Contemplating 300

One of the great things WordPress does is keeps stats for its users. I can always click on my stats page to see how many people have visited Jenion on any given day (or ever), how many comments have been shared, etc. When I posted Flashback Friday last week, I happened to note another statistic that really got me thinking: it was post #299 since the inception of this blog. Which means that this very post you are reading is #300.

Three hundred posts later, what thoughts can I share about this blog or the experience of blogging? To say that it has been a life-altering experience may, on the face of it, seem dramatic. However, it is no more than the truth. So, below, are my reflections on what I have learned from maintaining Jenion.

What I’ve learned about form:

There are many ways bloggers try to appeal to their readers: photos, catchy catchphrases, polls, weekly/daily features. When I (briefly) experimented with daily blogs, I tried some of these. What I discovered was that sometimes they were just too gimmicky. I attempted a Triple Word Tuesday – but let’s face it, I’m not good with brief and pithy. What works best for me are posts that reflect my personality – which isn’t stylish or trendy, or the blogging equivalent of cheerleading.
That said, it doesn’t pay to be too rigid in style. You end up boring yourself, not to mention anyone kind enough to regularly read what you post.
It is way more difficult to write funny than to be funny. In life, being funny just happens sometimes. In writing, it rarely ever happens without forethought and rewrites.

What I’ve learned about content:

I used to think that people weren’t interested in what I had to say. That no one ever listened to me carefully enough to understand me. The unexpected truth I’ve learned over the course of 300 blog posts is that people can’t listen to what you’re not saying. As an introvert, I wanted others to intuit what I was feeling, based on my minimalist approach to conversation. That doesn’t work interpersonally, and it definitely isn’t a successful blogging technique. However, when you speak up, and what you share is authentic, other people will connect with it. They will want to talk about it, offer support and encouragement. They will respond in big ways and small, and in so doing enrich your life.
Saying what you mean isn’t as easy as you expect it to be. Sometimes, this is caused by a lack of skill or facility with the language. Other times, your self-censor prohibits direct expression. In either case, it can be frustrating to have something unique and nuanced to say, only to find yourself mired in trite platitudes. (True, Molly?!)
Despite my best efforts, I’ve learned that, no matter how “transparent” I hope to be, I always hold some things back. Even those of us who have a propensity to shout publicly what others would, with difficulty, only whisper to themselves have our limits. Even we have our secrets and hidden places into which we prefer not to invite the light of blogger’s day. The extent to which I am willing to uncover these in my writing, though, determines the extent to which others connect with what I say. Apparently, the things we don’t talk about are the things we have most in common with others.

What I’ve learned about myself:

I love writing. Ok, I actually knew this before I created Jenion. But I had mostly forgotten how much. I’d forgotten the joy of crafting a sentence or paragraph. Of finding just the right word to express a moment or sensation. I love editing and paring back and even, on occasion, scrapping the whole thing and going back to a blank page.
What I didn’t know before this blog was that I also love readers. The format of a blog makes it less nerve-wracking, in some ways, to put what you’ve written in front of others. You just press a little button that says “Publish”. Not scary at all. But then the most amazing thing happens: someone reads what you’ve written and comments. Or not – but a year later sees you in line at the grocery store and says, “I love your blog, I can’t wait for Thursday every week!”. Or cuts your hair and says, “What the hell happened to Flashback Friday?” Every now and then, someone says, “I didn’t know anyone else ever felt that way.” And suddenly, the writing that you’ve always loved becomes something that brings you into dialogue with the world and people around you. It is no longer an endeavor by and for yourself.
For perhaps the first time in my life I truly understand the concept of humility. Yes, I am proud of my blog. Yes, I have enough ego to hope others like to read what I’ve written. But I have never felt so acutely that something bigger than myself is at work. In writing about my own experiences, feelings, journey I sometimes receive the gift of touching someone else’s hurts or struggles in a helpful or healing way. And while that makes me happy, I am completely conscious that it isn’t my doing.

Three hundred posts. When I began, I was engaging in a challenge which had me committed to the blog from Thanksgiving to Easter. 18 weeks. I wasn’t sure how I would fill the pages for that length of time. It wasn’t long before I realized that something unlooked for was happening. I had found a way to open up my closed life and let in some fresh air. Seems like a contradiction, like writing these reflections is a way to let things out rather than bring things in. But that paradox is at the heart of why blogging has been life-altering: as soon as you let something out in words, you create room for new things to rush in. New people, new experiences, new words and many new observations to share.

(Note: Do not be concerned: I will publish Sisterhood, Part II next time. I just couldn’t pass on the opportunity to celebrate my 300th post!)

