Welcome!
Catchlight Photography is Mark and Elizabeth Bush. We offer creative on-location portraiture, wedding, and event photography in and around Evansville, Indiana.
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Sometimes, I feel like Alexander.
If you have not read this book, you must do so. Today. Seriously.
Remember Alexander? Who woke up with chewing gum in his hair and tripped over his skateboard and got his sweater wet and got the crummy seat in the carpool and whose day just kept going downhill from there?
Alexander thought the solution to his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day was to move to Australia. I hear ya, Alex. Some days, I’m right there with ya.
Yesterday was my terrible, awful, no good, very bad day. Well, really a terrible, awful, et al four hours… but those four hours felt like the longest day of my life. The details don’t matter (and really are best forgotten) but suffice it to say that all I wanted to do was hide.
I wanted to go to my bedroom, and shut my door, and not talk to anyone. I didn’t want dinner. I didn’t want to love on my family. I wanted to hide. I wanted my own version of Australia. In my room, on my bed, reading my book. Go away world.
Me and Alex… we’re like this.
But I did have to greet Thomas. And get the report from his nurse. And at least say hi to Mark. But then I could hide. And I did… for about 5 minutes. Long enough to change clothes and wrap up in a blanket and open my book. Which is when Teen 1 came in. And lay down on my bed. And told me about her day. And then Mark came in to discuss dinner plans. Wait, I didn’t even want dinner. And then Teen 2 came in so she could weigh in on the dinner conversation. When it was decided that a grocery store run was in order, I encouraged both teens to go with Mark (because a hungry man with ADD should never, ever go to the grocery unsupervised). Teen 1 got up to join Mark and Teen 2 and I thought, “Ah, at last… I can hide.” But then Teen 2 decided to stay. In my room. On my bed. With me.
Then the hunter-gatherers returned bearing dinner. Which needed to cook. For two hours. And guess where my family spent those two hours?
In my room. On my bed. Where I was not.
I was not on my bed because at some point, with husband sprawled one way and Teens 1 and 2 sprawled hither and yon, I wound up on the floor. Of my room. Where I was trying to hide.
Alexander wound up not moving to Australia, because he realized that sometimes terrible, horrible, et al days just happen, no matter where you live. He realized that you can’t hide from a bad day, you can only decide to leave the bad day behind and greet the next day as a gift, and a chance to do it better this time.
Like I said, me and Alex… we’re like this.
I really dig Kohl’s. In a big way. Here’s why:
Kohl’s has everything, under one roof. We manage to hit every department: Men’s, Young Men’s, Women’s, Juniors’, Misses’, Boys’, Housewares, Shoes, Small Appliances… and that was just one trip. If I’m buying a gift at Kohl’s – which I often do – then I can even pick up the Hallmark greeting card and a pretty gift bag while I’m there. And then a pretty outfit to wear when presenting said gift. And some matching jewelry. And maybe a purse. Oh, and a new lipstick.
Kohl’s has fantabulous prices. I know there are other stores who are adopting the whole “the-everyday-price-IS-the-sale-price” and there is definitely merit in that, but I do still like that little thrill of retail victory when I see that the item I want is on sale for 40% off. Then there’s the peel-off coupons that come in the mail. Swoon. We fight over who gets to peel the thingie and reveal our savings. Anyone who consistently reveals a paltry 15% off our entire purchase is branded as a bad luck charm. Revealers of the coveted 30% discount are crowned retail royalty. Add in the Kohl’s Cash on top of that and I kid you not it feels like Kohl’s is paying me to take their stuff.
Kohl’s has great hours. You know that feeling you get when your kid tells you at 8:54pm that there’s a birthday party tomorrow and she needs a gift? Or that she has to have green button-down collared shirt for school tomorrow? Never fear, Kohl’s is open late. And if it’s the Christmas season, they are open crazy-late. I’ve heard a rumor that they are open early, too… but there are few retail emergencies that warrant getting out of bed early so I can’t personally vouch for that.
Kohl’s has great customer service. In all honesty, the list could begin and end here. The fact is that there are other discount department mega-stores that have lower prices without having to hassle with coupons and percent-off sales. And there are stores where – under one roof – I can pick up the gift and the card and the outfit and the grocery items needed to make a potluck dish. And shampoo. And dog food. And they may even be open 24 hours a day. But no one – and I mean no one – can beat Kohl’s customer service. Forgot your coupon? That’s ok, the cashier will take the discount anyway. Can’t find what you need? A sales associate will help you find it, either in-store or she’ll help you use the handy-dandy kiosk to find it online. And don’t worry, shipping is free when you order at the kiosk. And you can use the coupon. Item didn’t fit? No worries, you can return it, no questions asked. If you used your Kohl’s card then you don’t even need your receipt. Even months later. Easiest. returns. ever.
