a voice berating you for not being able to wear them, that’s your Liar Voice.   And until you are able to dismiss that loud, rude voice that tries to make you feel bad, you might be better served tossing those clothes out.  Besides, when you do get to wear those jeans I think you deserve a cool, new pair.  Don’t you?

Here’s another lie I often catch myself perpetrating:  I’ll put those files, mail, books away later.  Even though eventually I get around to putting whatever it is in its appropriate place, I know that wherever I set it down is where it will remain, likely until company is coming for a visit.  If I hear my Liar Voice when I profess that I will do it later, then I’m much more likely to put whatever is in my hand wherever it belongs right then.  Task completed and I won’t have to run around like an Olympic speed skater trying to clear the clutter before someone shows up at my door.

Sometimes our Liar Voice tells us things that we should never believe. We should discount anything that voice says that begins with:

“I am too fat, too old, too poor….” or “I am not good enough, smart enough, thin, rich, free enough….”

These are the most dangerous and harmful of all the things our Liar Voice tells us and we must remain vigilant in silencing these lies.  I find a chant from childhood helpful in quieting this kind of destructive chatter.  When I hear that nasty, mean voice saying negative things about me, with great belligerence, I repeat,  “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

Not even my Liar Voice has a good comeback for that!

Posted in As I see it, Health and Well Being | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Tips for Surviving the Cold

I am so ready for spring.  I thought the last twelve+ inch snow was the final blow, but then the winds starting blowing making going outside out of the question. It got so cold I had to work to stay warm even when inside.  Out of necessity, I came up with some workable solutions.  If you too are struggling to find warmth these days here are some suggestions.

One of the easiest methods is hot baths, which are always good. I spend a lot of time in hot water, both figuratively and literally, and find prune-like skin is a small price to pay for thawed limbs and digits.

There are a variety of foot, hand, neck and seat warmers on the market that can be heated in the microwave. I suggest getting several of these and duct taping them to your body whenever you must go outside. Oh, sure they may create unsightly bulges, but who really cares what you look like as long as you are warm.

If you don’t want to wear bulky heaters, then you can always don several layers of clothing. I have found six to be a good number. Of course, with that many clothes on, if I fall down, I am completely helpless to get back up. So if you see me on my back in the snow, I am not making snow angels, but rather have accidentally tipped over and could use some assistance.

Experts say 90 percent of our body’s heat escapes from our heads, so I suggest wearing live animals on your head for added warmth.  Of course, this could increase static electricity, which is already an inherent problem during the winter because it wreaks havoc on clothing and hairdos.

Lately I look as though I am using a fully inflated balloon as a hair-grooming tool, and wearing anything other than cotton means clothing sticks to my body like a second layer of skin.  While dining out with friends the other night, I removed my jacket only to find the sock I thought I lost in the dryer hitching a ride on the back of my shirt. Who knows where the sweat pants I assume had been abducted by dryer aliens have ended up.

But there are advantages to the cold weather. After all, freezing is a way to preserve things, right?  So maybe this cold weather will inhibit the aging process.  Come spring, maybe we all will appear younger.

It can’t hurt to hope, can it?

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Pondering time

When I was young I remember my parents and their friends talking about how it felt as though time was speeding up.  I had no idea what they meant.  Now that I am about the age they were then, I get it.

Almost every day I find myself wondering where has the time gone?  No, really, where did it go?  And for that matter, from where does it come?  We have all kinds of timepieces – watches, clocks, computers, phones, even the sun – that track the passage of time, but what is it and where is it going so fast?

We say time flies, but it can also crawl.  Remember when you were young and waiting to unwrap your Christmas presents?  Time teased you by barely moving at all.  Then in college when cramming for finals, it blew by at the speed of light.  So how can that be?  Where is the big Universal clock that keeps changing how we perceive and experience time?

Even though we “have time on our hands” we can’t put our finger on exactly what it is.  We can’t hold it, but it can heal us. We can’t see it, but we notice the results of its passing in our faces and we feel it in our bones.  We can take our time and we can give our time, but we can also waste it, invest it and spend it, and it feels as though, these days, there is not nearly enough of it.

Our calendars fill quickly, our schedules overflow and before we realize it we have booked ourselves solid with little time for anything or anyone, not even ourselves.  And that’s when we need to stop and realize that this illusive thing we call time is really all we have.

You may have heard the story about The Dash, which is really a story about time.  That little dash on tombstones separating the dates of our entrance and our exit from this earth represents how we spend the time we have been given.  The dash is our lifetime and it’s a good reminder that time is whatever we make of it.

That dash symbolizes the most precious commodity we have and the one thing we may eventually regret not offering when we no longer have the opportunity to share it.  To freely give some time to a friend, a loved one, someone in need, or even to ourselves, is a priceless gift, but we get so full of to-do lists and appointments and everything else that we forget to simply make time for those we love.