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Flashback Friday: Pixies

This week I uploaded a current photo of myself to Facebook. A lot of people have been commenting on my short hair – its been a long time, but I have periodically gone short, as can be seen in this photo! In the winter of 1968 my mother gave Chris and I (I am the shorter of the two, above) pixie cuts. Pixies were all the rage in 1968, popularized by models and film stars with names like Twiggy.

Mom had an ulterior motive (in addition to being “on trend”): in the winter, we were notoriously bad about brushing our long hair. With turtlenecks, scarves, winter coats and hats, we would develop huge snarled rat’s nests in our hair at the back. It would take hours and many tears for mom to untangle these globs of snarled hair. Pixies=problem solved!

Sisterhood: Part I

I’ve participated in a few events recently that have got me thinking about the concept of “sisterhood”. The first of these was a gala supporting a local agency that I attended with several of my close women friends. The second was the Especially For You Breast Cancer Walk on Sunday, at which I was one of 16,000 people in a sea of purple celebrating life, hope and healing. The third was the House of Hope annual banquet, an event which every year reveals something new to me about the ways women can support and heal one another. There is so much I want to say on this subject, yet it’s difficult to start anywhere other than with the place my original ideas about sisterhood were formed: within my own family.

I have three biological sisters: Chris, Gwen and Anne. Growing up, we didn’t remember from day to day (or sometimes from minute to minute) that we loved each other, but we did so fiercely. Some people say their sisters are their best friends, but I’ve never understood that – my sisters are my SISTERS. That means something different. It just does. I don’t talk to them every day, I don’t necessarily go to them with my hurts and disappointments, the way I go to my women friends. All the same, my sisters are like my appendages. I could probably survive without one of them, but I wouldn’t want to try. It would require a complete adjustment to the way I do everything in my life. A complete adjustment to my sense of self.

Through high school, my sister Chris and I shared a room. For many years, we shared a double bed. (Which totally sucked for her because I was a bedwetter.) We shared school, clubs, friends, spiritual awakening. We did not share any of these easily. There was jealousy, impatience, anger, frustration. Of all the people in my life, ever, the person who has had the harshest words from me is Chris. Thankfully, not recently. Big sisters: can’t live with them, but eventually you grow up and live separately. And that’s when you discover you need them.

Gwen was born just before my grandmother, Rose, passed away. Grandma always wanted a blond, blue-eyed grandchild and Gwen was both. Gwen was the sun to my gloomy cloud of teenage angst. I was always depressed and maudlin, Gwen never was. Her laughter has always been the most infectious I know. Her kids are funny and both look like her too, though completely different from one another. They are like the flip sides of Gwen’s personality – funny snarky (Hallie) and funny sweet (Atalie). Like all of us, Gwen has faced challenges, and though she sometimes expresses frustration, sadness or even a little depression now and then, her sense of humor and her optimism remain intact.

Annie was my sweet little girl. She was so tender-hearted as a little one, caring for pets and stray animals (and, if no living specimens were available, stuffed animals) that we expected her to become a vet. Surprise! Anne turned out to be the nomadic adventurer of the family. For many years, now, sightings of Anne have been few and far between. She might be in the South Pacific, or South Africa, or sailing on a tall ship. Or filming a reality show in Los Angeles. Seriously, this woman could do anything she puts her mind to, and has proven that as an artist, pastry chef, ship’s cook, sound technician, letter press operator, television and film cameraperson and producer. She can still be sweet and tender, but is more often acerbic.

My sisters and I could not be more different from each other. The outward trappings of our lives are completely disparate. Our religious and spiritual beliefs and our politics run the gamut (trust me – Anne and Chris are pretty much polar opposites in these). Since my sisters have different last names, a casual acquaintance who happened to meet each of us at different events might never put us together as relatives. However, get us in the same room and it won’t be long before everyone figures it out. The laughter will give it away. Then, if you watched us interact, a certain “Aha!” would come as you realized there are deeper similarities than you first recognized.

My friendships with other women ground my days and allow me to feel connected to people and things outside myself. My sisters, on the other hand, help me to feel connected to myself. Connected through genetics and physical resemblances, through personality traits, relational styles and oddball quirks. The confluence of these traits is so intermingled, there’s not really any separating out the genetic from the “nurtured” qualities. It is just a fact that we share both surface and deep similarities. Sometimes when we talk, we lament our shared struggles (with control issues, with poor self-discipline, with rooting out our inner martyrs). Other times, we just laugh and enjoy the sense of home that is created when we’re together, even if only by telephone.

