When I was a youngster my favorite movie was Mary Poppins. Partly because it was one of the first movies I had seen IN THE MOVIE THEATER. But perhaps more significant was that my cousin Marilyn took me, just me, on a special date to go see it. Marilyn was really my Dad’s cousin, a generation and half older than me and she looked like a movie star. She loved kids and was the pied piper to most of them. I was the third child of four with a new baby sister. I tended to get lost in the shuffle in terms of priority. Marilyn always made me feel like I was the special one. I guess I got confused at some point and started calling Marilyn, Poppins. (Mary, Marilyn – it all sounded the same to my little ears.)
Poppins was my idol, my mentor-of-sorts throughout my life. My very first airplane trip alone was at 13 years old and I went to visit Poppins for Easter week. It’s a difficult age for girls and she was a role model for me – she was such a ‘girl.’ I remember I picked her as my sponsor when I completed my Confirmation. I stayed in touch and visited almost every year. She used to give me her hand me down clothes. Can you imagine? It was like getting hand me downs from a celebrity. Some of the coolest outfits I ever wore belonged to Poppins first. She always made me feel like I was the special one.
Marilyn died of pancreatic cancer in 2001. It was devastating to me on many levels. I didn’t have first-hand experience with cancer, let alone, the deadliest – pancreatic. I was there in the room when she passed away. It was the one of the most important moments in my life. It was indescribable in the sense that I was overwhelmed and have never felt with more certainty, that ‘everything is going to be okay.’ I felt safe. It was not what I expected to feel. It was clear to me then (and harder to recall now that it’s far away) that there is something bigger than this and there is no need to worry. I flew to her home when I got the news that she was nearing the end. She died about 2 hours after I got there. Her husband, three children and ME were in the room. I am forever humbled that I was included in that room. Always hesitant to speak up, I had a crucial moment where I realized – if I don’t say something now, I’ll never, ever get another chance to say it. I whispered in her ear, sobbing – I love you, Poppins. I’ll always remember her turning and looking directly at me. She was unable to talk at that stage – but her eyes said everything. She always made me feel like I was the special one.
When my daughter was about 4 or 5 years old, my sister and I took her on a girl’s trip to Disneyland. WOO HOO! We made a special reservation to have tea with Mary Poppins. It was held in an oversized conference room in one of the Disney hotels. The room had been transformed into an old English tea house – complete with tea tables, china cabinets, chandeliers, old-fashioned sofas – absolutely perfect.
We anxiously awaited Mary Poppins arrival. We sipped our tea and ate our Mickey Mouse-shaped blueberry scones. The music started, a soundtrack played of birds chirping. And there she was…she floated out in full Mary Poppins attire, complete with a parasol, singing a spoonful of sugar (to be honest, I’m not even sure that was the song – I was starstruck). My daughter eyes were shining in amazement and she was starstruck, too. I have never fought back tears harder than in that moment. I couldn’t hold it in. I looked at my sister. She knew. She understood.
That was and ever will be one of the most poignant moments of my life.
Main Entry: poi·gnant
2 a (1): painfully affecting the feelings : piercing (2): deeply affecting
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Stuck in the Middle of the Bell
About 68% of values drawn from a normal distribution are within one standard deviation σ > 0 away from the mean μ; about 95% of the values are within two standard deviations and about 99.7% lie within three standard deviations. This is known as the "68-95-99.7 rule" or the "empirical rule."
And there you have it. Somewhere in the 68%, the average, the majority – the middle of the bell curve. I live in that space, sometimes on the outer limits, nearing two standard deviations, but never too far from the middle of the bell.
Growing up, I thought that I was special, but that no one had discovered it yet. What a surprise it will be, when they finally do. They don’t know I can sing, I can dance, I have innate rhythm. I’m creative, I can write…in my head. In fact, there is a constant narrator in my head – telling my story in the third person. I just read my cousin’s BLOG and he described himself as the “Easily Discouraged Man.” I’ve always thought of myself as the “Chicken-shit Extrovert.”
I’ve never been to a funeral where I didn’t have a poignant eulogy being narrated in my head. But I never said a word. I’ve never been to a wedding where I didn’t sing a specially chosen song to the bride and groom. I would practice the song while driving and learn every word and accompanying note. But I never uttered a sound.
A special spirit forever trapped by hesitation. It was never critical, there was always time. But now I find myself in the middle of my life, in the middle of the bell. Will I ever break free of one standard deviation? Maybe I’m not special. Maybe I am average. Maybe everyone re-thinks their lives in a series of scenes, complete with a screenplay and re-worked dialogue – to make it funnier, more poignant, more compelling.
Does everyone know exactly what they are meant to do? I have never felt that buzz, that electricity when you know – this is EXACTLY what I’m supposed to be doing in my life in this moment.