A former Kohl’s employee told me that Kohl’s trains their associates to address customer needs fully and personally, and to that end the associates are authorized and empowered to make it right for the customer. Right then and there. Whatever it is. How refreshing it is to go to a Customer Service Associate and receive real service!
I love that when I go to Kohl’s, I feel like the associates are there to do more than just take my money. I feel like they want to personally make sure I have a rewarding retail experience. And that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Kinda like that blanket I found on the clearance aisle… that was almost free… because it was 75% off…and I had a 30% off coupon … and I had Kohl’s Cash.
warm, fuzzy sigh.
Yeah, I dig Kohl’s. In a big way.
When I decide to do something, I have to do it now. Right now. And I have to keep doing it until I finish it. I’ve said before that it’s because I know that if I don’t finish it right now, then I never will. And that’s true. I am woefully lacking in stick-to-it-iveness.
But the truth is that my gumption isn’t actually born of self-awareness. I think it’s actually that I have a bit (a lot?) of an addictive personality. It can be great when I find something that interests me, and I throw myself headlong into the task/commitment/project. And it can also be… well, not so great.
Take reading. I love to read. I always have. I devour books much like I devour pints of Ben & Jerry’s: with total disregard for my surroundings and all in one sitting. When a book is too long to read all at once then I have to force myself to do things like sleep. And work. And feed my children. And when at long last I have to put down my book and go do something else, then I am snappish, churlish, and grumpy until I can be done with the distraction and get back to my book, thankyouverymuch.
This is not my own picture. I couldnt take a picture of B&J in my house, because I dont have any B&J in my house. And for good reason, too.
It’s the same with Pinterest projects. When a craft project catches my eye, I have to do it. Right then. Under no circumstances can I look at Pinterest from 8am to 5pm on weekdays, because I know that I will be unable to focus on anything other than my craft store shopping list, and I won’t be able to type because my hand will be curled around my imaginary hot glue gun whilst I envision my Pin.
A few years ago, Mark and I were on a West Wing kick. We had all the seasons (except the last) on DVD. When we finished the last episode on the last DVD of the second-to-last season, I went into a bit of a panic. I didn’t care that it was midnight, that online retailers had the last season on DVD for significantly less than local stores, that shipping was free, or that we had to work the next day. I had to see the next episode. Right then. So off to Wal-Mart we went. I’m sure someone else has had a midnight West Wing emergency, right? Right?
Like I said… it can be not so great.
This tendency has been my undoing more than once. It has a lot to do with why I don’t stick with diets lifestyle changes. Or exercise routines. Or budgets. It has been the root of more than one big conflict in my marriage, and it had a lot to do with the end of my first marriage.
Wow… that sentence is sort of an eye-opener, isn’t it? Self-discovery through blogging. Go figure.
Mark and I had a long-distance courtship. I fell in love with Mark from 600 miles away. In the days before unlimited long distance on landlines and all-you-can-talk minute plans on cell phone, our main method of communication was chatting. Of the Internet variety. You know. With a keyboard. Sort of like texting… on a really big phone.
Tangent: when I’m asked what first attracted me to Mark, or what about him made me love him, I half-jokingly answer, “His punctuation.” Now you know why.
So we chatted. We chatted a lot. Into the wee hours of the morning. During the work day. To the exclusion of other, more real-life obligations. Chat chat chat. Lots of chatting. It seemed like we would never run out of things to say type.
Lest you think this is sweet and early-21st-century romantic and you’re envisioning a Meg-Ryan-Tom-Hanks rom-com chick flick ala Nora Ephron, let me assure you that it was not at all like that. We are talking significantly unhealthy amounts of chat. At least on my part. I can’t speak for Mark. Maybe he was continuing to be a contributing and productive member of society and an effective parent, but I was not.
When Mark eventually relocated and we finally lived in the same city, my sigh of relief and happy dance were due in equal parts to the joy of actually dating Mark in real life… and getting the chat-monkey off my back. After an intense heart-to-heart with Mark, we agreed that our chatting days were over. It turns out that I have to do abstention in pretty much the same way I do indulgence. Apparently I am an all-or-nothing girl no matter what I am doing… or not doing.
