all of the selves we Have ever been
A strong southern breeze blew the blossoms off a row of young flowering trees. For a moment the petals swirled on the air like snowflakes and then lightly touched the ground. Scooting across the parking lot they came to rest along a curb forming a narrow stream of pink and white velvet. This little tributary of wonder was so breathtaking that I was compelled to stop and kneel on its asphalt shore. Gently, I scooped the petals into my hands. I felt their delicate softness as I brought my cupped hands to my nose. Breathing in their subtle fragrance, I satisfied a thirst I didn’t know I had. Ah! How the earth nourishes us in unexpected ways. On April 8th we here in central Ohio were in the path of the solar eclipse. For months the anticipation built. Schools closed for the day, people traveled hundreds of miles to get the best view. Even hospital workers left their duty stations and flowed out into parking lots to get a glimpse of this miraculous once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. As I sat poised at my window feeling the stillness and the darkness slowly permeate the peak of day, the voice of Kermit the Frog came to mind: What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing? What do we think we might see? Maybe we are all wannabe believers, if not in miracles, then in magic. Mother Nature provides us with so much enchantment, and she does so while staying one step ahead of the scientists, perhaps to bedevil the calculations and the hypotheses, to continue to engage us, mesmerize us, and humble us. Moses once challenged God: “Show us your glory!” Old and weary, fearing an uprising from his followers, uncertain of the future or where they were going, Moses went into the mountains to have a word with God. Moses did not say, “Show us the money.” He said, “Show us your glory.” Surely, Moses was at a time in his life when he needed some encouragement, but I wonder if God was disappointed by the request. Every day glory surrounded the Israelites. The sea parted. Manna appeared on the ground for breakfast, quail wandered into the campground for dinner. Were the Israelites a bit like us? Too tired? Too preoccupied? Too self-focused? Too fearful? Fatigue and fear have a way of blinding us and dulling our senses. Perhaps for Earth Day 2024 our prayer should not be “show us your glory,” but help us to see it. Remove the blinding glare of narcissism and outrage, the pains of fear and discouragement, and help us to marvel at all the wonders that are free and available to us all. Help us to remember that we, too, are part of nature, another marvel of creation. Help us to experience the things we can believe in, even if fleeting. Remind us of wonder and possibility, of goodness, of things that are pure and without pretense. Help us to see the unseeable. Even though the solar eclipse has passed, help us to remember that the view is thick with majesty if we seek it just as earnestly. On Earth Day 2024, let us crack open the mundane everydayness of our lives, and stop watching bad news on our phones and TVs. Let’s get outside. No matter how discouraged we may be with the world, with life, nature can still surprise and delight us. The Earth is waiting. There is a living ecosystem beneath the sidewalk, butterflies are emerging from the bushes, buds are bursting with flower and fragrance, stars are streaking across the night sky, birds are singing…There is so much to believe in. Monday, April 22, is Earth Day. Meet me beneath the sky that we share, in the light and the warmth of the bright sun that spends itself for all of us. See you outside!
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A few weeks ago my son and I drove past a billboard promoting a mind-body expo at our city’s convention center. “That’s my worst nightmare,” my son said. “All those people finding their centers at the same time.” I laughed out loud at my son’s words and at the image that came to my mind: hundreds of peace-and-self-love seekers rushing toward the convention center in bumper-to-bumper traffic, all trying to find a place to park for the day at a cost that won’t require a second mortgage. Once inside, they breathe in the smell of incense and the blend of body odors that can only be experienced in shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. They then push their way through the hordes while walking on tip-toes with their necks hyper-extended so that they can see the signs that will direct them to the must-see lectures or exhibits that will fulfill the promise of finding their missing centers. We live in a time when it seems everything is taken to extremes. I do believe in the power of mindfulness, and I do try to practice many of the techniques. I find it especially helpful when I am inside an MRI machine or in the dentist’s chair. Whenever I am afraid or anxious, I rely upon a mantra that always calms me: There is nowhere you can go that God is not already there. It reminds me that I am not alone and that help is within reach. But the mindfulness craze reminds me of some of the other movements that came before it. In the 1980s the term co-dependence emerged in the recovery movement. Too much focus on others and too much self-sacrifice can make us sick the movement told us. We are not responsible for the feelings of others the movement’s leaders preached. It is probably true that most of us have experienced situations or relationships in which we’ve tried too hard and become less of a person by trying to make someone else more of one--to no avail. But co-dependence morphed into a