My sisters are not only smart, they’re thoughtful about themselves and their lives. Reflective. What I’ve learned from them hasn’t been overt. Its more like osmosis – their wisdom and their positive qualities surround me and I absorb them as much as the boundaries of myself will allow them to permeate. Sisters – both the word and the experience mean something qualitatively different from “friends”. Not necessarily better, but more elemental.

In August, my college roommate visited for a couple of hours as she was passing through town. One of her sisters passed away recently and we sat in the warm sun, crying together as we talked of it. My sorrow for her loss was informed by my knowledge that I could not fathom the depth of her grief nor would I, if it were me, bear it well. It was tinged with an inner sense of relief that I haven’t needed to find out how to do it. Relief, followed by a gratitude so immense that it defies description. If I ever question whether I am beloved of God, I don’t have far to look to confirm that I am. I have three wonderful, complex, lovely sisters who have enriched my life and helped to make me the woman I am.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

OK, I know most of you saw my sassy red shoes on Facebook earlier this week. But this was a rough week in a variety of ways, and I have been stressed. I just didn’t want to do a weigh-in this morning. I am not down, not upset about my weight – mostly I just want to let it be this week and breathe. When my alarm went off this morning, and I was still half asleep, I had this visualization of the remaining weight I want to lose just lifting from my body and floating away. That’s the vision I’ll carry with me until I weigh in next Thursday!

Flashback Friday: House Proud

OUR GROOVY ROOM!

Yesterday’s post was all about learning to live with and embrace a little mess (or a lot, truthfully) in life. So I decided to show the flip side today: I can be every bit as house-proud as the next person! In this photo, my sister Chris and I show off our new room in the new house in Hastings, Minnesota. The whole house was pretty groovy, but we got to select the yellow and orange mixed shag carpet, which set the tone for the whole space. I’m not sure how we slept at night with the glow from all the yellow, but we somehow managed. And we loved it. (Gwen and Annie shared a two-tone pink room with a Holly Hobby theme; Matt and Jeff shared a patriotic red, white and blue room, decorated with Jeff’s model rockets). What can I say? It was the early 1970s and we were livin’ the dream!

In praise of the mess

There are these seemingly strange coincidences which happen in life. You hear about a random thing, like the artwork of Ursus Wehrli, and suddenly the name and his work are everywhere: on your cousin’s facebook page, in “Freshly Pressed” on WordPress, at Juxtapoz.com. (To see his work, go to http://www.juxtapoz.com/Current/the-art-of-clean-up-by-ursus-wehrli) Wehrli, for those who haven’t been running across him almost daily for the past week, is an artist whose work is obsessed with bringing order to what normally appears random or chaotic. I admit to looking at his work (a photograph of alphabet soup followed by a photograph of the same soup with letters arranged alphabetically, for example) with a certain amount of awe for the sheer labor-intensity of it. The compulsive nature of it. The high-magnitude need for order it reveals.

The other night, I went directly from the office to an appointment, to a drive-through for a dinner salad, then back to the office for a program sponsored by my department. When I arrived home at 10:00 p.m., I popped some popcorn, kicked off my shoes, and reclined in the LaZyBoy in my living room. Looking around me, I saw the accummulated mess of several weeks of a busy schedule: on the sofa, stacks of clean laundry crammed to one end, down comforter and pillow jumbled at the other; table tops cluttered with empty soda bottles, empty microwave popcorn bags, empty take-out containers; five pairs of shoes/sandals scattered on the rug…and I briefly imagined Ursus Wehrli walking into this environment and attempting to bring order to it. For a moment, I felt embarrassment at what he would make of things. Then I mentally shrugged my shoulders and opened my 1,000 page fantasy novel.

When, a brief time later, I fell into a half-sleep sitting up with my book open on my lap, I had a very strange waking dream. In my dream, Ursus Wehrli, did in fact pay a visit. His dreamland alter-ego was played by this actor:

(Alan Tudyk) who played the German rehab patient, Gerhardt, in the Sandra Bullock film “28 Days”. Ok, so I type-cast in my dreams – doesn’t everyone?!

Anyway, Ursus was acting as a “life consultant”, and I had hired him to help me get my life and house in order. Literally. He insisted that my calendar be arranged so that the shorter appointments occurred earlier in the day, while longer appointments followed later. Of course, every activity was considered an appointment, meaning that every activity was blocked on the calendar. Sleep, as the longest block of each day, therefore came last. No napping allowed. All belongings: clothing, beads, towels, tchotchkes were grouped together with each other, then also size- and color-coded. My house began to look like a crazed organizer or Martha-Stewart-on-steroids had been there. At first, my dream-self loved this newfound clarity. I was getting caught up on paperwork, there were no dirty dishes or laundry haunting my activities, and every night I slept in my bed (as opposed to sitting bolt upright on a chair in the living room) at a completely regulated time. But I began to think of poor Ursus Wehrli as an evil taskmaster devoted to making my life completely regimented. I became agitated, looking for a way out of this overly regulated life.