I know – intellectually – that moderation and balance are the keys here. But I gotta tell you that the concepts of moderation and balance aren’t even in my universe when there is Ben & Jerry’s involved. Or hot glue guns. Or chat rooms.
So what has brought up this foray into self-discovery, you ask?
Earlier this week I fell off the chat wagon. A combination of bad cell reception, transient office space with no landline, international houseguests, and incredibly hectic schedules met in a confluence of circumstance that necessitated an immediate parental pow-wow. In other words, I needed Mark to help me make some decisions and a quick Internet chat was the best option.
I wasn’t trolling for a cyber-date (which I never did, by the way… just so we’re clear); in fact I was coordinating travel plans for the family… but I was chatting. And it was good.
And it was bad.
Now, if you’ve never struggled with really really wanting something that you know is really really bad for you… if you are self-disciplined and committed and your picture is in the dictionary next to willpower… well then, you can just stop reading now. Because no amount of explanation on my part will make you understand what it felt like to do something – even for 5 minutes – that I stopped doing six years ago because I couldn’t do it in a healthy way. And I don’t mean it was just an emotional feeling. I’m talking honest-to-goodness physical feelings.
And it scared. the. crap. outta. me.
It’s one thing to be self-aware enough to know you have no willpower. You don’t eat ice cream right out of the carton because it’s way too easy to eat the whole thing. You buy snacks in 100-calorie packs so there’s built-in portion control. You have an accountability partner for your morning cardio routine. But it’s another thing to realize that your weakness goes far beyond not being able to eat just one Lay’s, and you are powerless over your own nature.
Deep breath.
Again.
And one more.
This is so me. It is so me to get whipped up into a near frenzy about some failing of mine and then indulge in some self-flagellation complete with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Poor, flawed, fallen, broken me. And once the wailing and gnashing have run their course, I stop for just a moment and…
breathe.
I breathe because I remember that my flaws are known, and I am still loved. I am loved by the One who made me, the One who knows all of my brokenness and weakness and sin but loves me anyway. And I remember that I am weak so that I can learn (and re-learn, and re-learn, and learn again) to rely on His strength. And I remember that all of those failings that I seem so bent on revisiting have already been washed away.
I imagine that I have given all my sin and weakness to God through Christ, and He has taken it all from me and given me a clean slate (over and over and over again, praise God), but that I – in my continued weakness and, I hate to say it, lack of faith – keep taking that messy package of yuck back so I can pick at it some more. That’s the vision I imagine in my head, but the truth is that when I turn all of that over to God, He doesn’t keep it tucked away in a back room so that I can dig it back out. It’s gone. He takes it from me and then it is no more. I can’t keep going back to it like a dog revisiting its – (ok, I’m gonna end that analogy there… you get the idea) because when I turn back to where I left it with God, all I find is… God.
So when I fall headlong into my addictive self and I am not strong enough to realize that I am making bad choices, or when I slip a little bit (or a lot) into habits that I have tried so hard to break, or when the resolve that seemed so strong at 6:30am melts away into a warm chocolatey bit of goodness by 10am and then transforms into a rock of shameful guilt by 10:15… when all of that happens and I turn to go pick up my mantle of shame, I see instead the welcoming arms of a loving God who sees me through the blood of a risen savior.
And that beats Ben & Jerry’s any day.
I love a good debate. Wait, let me clarify that… I love to win a good debate. I love to systematically dismantle my opponent’s argument, point by point, and leave my foe mute and quivering, mouth gaping open and shut like a fish on land.
I’m all for tolerance and open-mindedness and validating and affirming everybody and let’s all hold hands and sing kumbaya, but deep down in my heart of hearts I love it when I can really rip apart an argument like so much junk mail through a cross-cut shredder.
I recently had such an experience, and I was in rare form. It was as if I was channeling Clarence Darrow, and I had my very own little Scopes Monkey Trial going on. And I was good. I made my point, they put up a defense, and I shot it down. Another defense, and again I shot it down. I. was. on. fire. Bam!
Even though I ultimately did not get my way in that argument – sometimes seniority trumps logic – I still savored the good debate. I even spent a little time afterwards relishing the finer points of my verbal thrusts and parries. I was commending myself on how I had drawn these great conclusions based on facts from memory… facts I knew so well that I didn’t even have to look them up. And just to give myself a little extra pat on the back, I did look up those facts, even though the debate was long over. It was ok that I didn’t win that debate, because I had the knowledge that I had been right.