belief that caring for others was a sign of mental illness in the caregiver, and that caring about the feelings of another or putting someone else’s feelings before our own was sick. Every caregiving relationship, every act of self-sacrifice became suspect. Enter the current epidemic of loneliness and the disregard for the impact of our words and actions. The self-esteem movement emerged on the coattails of co-dependence. Self-esteem was to be the cure for all that ailed us. In mental health centers everywhere, every patient had the goal of improving self-esteem. If only each person had a good self-esteem we could bring an end to mental health problems. In the classroom, if every child could be given good self-esteem, why they could all be successful. Forty years later, I can see that, taken to its extreme, the self-esteem movement ushered in the current age of narcissism. What strikes me now about all of these movements is how often the word self is used to describe the movement or the process. It seems the more we focus on the self, the worse things get. An antidote comes to mind in another image from the past. It was also in the 1980s that I attended a conference for child development professionals. Dr. David Elkind, a child psychologist from Tufts University, was one of the speakers. In our small group workshop, Dr. Elkind addressed the issue of self-esteem. He said, “My parents didn’t care about my self-esteem. They wouldn’t have known to. But what was always clear to me was that everything they did was for me.” I recall how moved I was by Dr. Elkind’s words and by the fierce certainty in his eyes that he was loved. I am moved again at this very moment by the recollection. The self does not develop in isolation. When harmed, it does not heal in isolation. Belonging is essential to our human existence. It makes mastery, independence, and generosity possible. Things have a way of going left of center. On this Good Friday, I think of Dr. David Elkind’s words and the importance of this day on the Christian calendar. Whether you believe in Jesus or just see the Bible as an ancient book of fables, the moral of the story is this: You were born loved. Everything He did was for you. Live loved. And love one another. “…many of us have internalized the message that our bodies are some kind of burden that must be subdued and transcended.” From Goddesses Never Age Once upon a time there were no exercise classes, no gym memberships. There were no leggings or sports bras, no water bottles or heart rate monitors, no power bars or protein shakes. Daily life was the treadmill. People stepped on when they awoke and off when they fell into bed at night. They moved to the rhythms of life and the changes of the seasons. Out on the farms, in the suburbs, or on the manufacturing floors it was called “work” or “chores.” Out in the yards, in the neighborhoods, or on the school grounds, it was called “play.” Somehow people managed to get motivated and get moving without a throbbing musical beat in their ears. But the war-weary people were vulnerable, and they fell under the spell of the Gods of Progress. The Pharmaceutical Giants gave the people vaccines and antibiotics adding years to their lives and giving the people a false sense of health. The Wizard of Madison Avenue began to speak to the people from a new device called television infiltrating their minds and hearts with yearnings. Everyone began talking about an abundance of cheap, magical, labor-saving devices and convenience foods. The Wizard told the people what they should want, what they deserved, and after a taste, the people agreed. They began to seek entertainment in their homes from their laid-back positions in reclining chairs called La-Z-Boys. And after they finished their TV dinners the people puffed on burning rolls of tobacco that the Tobacco Giants said were healthy and tasted good like cigarettes should. Tik Tok, time passed. Soon the people became spectators to life. And as they watched other people do stuff, the people grew in size along with their sectional sofas and flat screen TVs. They no longer needed to walk upright. Their hand held phones became smarter than the people themselves. With a gentle tap of a single finger, the people worked. They paid their bills, ordered food to be delivered, did their Christmas shopping, wrote to friends, and asked an invisible woman named Alexa to answer the door while a robot vacuumed the floor. And still, the Gods of Progress wanted more, and so they teamed up with the Wizard of Madison Avenue who had already corrupted the Gods of the Metaverse. Together, they hatched a plan to sell more ads while stealing the minds of the people and replacing them with artificial intelligence. “We’ll create a device more addictive than tobacco. It will be so addictive and so distracting that it will rob people of their free will, the ability to think for themselves, the desire to work, or the capacity to love one another. They won’t need to do a thing ever again.” But the Gods were so full of themselves that they forgot that intelligent life still existed where it first began--outside the Metaverse. They overlooked people like Dr. James Levine who were warning that, “Sitting is the new smoking.” People began to repeat this new mantra which angered some of the Gods. They still weren’t happy with the former Surgeon General who exposed their claims about tobacco and nicotine. But ever opportunistic, the diabolical Wizard of Madison Avenue saw a way to turn natural bodily movement into a new product, and he called it “exercise,” and a multi-billion dollar