Then I fell asleep in earnest, and at some point the dream segued into one in which I was stuck on an elevator and no one would help me get out. Then my alarm went off.

I felt relief when I woke, looked around, and realized that the mess of my life remained unchanged from the night before. A fully lived life is messy. Not every activity can be categorized and advance-planned. If one makes it a mantra (as I have) to “choose people and doing over solitude and navel-gazing”, perfectionism drops off the list of important values. Symmetry is lovely when it occurs naturally, but when it is forced and regimented it loses its appeal. So my house is messy – in the past few weeks I’ve worked a lot, worked out a lot. I’ve talked deeply and thought deeply. I’ve travelled and I’ve relaxed. I have listened and served. I’ve been pampered. I’ve played a part in possibly saving some lives (or at least weaving a safety net for some fragile souls). Some nights I’ve slept for ten hours, others not at all. On at least one occasion, I even slept in the afternoon! Why would I choose dusting or dishwashing over all that?

The people, the places, the time blocks of my life are rich and rewarding. They are also messy, crammed, thrown together in sometimes strange combinations. And I couldn’t be happier. Seriously, I would choose this chaos over well-ordered days and a clean house every time. That might disappoint my mother, and cause Ursus Wehrli to hyperventilate. But, so be it. I love my mess.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Yesterday, someone compared my job to The Neverending Story. I feel like that is a much more apt description for this effort to finally get my weight below 200 pounds. For me, it has been an interesting story, though, full of plot twists, reversals, laughter and tears. All the elements of story that I enjoy. However, it is possible to take too long to tell even a good story.

Cool Sunday, Warm Bread

Last Sunday I tried a new recipe that I found here (be sure to take a look, so you can compare my results with the inspiration). It has been ages since I’ve baked bread of any kind, but this experiment reminded me why I love it. First, the most simple ingredients combine to make the most amazing food. Second, there is something about the smell of yeast bread baking in my house that just feels right (homey, inviting, tasty). Third, nothing feeds the soul like fresh bread. It is in our human DNA.

A number of years ago, my friend Allan told me he had a dream about me. He was in a city, and decided to enter a local bakery/coffee shop. Low and behold, the proprietor of the shop and head baker was…me! While I have never seriously entertained the idea of myself in that kind of career, Allan said something that I have kept as an internal goal: “Your place was so warm and inviting, you were like an Earth Mother type.” OK, so those of you who know me are scratching your heads right now, because I don’t really fit the image. When I have people over for dinner, for example, I am uptight and want everything to be perfect and hardly ever enjoy the company while I’m trying to get the food finished and on the table. But that doesn’t mean I can’t aspire to it!

Anyway, back to the bread. This recipe was easy, not at all time consuming (unless you count the abnormally lengthy rise-time of 10-24 hours, but that is what makes it so easy). I have not tried to figure out the nutritional value, but even though mine didn’t turn out perfect it gets a 10 of 10 for tasty. It calls for a very hot oven, and my oven cooks hot anyway, so the bottoms of my loaves were overdone before the bread was baked through. It was the perfect accompaniment to homemade soup even so.

My results: not perfect, but not too shabby

Today, I have the gift of another low-key Sunday. Cleaning and cooking are on my list of activities for the day – and by cooking, I mean another bread-baking day. And likely another pot of soup. I’ll be sure to let you know how it turns out!

Flashback Friday: Homecoming Weekend

CLARKE COLLEGE, 1982

Left to right: Jay Eccleston, Pam Sessa, me, Charlie Sturm

This weekend Clarke College, now University, will be celebrating Homecoming. As usual, I have no intention of attending the events. Since graduating in 1983, I’ve attended one weekend – and it was the stuff of a comedy movie. By brunch on Sunday morning, the only friend still speaking to me was Charlie, who was doing so simply because he needed someone to rehash my litany of embarrassing drunken faux pas with, and I was grateful to have someone seen interacting with me.

The fact that the number of college friends I still know is small doesn’t detract from my overall positive feelings about my college experience. Clarke was the best possible fit for me, and I will remain ever grateful that I fell into it. There isn’t one person I knew there I wouldn’t be glad to see today, especially if they would talk to me! So, to all you Clarkies out there – Happy Homecoming.