But then I did a double-take, and looked at those facts a little closer. I checked again, and checked again. Then I checked another source. And guess what?
I was not. on. fire.
I was not even smoldering. a. little.
I was, instead, dead. wrong.
Spectacularly so.
Aw stink.
Don’t you hate that feeling? When your hyper-inflated ego is pricked by something so inconsequential and pesky (like the truth) and you can just feel yourself deflating? At that moment my shrinking ego zoomed and sputtered around the third floor of my office building like an untied party balloon.
I’m pretty sure I even heard the pppppffffffffttt sound.
Sigh.
So now I’m wondering what whine goes best with crow.
We host exchange students – did you know that? This is our second year. We’ve had four students stay with us; two for the full school year, and two for just a few weeks each. We love it.
Anyway, part of being a host family is choosing your exchange student. One of our students said it was sort of like shopping for a puppy. You look at a picture, see if they might make a good match for your family, verify they have all their shots. There’s also a letter from the student, where they introduce themselves and tell a little about why they want to spend a year in America. When you get right down to brass tacks, the letter from the student is basically saying, “Pick me! Pick me! Please oh please oh please pick me! I’m well-behaved and not weird so please pick me!”
Last week I was reading a particularly good Pick me! letter and I wondered about what I would write about my family, if the roles were reversed. What if there were exponentially more host families than there were students, and we were all vying for a student from a limited pool of possibilities? What would my Pick us! letter say?
First of all, I think our letter would be less “We’re well-behaved and not weird” and a whole lot more, “We are definitely weird but we try to tone it down when we’re out in public.” Or maybe even, “We’re weird for sure but we try not to embarrass our children too badly.” Or really, if we’re being totally honest, “We’re weird, we’re weird in public, and we embarrass our children because we feel like that’s our job… but we know a good therapist who can help you if you have trouble dealing with us.”
I’m pretty sure I’d avoid starting out with, “Hi! My name is Elizabeth and I am married to my best friend and soul mate Mark and we have four perfect kids and two dogs who never misbehave and we love everything and everybody and I’m so happy that I have to dot all of my i’s with hearts and use way too many exclamation points!!!!!” I mean, I am married to my best friend, and we do have four great kids, and one dog who is pretty good and another dog that I try daily to give away to any and all hapless passers-by, but I would cringe at two things: being so false as to try to portray my life as anything close to perfect, and being so unoriginal as to introduce myself with the written equivalent of a “Hi My Name is” sticky name tag. Pshaw and double pshaw.
I realize I’m not actually writing a letter to persuade a teenager to agree to live with us for 10 months; what I’m actually doing is a lot harder. I perceive my audience as a much tougher critic – not a haughty, sneering teen but my older and much-esteemed graduated-cum-laude-from-Brown-with-a-degree-in-English sister, and possibly her terribly well-written and much-accomplished-former-reporter husband. You can bet I’ll be proofing and double-proofing this post. In fact, let me go now to get my copy of The Highly Selective Thesaurus for the Extraordinarily Literate, so that I can maybe fake my way into sounding at least a little smarter.
And my goal is not that my reader will Pick me! from amid a plethora (I came up with that one on my own, thankyouverymuch) of other families hoping to open their homes to a student. Instead, I’m hoping that my reader will be so swayed by what she reads that she’ll want to put aside hurts and resentments and anger, and reach out to reconnect with a sister that she’s never really known. That’s a pretty big thing to ask of a few paragraphs introducing my family.
So where would I start?
I think maybe I would start by saying that the two greatest gifts I can give my children are roots and wings. I try hard to give my children the strength, confidence, and opportunity to be independent and take risks. And I try hard to root my children in a deep faith and unconditional love. But I feel like I’ve been limited in the breadth of the roots I can give my children because I, myself, lack the roots of a biological family. I have very consciously and purposefully substituted biological roots with a strong network of close family friends to whom I know my children can turn at any time for any need, but there is something qualitatively different about the connection afforded by biology and genetics. Or at least I think there is. I don’t really know for sure, since I’ve never really had that connection myself.
See, I’m already messing it up. Pick me! letters all follow the same pattern. First there’s who am I, then there’s why I want to come to America, followed by a little bit of interesting stuff about me, and then close with thanks for picking me (you gotta finish strong and assume your letter is gonna win ‘em over; it’s the nice version of “Thank you in advance for assistance with this matter”). But I’ve gone and jumbled it all up – I lead off with the interesting stuff (hosting international students is just about the most interesting thing about me that I can think of) and followed with why I want to come to America – er, I mean why I want to… what? Know my sister, I guess.