Maybe it has been awhile since you shared a leisurely lunch with a dear friend.  Remember how sharing that time felt so full and rich.  How, with time, the conversation wove a tapestry of laughter, of meaning, of love.  To make the time and share the time with someone for no reason other than you wish to be in his or her company is one of life’s great gifts and experiences.  It’s food for our souls.

Even if you only have the time for a phone call, make it.  At least that’s more than an idle click on a “Like” button.  At least you are giving something that only you have to give – a little bit of that dash.

With time I now have a better understanding of what my parents and their peers were talking about when they lamented the speed with which it was passing for them.  I now want to make it a priority to not miss an opportunity to clear some space, make some time, and invest something real and worthwhile in the people I care about.

After all, the important thing to remember about time is, we really have no idea how much of it we have left.

Posted in As I see it, Health and Well Being | 2 Comments

Loss of Innocence

Many of us are remembering where we were 50 years ago today.

For all of us who were old enough to have even a vague idea of the events of Nov. 22, 1963 we can no doubt vividly recall where we were when we heard that President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated.

I was in the sixth grade at Maple Hill Grade School at the time.  We were in P.E. when our regular classroom teacher, Mrs. Balon, came into the gym and gathered us all up.  We could tell by the pained expression on her face that something was wrong, but she only told us to return to our classroom — to not change or shower, but to go directly back to class.  We exchanged puzzled looks as we quietly walked down the hall and through the classroom door.  Mrs. Balon closed the door behind us and told us to pray.  Then she turned and left before telling us for what we should pray, or why we were to do so.

In 1963 we were still in what was known as the “Cold War” and having spent many “Atomic Bomb Drills” where we were told to hunker down under our desks for safety, we were naturally fearful as well as understandably suspicious.  I believe those drills were the beginning of my generation’s long mistrust of authority.  It’s difficult to trust any adult who tries to convince you that the same desk that tipped over if you put your geography book and dictionary on the same side would somehow protect you from atomic annihilation!

So, most of us in that sixth grade classroom assumed that the Cold War had suddenly heated up and we were minutes away from being blown to bits by Russia.  I’m not sure why we thought that Russia was targeting Maple Hill Grade School, but at that moment most of us believed we would soon die – in our ugly white gym uniforms!  But regardless of our attire, in our last moments we did what we were told and silently bowed our heads and began reciting any and every prayer we could recall.

When Mrs. Balon returned, obviously holding back tears, she told us the President had been shot and that school was being dismissed.  I couldn’t wait to get out of that building, and that gym outfit, and return home where I hoped I might once again feel safe.

Feelings of safety were difficult to come by for a long time after that.  Stores closed, no one really left their homes and televisions and radios broadcast news of the assassination all day, every day.  I was among those watching the broadcast of Lee Harvey Oswald being transferred beneath the Dallas prison when Jack Ruby stepped out of the crowd and shot him.  I had never seen a real person shot before and I sat stunned, not believing what I had just witnessed.

If I were asked when I lost my childhood innocence it wouldn’t be when I learned there was no Easter Bunny, or even when my best friend, Buster the dog, died.  I, and most of my generation, lost our innocence 50 years ago today when we learned the harsh reality that sometimes, for no good reason, bad things can happen that turn your world upside down.  Not even our parents could make sense of any of it for us.  All they could do was try to assure us that we really were safe, all the while unable to convince us that they felt so themselves.

That was my first experience learning how to live with the questions, with the fragility of life.  If this could happen to the President, if this could happen in our country, what else might be waiting?  What else might go wrong?  Would things ever be the same?  Would I be the same?  We had to learn to live with the unknown and the fact that even if we did discover the answers we likely wouldn’t like them much.

We could have stayed in that place; that place of fear, bewilderment, distrust.  But, although our world, our childhood world where our parents could make it all better, where the adults knew what they were doing, where we would always be protected and held safely, was shattered, we eventually moved back into the world.  Maybe we were more wary, more wise and maybe we mourned the loss of innocence, but we went back out into the world.

We still live with questions about safety and trust but we have had to find solace in the fact the answer may be nothing more than to do our best to simply live, despite it all.

Posted in As I see it, Transitions | Tagged , , , , , | 6 Comments

It happened again

          This time it was bombs going off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  As I write this, those responsible for this unbelievable act of cowardice and cruelty have not been identified.  I hope they are soon to be found and the journey to some kind of justice has begun.

            But what is justice in incidents like this?  Nothing can bring back those who were killed or restore those whose lives were changed forever.  No amount of legal maneuvering can heal the emotional wounds of those who witnessed the fear and carnage created by this act.  Lives have been permanently altered.  Even those of us half a continent away, have been affected.

            At times like this our differences matter little. We are one as members of the human species.  Yet, in that feeling of unity and commonality, we must face that one of us, one or more fellow human beings, could somehow perpetrate this unfathomable act.

            But, instead of focusing on the twisted virus that committed this act of evil cruelty, I prefer to focus on the many acts of heroism, help and kindness that followed. Medical, fire and police personnel, even racers and other spectators ran toward the blasts and those injured, giving little thought to the fact that they could have been running into the face of danger.  And many of those who were hurriedly scurried away from the crime scene showed up at Boston hospitals offering to donate blood for the victims.