industry was created to press people into buying something the Wizard had already taught them to hate. “Ah, the power of ambivalence,” said The Wizard. “And if we teach people to hate themselves, we shall have it both ways!” As expected people flocked to the gyms and purchased the memberships, the trainers’ time, sports wardrobes, and special shoes. Cinderella looked down on the scene from her throne in the happily ever after. Not a doctor, a god, a wizard, or even Jane Fonda, Cinderella always knew that it was the hard work of life that kept her mentally and physically fit to pursue her dreams, to dare to attend a ball, to climb in and out of a pumpkin carriage, to race up and down the stairs, and to dance all night. She still resents that her fairy godmother was given so much credit for a dress and a pair of ill-fitting shoes. I know that Valentine’s Day is the absolute worst day to bring this up, but it must be said: not everyone in a long-term relationship is happy. Breaking up can be hard to do, and a bad break-up can haunt the initiator for years. Sometimes regret leads to attempts to reconcile causing even more guilt for the lies told to re-instate the relationship. These types of break-ups happen more frequently than anyone knows and they remain a taboo subject among women. No woman wants her friends to think less of her, especially when it was friends that suggested the match-up in the first place. Whose side will they take? Just yesterday I met a good friend for brunch. After we ordered, Ellen slid down in her seat and leaned forward. Her eyes scanned the restaurant for anyone familiar, and then she whispered, “I am thinking of ending my relationship.” I wasn’t surprised. I had heard her voice disappointments in the past, enough to know that this might be coming. “Things are okay, but I am just not that happy. I’ve tried to hang in there and even suggested some changes, but nothing ever really changes. I just don’t think it’s possible to get what I want out of this relationship, but I’ve been in it for so long, I just don’t know where to turn. And will it be better if I do leave? Will I ever find someone else who gets what I want? Might it be worse? Oh, geez, do I even really know what I want?” Ellen showed me clippings from magazines she had been reading to help her make up her mind about what to do next. I studied the clippings trying to get a feel for what she does want, and I nodded in sympathy. I had heard a very similar story a few months before from my friend Grace. In her case, she had already made the break but continued to feel uneasy about going public with the news. Grace was already in a happy new relationship but she worried constantly about running into her ex. Grace had never really explained why she was leaving; she just left for someone else. Even her closest friends only learned the news when they began complimenting Grace on how great she looked. Grace gave all the credit to her new relationship. Maybe it’s because we are all getting older. Stability seems important. Is it just too late to change? What will people think of us? And we really don’t want to hurt anyone; we just want to be happy, to feel attractive again. What if we never find someone else and we have to go it alone? That seems impossible. Most of us aren’t prepared for what it would take to go it alone. We fear the humiliating damage we might do to ourselves. I live in a large urban community with plenty of options. You would think it wouldn’t be that hard to find the right hairstylist, but it’s just not that easy. And we do get attached. After all, these are people who have seen our hair naked and without color. They have been intimate with our roots, and they can make us squeal with delight when we look in the mirror. Our tresses may no longer flow, and we may have even give up on the pursuit of love, but no woman I know gives up on her hair. Well, I have a small update. Just this morning my petite neighbor called to tell me that while she was monitoring the self-checkout stations at her current job this week, she was offered three different new jobs by three different customers. I have no doubt in my mind that, in addition to being beautiful and petite, my neighbor is also friendly, hardworking. And petite. The only offer I received this week was from a burly, unshaven man coming out of a restroom in my local convenience store. I happened to notice him because he was wearing tactical gear and mumbling into his shirt collar. He asked me if I’d like to be a human shield. Apparently, I am the right size to conceal a military target. And I look disposable. I did feel flattered to be noticed since most people don’t see me at all, and this attention despite the fact the guy was wearing an eye patch! The job did sound noble. And short term. But I wasn’t in the mood. I am still getting the hang of retirement, and I am too easily frustrated to obtain the right documents to travel internationally. Being invisible may be a superpower in some circles, but I don’t know if it is the best resume for a human shield. Perhaps he thought that eventually I might have potential in the spy trade though that is unlikely. If he really did see me, it would have been apparent that I am no Mata Hari. Though tall, she was extremely beautiful and disguised herself as an exotic Asian dancer. Not a good cover for someone with so much to cover. And I am not much into stealing—secrets or otherwise. I don’t think I could ever live a double life. I have enough trouble managing one, and sometimes I can’t remember the name on my official state ID. Even if I