So I guess that leaves who am I. (For the record, let me state that 437 cursor-blinks later, I have typed nothing. Sheesh, this is hard. Ok, here goes…) I am a Christian. I try very hard to be a follower of Christ without getting mired in the trappings of Christianity. I probably mess that up a lot, but I try.
I am a wife. I married Mark in 2006. It’s my second time on this marriage carousel. I was 19 on my first go-round. That one ended about the way you’d expect it to end when one party is too young, too brash, and too impulsive to realize that the person who seems like a good match when you’re 19 is not such a good fit at 29. Basically, I spent close to 10 years perfecting how to do a marriage wrong. Now I’m working every day on learning how to do a marriage right.
I am a mom. Katherine is 16… well, 17 next month, so I guess I better get used to saying that. Thomas is 11. I am an involved mom. At least, I try to be. I’m not head room-mother or scout troop leader or anything like that, but I try to stay involved with Katherine’s activities and events. We go to choir competitions, concerts, performances… instead of soccer-mom, I’m choir mom. Staying involved with Thomas’ activities has a lot more to do with doctor’s visits and therapy sessions than extracurricular activities. Thomas has a genetic disorder with a whole host of effects on his development. He’s in a wheelchair, and he’s non-verbal, and he’s prone to seizures. He loves classical music and riding the bus to school. He loves books with lots of pages and toys with lots of buttons. Hannah (16 tomorrow) and Morgan (14, also later this month) are my step-children. I am finding that being a step-mom provides almost limitless opportunities for screwing up. I hope that I am not heaping irreparable harm upon them… or if I am, then they are least learning by example how to apologize sincerely.
These are the things that define me: Christian, wife, mom. I do have a job – I work in the insurance department at a large specialty medical practice – and I have a small photography business, but those roles don’t define who I am in the way that my other titles do.
And I try very hard to not let my past define me, either. I had a pretty messed up childhood. That might be a gross understatement. But for a long time I didn’t know it was supposed to be any different. And for the most part I came away from it with a lot of positive outcomes, not the least of which is an endless supply of thrilling yarns I can spin at dinner parties.
I would like to know who you are. I didn’t have enough time to get to know you when I was 11. I have never heard what your childhood was like, and I don’t know who you are now as an adult. And I want you to know me. Just me. Not the me that I assume you remember, the me that is likely inextricably tied up in the father who wronged you, our brother, and our mother. I would like you to know my children, to be a part of their roots. I would like our husbands to know one another. Mark needs another die-hard flaming liberal ally – they’re a pretty scarce breed in southwest Indiana. I would like us to connect as adults, as fellow wives/moms/women, as sisters.
And if that’s not to be, if that’s something that you can’t or won’t do, either now or at some point in the future, then I hope you will tell me why. If you tell me to leave you alone then I will respect that, thank you for the closure, and continue to pray that you are blessed in ample measure.
I hope that your answer is that you pick me! but I understand of your answer is go away. I just hope that either way, your answer is not silence.
I’m a math and science kind of girl, but I wasn’t always. I used to be English and humanities all the way. Essay questions and creative writing assignments had ME written all over them. Imagination and creativity, woo hoo! About midway through high school, I figured out that there was a simple beauty in the objectivity of math and a balanced chemical equation. There was only one right answer, and you either knew it or you didn’t. No partial credit. No laboring over theme and diction and literary devices. Just plug and chug and get it done.
I’m still that black-and-white-and-very-little-gray kind of person. I like objectivity and definite answers. I prefer facts over emotions. I like the bottom line more than the details. I can get giddy over a label-maker. Flowcharts! Symmetry! Organization! Sigh…
So unknowns and hypotheticals are not my cup of tea. If I don’t know it, I tend to ignore it. When there’s a question taking shape in my mind and I don’t see a clear path to the answer, I just don’t ask the question.
I guess I channel my inner ostrich, and stick my head in the sand rather than wrestle with hard questions.
But this is something that I am having to get over, because there have been a lot of questions rolling around in my ostrich-brain over the last couple of months, and all of these questions seem to have the same answer:
I don’t know.
I find myself saying that a whole lot lately.
When did your mom and sister start menopause? I don’t know.
Have their mammograms always been clear? I don’t know.
My blank family medical history really isn’t all that new, though. I’m used to being unable to answer those kinds of questions.
It’s the new questions that are kind of throwing me for a loop:
Does my sister use Facebook often? Has she seen my Friend Request?