            After Google set up a page to help people locate loved ones, it was flooded with offers of help, of home, of hearts breaking open with the desire to reach out, to come together, to restore whatever semblance of oneness that remained.

            We can’t let those who wish to fracture our freedom and suppress our sense of safety win.  They may succeed in doing that temporarily.  But what they can’t ever take from us is our compassion and love for one another.  If that is the hope of those who wish to terrorize us, then maybe those images of people running into the smoke and danger to help strangers offers some small piece of justice.

            We will never forget the horror of this cowardly act, but let’s also never forget the bravery and love that followed it.

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Indeed we have come a long way…

There is a lot of basketball going on these days.  This time of year is a basketball lover’s dream.  And Kansas is being well represented with the University of Kansas and Wichita State University men’s teams both in the Sweet 16.  But those are not the only teams having a successful post-regular season run.  Kansas State University women’s team is doing great in the NIT and KU is experiencing an amazing run through the NCAA by also making it to the Sweet 16 on the women’s side.

As someone who played college sports back in the early days I could not be more proud of the way women’s sports have blossomed since the passing of Title IX in 1972.  This was the landmark legislation which prohibited sex discrimination in educational programs or activities receiving federal financial aid.

I played basketball and softball at the University of Kansas before Title IX and can assure you it was sorely needed.  Before that the NCAA didn’t  recognize women’s athletics and few colleges had women’s programs.  However, Kansas and Kansas State were two that did and that was because of coaches like Marlene Mawson of KU and Judy Akers of Kansas State.

These women believed we deserved the opportunity to play athletics despite facing some incredible odds in establishing programs at their respective schools.  They had little or no funding, they weren’t even paid for their coaching duties in those early years and they received little respect from the administrations or those leading the men’s programs. 

One event stands out as a shining example of how little regard women athletes received from our male counterparts.  In the middle of a game between Kansas and Kansas State the then men’s basketball coach, Jack Hartman, walked out on the court and told us to get off because the men needed to practice.  Well, that didn’t sit very well with our coaches, who after a short discussion on the sidelines, walked out to mid-court to have a chat with Hartman. 

I will never forget the image of those two opposing coaches standing shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed, telling the venerable Hartman that we would not be vacating the court for a men’s practice, since we were in the middle of a game and had reserved that time.  Much arm waving and spirited discussion followed, but Mawson and Akers maintained their solidarity and held their ground.  Finally a red-faced Hartman stomped off the court and our coaches turned to us, two groups of very confused and slightly frightened young women, and told us to get back out there and finish our game.  Which we did — in the dark. You see, Hartman, failing to convince our coaches that we should stop, turned out all the lights.

The most ironic piece of this story is that in 1996, twenty-four years after Title IX was enacted, Jack Hartman coached the final seven games for the Kansas State women’s basketball team.  And he did so with the lights on.

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Following footprints in the snow

The winter storms of the last couple of weeks are finally becoming little more than a memory now that March has arrived. But, I admit the words “Snow Day” can still make me feel like a kid again. Do you remember waiting, waiting…waiting to hear that your school was closed on snowy days? As soon as that was announced I couldn’t wait to pull on my warmest coat, boots, hat and mittens and run outside to build snow people and sled down the slope in our front yard.

The day would not be so filled with carefree fun for my father, however. He still had to go out and milk May, our Jersey milk cow, feed the cattle and make sure all of the rest of the animals were safe and tended. Sometimes I would tag along, trying my best to stretch my gait enough for my feet to reach my father’s footsteps in the snow. For me, shadowing my dad was as much fun as flinging myself down a hill on my trusty Western Flyer. For him, it was just another work day, only colder, wetter and with a lot more snow.

These days I prefer to spend my Snow Days inside with a cup of hot chocolate, a toasty fire going and a good book. With plenty of firewood carried in, book in hand, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies nearby and the snow building up outside, I quickly relaxed into not having a set schedule and doing pretty much whatever I wanted. I even enjoyed the first few times I had to shovel my walkways. It was, after all, a good way to burn off those cookies. But by the third day I was so bored I cleaned the house and did my taxes. Things were obviously deteriorating quickly.

Cabin Fever had a grip on me and the best cure I could think of was taking my dog Sam out for a walk. Without consciously planning to do so we ended up wandering along the same path that I had once walked with my dad out to milk May. I never know when memories of growing up here will be triggered. My parents were so much a part of this place that their absence has become a presence. Sometimes I bump into them when I run across an object from my childhood, like a toy or tool. Sometimes it’s as simple as touching a hand-turned candle holder my father made in his shop or looking at one of my mother’s plants that somehow has managed to remain alive despite my not inheriting my her green thumb.

And sometimes it’s a Snow Day and I find my father’s footsteps still leading me through the deepness.

Posted in Farm Report, Nature | Tagged , | 5 Comments