I have a stable job, an above-average income, a safe healthy home life. I don’t take risks. I am a conservative spender. I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I lead a healthy life. I am a good mother. I can follow a recipe. I drive a nice car. I have a nice home. I have a fantastic daughter (my ‘best thing’). She goes to private school. She plays soccer and softball. She has a religious foundation and solid knowledge of the bible and Christian values. She is a great person. She has a beautiful heart.
I’m divorced – a black mark on my record. I failed at marriage. I have an alibi, a perfect excuse – everyone believes that I made the right decision. Yet, I focus on the wrong decision I made in the first place. Why did I marry this person? Did we share the same values? Did we share the same interests? Did we respect each other as people?
When I look back on my relationships, I’ve always chosen people that wouldn’t choose me. They were always slightly out of reach. It was a pattern, for sure. Much like Woody Allen, ‘I wouldn’t belong to a club that would have ME as a member.’ What did I want in a relationship? Mostly, I just wanted someone to want me - but, not too much. Let me have the feeling of ‘winning’ them over. (Wait till they find out how special I am – a diamond in the dust.)
I was never comfortable with dating and I’m still not. I’m a great friend and fun person, but that initial hello is overwhelming to me. I’m so distracted by myself and the impression I’m making, I never get to know the other person.
Today, it’s all ‘online.’ I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to describe myself, my values, my hobbies and interests. I think I’ve spent my life morphing into whatever I think will make the other person like me. You like art – me too…that’s like painting and stuff, right?
I’m open to learning new things and finding new interests, but the reality is – I bore of anything after awhile. In the last few years, I have dabbled in telescopes, cake decorating, coaching soccer, gardening, charity events… I feel like I live my life trying to find what my interests are… sooner or later it comes back to ‘what will sound interesting to someone else.’ My interests are trying to be interesting.
Authentically – I love old science fiction (Twilight Zone). I love film noir suspense (Alfred Hitchcock). I love scrabble and puzzle-type games. I like card games. I like to bake. I love office supplies. Nothing is better than finding that perfect pen with exactly the right point.
I tend to pick the color green when faced with ‘pick a color’ requests. I don’t really know why. I think it’s because everyone always picks red or blue.
When I was young, I used to say brown was my favorite color. I would pick brown because all the other colors were chosen and I felt sorry for brown. But is that ‘authentic’ or am I just trying to please and appease. Poor brown.
I love music. I love the piano. I don’t play. I can’t read music. What if I could? How would my life have been different? In my heart, I play piano. It was never presented to me as an option. I didn’t know enough to seek it out. Why don’t I take lessons now? Every moment that passes – is gone. Profound, isn’t it?
There was a time when I thought I’d write a book about my Grandma Bush. I recorded conversations with her and took notes. It’s in a box somewhere. Later I thought I’d write a book about my friends and me. We had such funny stories that spanned all the emotions. After my daughter was born, I was sure I’d write a book called, “letters to Catalina.’ I wanted her to know my every thought when I decided to go through with my divorce. I wanted her to know that every decision I made in life was with the intention of being a role model for her. I did not want her to marry just because someone asked.
I saw a numerologist once and she said I was a writer. I was sure she was right. I’ve always had it in the back of my mind. I have so much to say – but what is my point? Do I have a message? Who needs to hear it? I think now that anyone can say anyone is a writer. It’s a bit like asking – did you have alcoholism in your family? The odds are yes; somewhere in your family tree - is a drunk. It’s the law of averages, the middle of the bell – the middle of the bell is filled with liquor.
And now there is the internet and blogs, so in fact everyone IS a writer (and published, too).
How many moments have passed since I started writing this? I still don’t play piano. I still don’t sing. But, hey – I wrote three pages of a book called, ‘Stuck in the middle of the Bell.’ Well, perhaps ‘book’ is premature – it’s a ‘paper.’ (Who do I turn it in to? What grade will I get? I don’t think I’ve ever done anything without waiting to get the reaction, the grade, the assessment, the evaluation, the approval.)
And there you have it. Somewhere in the 68%, the average, the majority – the middle of the bell curve. I live in that space, sometimes on the outer limits, nearing two standard deviations, but never too far from the middle of the bell.
Growing up, I thought that I was special, but that no one had discovered it yet. What a surprise it will be, when they finally do. They don’t know I can sing, I can dance, I have innate rhythm. I’m creative, I can write…in my head. In fact, there is a constant narrator in my head – telling my story in the third person. I just read my cousin’s BLOG and he described himself as the “Easily Discouraged Man.” I’ve always thought of myself as the “Chicken-shit Extrovert.”
I’ve never been to a funeral where I didn’t have a poignant eulogy being narrated in my head. But I never said a word. I’ve never been to a wedding where I didn’t sing a specially chosen song to the bride and groom. I would practice the song while driving and learn every word and accompanying note. But I never uttered a sound.
A special spirit forever trapped by hesitation. It was never critical, there was always time. But now I find myself in the middle of my life, in the middle of the bell. Will I ever break free of one standard deviation? Maybe I’m not special. Maybe I am average. Maybe everyone re-thinks their lives in a series of scenes, complete with a screenplay and re-worked dialogue – to make it funnier, more poignant, more compelling.