could overcome these spy deficits and unleash my superpowers, my kryptonite is that I can’t seem to hide my incredulity at the things people say and do. In the spy business, perpetual astonishment would be a dead give-away, and I would be the one dead. Speed and elusiveness are vital traits in the world of espionage, but as you can tell, I also tend to perseverate which makes it hard to move on. I am baffled as well as fascinated by the irony that being smaller can make a woman larger in the eyes of others. Or maybe I am downright incredulous. In any case, I am as stuck as those last 3 inches and 25 pounds. Then there is this other life, layered on top and woven through, the life of passion and pursuit, of my dreams and aspirations, a life of love sought and realized, of beauty and community, of adventure and openness. It is a life I always want and don’t always have…a life animated in thought and action by the hope that I shall flourish along with my friends and family—that we shall hold each up through our excellence, creativity, and goodwill, a life where we flourish together. Where humanity flourishes. The thought of this life fills my heart with love and hope, fills my lungs with breath. --Nick Riggle in This Life, This Body, This Day, This Time, These People, This Beauty: A Philosophy of Being Alive I have a neighbor who is about five years older than me. Like pre-menopausal women whose menstrual cycles align through association, my neighbor and I seem to run into each other on the way to the dumpster. I don’t know if it is some biological synchronization or just the timely flow of fertile debris before it grows into something alive inside our apartments, but it happens regularly. When we meet at the dumpster, we stand down wind of the odor of decaying food and poopy diapers. The conversation becomes a purge of trash, problems at work, and the decline of the neighborhood. The conversation winds down when one of us makes a half-hearted commitment to do lunch “sometime,” the signal that one of us is cold, hot, or has to go. While I enjoy this wonderful neighbor whenever and wherever I meet her, I am beginning to feel some pressure to dress for these trash-can occasions. My petite, fashionable neighbor always comes to the dumpster like it is cocktail hour in an upscale Greenwich Village bar. She sparkles like champagne with her hair styled, nails polished, eye makeup just right. I am both in awe and suspicious. I do notice that she seems to have considerably more trash to dispose of than I do. Perhaps, as I suspected, being beautiful requires a lot of time-consuming work and a lot of products. I rationalize my own appearance with claims of sparing the environment from all that packaging. What else I notice about my neighbor, in addition to her lovely appearance and volume of trash, is the way men respond to her, to all petite women, really. A petite woman can carry a baggy to the dumpster, and a manly neighbor will fall all over himself offering to carry her trash. Petite women are sexy, sleek little sailboats. I, on the other hand, am an overloaded cargo ship that has been stuck in the Suez Canal for so long that the bottom has rusted out. When a man approaches me, it is not to offer aid or flirtation. It is usually to ask if I will hold up the front end of his car while he changes a tire. For women of my generation and the ones before, it seems like it was always a choice between being capable or beautiful. Smart girls were admonished to keep their hands down and NEVER appear smarter than the boys. To do otherwise would guarantee spinsterhood. Of course, all young children were advised to “be seen and not heard,” but there was a time-limit on that for boys. For young women the advice later became “be seen but not heard.” Be desirable but not too smart. The images of women who appeared in ads or on television were housewives dressed in fitted-waist dresses, wearing nylon stockings, pumps, and a string of pearls. A starched white apron was the only evidence of their shared occupation. These women, if mothers, deferred all parenting decisions until the father got home. Here I am now old enough to have one foot in the grave (and I can still hold up the front end of a car, thank you very much!) and I continue to confront these messages from my past, the trash talk that shaped my life and opportunities. I look around now at young women professionals and think “Hey, that’s what I wanted!” I just didn’t know it was available to me or even that it was out there to want. Such models or examples were not present in my every-day environment. The real professionals that I knew were nuns. They taught in schools and colleges and operated hospitals. For me, that was the spinsterhood I feared. Of course, messages about beauty and appearance still taunt women today, but the messages about brains and opportunity are not as limiting. There are plenty of women who now can claim brains and beauty. They can be mothers and successful professionals. But there are groups of individuals who continue to receive limiting messages about who they are and what they can be. To all children everywhere, I say this: No matter what package you are wrapped in, it is good to raise your hands. Take a chance no matter what you are wearing or what nouns or pronouns describe you. Be at home in your body and in your life. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Behold your own beauty. And if anyone tells you otherwise, well, that’s just trash talk. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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