Does everyone know exactly what they are meant to do? I have never felt that buzz, that electricity when you know – this is EXACTLY what I’m supposed to be doing in my life in this moment.
I have a stable job, an above-average income, a safe healthy home life. I don’t take risks. I am a conservative spender. I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I lead a healthy life. I am a good mother. I can follow a recipe. I drive a nice car. I have a nice home. I have a fantastic daughter (my ‘best thing’). She goes to private school. She plays soccer and softball. She has a religious foundation and solid knowledge of the bible and Christian values. She is a great person. She has a beautiful heart.
I’m divorced – a black mark on my record. I failed at marriage. I have an alibi, a perfect excuse – everyone believes that I made the right decision. Yet, I focus on the wrong decision I made in the first place. Why did I marry this person? Did we share the same values? Did we share the same interests? Did we respect each other as people?
When I look back on my relationships, I’ve always chosen people that wouldn’t choose me. They were always slightly out of reach. It was a pattern, for sure. Much like Woody Allen, ‘I wouldn’t belong to a club that would have ME as a member.’ What did I want in a relationship? Mostly, I just wanted someone to want me - but, not too much. Let me have the feeling of ‘winning’ them over. (Wait till they find out how special I am – a diamond in the dust.)
I was never comfortable with dating and I’m still not. I’m a great friend and fun person, but that initial hello is overwhelming to me. I’m so distracted by myself and the impression I’m making, I never get to know the other person.
Today, it’s all ‘online.’ I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to describe myself, my values, my hobbies and interests. I think I’ve spent my life morphing into whatever I think will make the other person like me. You like art – me too…that’s like painting and stuff, right?
I’m open to learning new things and finding new interests, but the reality is – I bore of anything after awhile. In the last few years, I have dabbled in telescopes, cake decorating, coaching soccer, gardening, charity events… I feel like I live my life trying to find what my interests are… sooner or later it comes back to ‘what will sound interesting to someone else.’ My interests are trying to be interesting.
Authentically – I love old science fiction (Twilight Zone). I love film noir suspense (Alfred Hitchcock). I love scrabble and puzzle-type games. I like card games. I like to bake. I love office supplies. Nothing is better than finding that perfect pen with exactly the right point.
I tend to pick the color green when faced with ‘pick a color’ requests. I don’t really know why. I think it’s because everyone always picks red or blue.
When I was young, I used to say brown was my favorite color. I would pick brown because all the other colors were chosen and I felt sorry for brown. But is that ‘authentic’ or am I just trying to please and appease. Poor brown.
I love music. I love the piano. I don’t play. I can’t read music. What if I could? How would my life have been different? In my heart, I play piano. It was never presented to me as an option. I didn’t know enough to seek it out. Why don’t I take lessons now? Every moment that passes – is gone. Profound, isn’t it?
There was a time when I thought I’d write a book about my Grandma Bush. I recorded conversations with her and took notes. It’s in a box somewhere. Later I thought I’d write a book about my friends and me. We had such funny stories that spanned all the emotions. After my daughter was born, I was sure I’d write a book called, “letters to Catalina.’ I wanted her to know my every thought when I decided to go through with my divorce. I wanted her to know that every decision I made in life was with the intention of being a role model for her. I did not want her to marry just because someone asked.
I saw a numerologist once and she said I was a writer. I was sure she was right. I’ve always had it in the back of my mind. I have so much to say – but what is my point? Do I have a message? Who needs to hear it? I think now that anyone can say anyone is a writer. It’s a bit like asking – did you have alcoholism in your family? The odds are yes; somewhere in your family tree - is a drunk. It’s the law of averages, the middle of the bell – the middle of the bell is filled with liquor.
And now there is the internet and blogs, so in fact everyone IS a writer (and published, too).
How many moments have passed since I started writing this? I still don’t play piano. I still don’t sing. But, hey – I wrote three pages of a book called, ‘Stuck in the middle of the Bell.’ Well, perhaps ‘book’ is premature – it’s a ‘paper.’ (Who do I turn it in to? What grade will I get? I don’t think I’ve ever done anything without waiting to get the reaction, the grade, the assessment, the evaluation, the approval.)
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
What's in a Name?
Main Entry: hes·i·tate
1 : to hold back in doubt or indecision
Main Entry: her·o·ine
1 a: a mythological or legendary woman having the qualities of a hero b: a woman admired and emulated for her achievements and qualities2 a: the principal female character in a literary or dramatic work b: the central female figure in an event or period
1 : to hold back in doubt or indecision
Main Entry: her·o·ine
1 a: a mythological or legendary woman having the qualities of a hero b: a woman admired and emulated for her achievements and qualities2 a: the principal female character in a literary or dramatic work b: the central female figure in an event or period
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