How will I know if she ignores or declines my request? Does it just say Friend Request Sent forever?
Does she read this blog? Does she know I want to reconnect?
How long will I wait?
Will I reach out again? How?
What does she remember about me?
Who is she, now that she is a wife and mom?
Some of the questions make me look deeper inside me:
What if my mother contacts me again?
Why did I reach out?
Why do I want to reconnect?
What do I want from this?
What would I tell her if I could?
What does my Maybe look like?
What is it about her silence that is so painful?
Some questions hurt a little bit more:
Why hasn’t she responded?
Is she silent because she hates me?
Can she not separate the pain wrought by my father’s abandonment from the hapless child he took with him? The child who is now grown and (hopefully) has her own identity?
Is she not curious at all?
Why doesn’t she want to know me?
I just keep saying: I don’t know.
When I reached out all those weeks ago, I figured the flowchart had three possible paths:
Get a positive response – this is where the Maybe is. This is where I can’t spend too much time hoping and wishing because… well, just because. This is me being an ostrich.
Get a negative response – this is where the Closure is. It may not be the response I’d hoped for, but it would be an answer. It may be rejection, but I would know. It would be final, definite, and unquestioning.
Silence – I think this is the path that I most feared. Or maybe it’s because I find myself on this path that I find it the most disconcerting. To me, silence = apathy. And somehow apathy wounds much deeper than rejection. In the silence are all these questions, and in answering – or trying to answer – these questions, there is a depth of hurt that I am just not able (willing?) to take on right now.
And so I just say: I don’t know.
And then I go back to my little hole in the sand.
Last Friday the NHS Concert Choir sang the National Anthem at the Evansville IceMen hockey game. Cool, right? In case you haven’t heard me prattle on and on about how proud I am of the Concert Choir, let me just say that I am super proud. Way proud. Uber-proud. Even someone like me, who is completely and totally music-stupid, is completely blown away by their talent. I am often moved to tears when I hear them sing. They are that good.
I was excited about a lot of things on Friday. I was going to see my first hockey game. I was going to see the brand new Ford Center. I was going to have another chance to hear the choir perform while I photographed them in a new venue. It was gonna be a big night.
Then I got a text message from Mark. Turns out that he had met an IceMen executive at a Chamber of Commerce meeting and through the wonder of networking he had scored us media access for the National Anthem. So instead of sitting in the stands, shooting through the glass, and hoping for decent shots, we would be given total access: we could go under the arena, in the tunnels, and even onto the ice to shoot.
Didn’t I tell you that being a photographer gets you in to some pretty awesome places?
So I started out on Friday morning being pretty excited. By Friday afternoon, after receiving Mark’s text message, I was pretty much over the moon excited.
Until I started to get scared.
Scared because going out on the ice to shoot meant that I would be on the ice. Ice. Slippery, treacherous ice. I don’t do well on ice. On those wintry mornings when the parking lot at work is a great big skating rink I do this weird little tiny-stepped duck-walk thing while holding my breath and giving new meaning to the scriptural command to pray without ceasing. It’s ugly. And I was afraid that going out onto that freshly Zambonied hockey rink would be even worse.
But here’s the kicker: I wasn’t worried about falling and hurting myself. I wasn’t worried about falling and hurting my camera. I didn’t care about broken bones or broken equipment. I was terrified that I would fall and embarrass myself. I was most protective of my pride.
All afternoon I tried to stuff that angst back down. I tried to look forward to this amazing opportunity. I tried to be excited about the great shots I would get. And when my Pride-monster would scream about the fear of humiliation, I tried to assuage that Pride-monster with promises of photographic glory. And that worked.
For a while.
Until it was time to go out on the ice. The lights dimmed. The music swelled. The carpet was rolled onto the ice. The choir waited, breathless with anticipation. My Pride-monster was raging inside, Humiliation and Glory locked in a fierce battle. I heard the booming voice of the announcer asking the 5,194 fans in attendance to please welcome the choir. This was it. The time for deliberating was done. I had to decide.
The team’s official photographer stepped onto the ice. Mark stepped out. The choir filed out on their safe carpet. And I didn’t move.
Mark looked back at me and I shook my head. I couldn’t do it. I shot from behind the glass. From a vantage point only marginally better than a seat in the stands. And with every shot I framed, I thought about how much better that shot would be if I could just get there. Right there. On the ice.
But I still didn’t do it. I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Whatever. I didn’t.
My shot from behind the glass
Here’s the deal: I stayed behind where it was safe because I was afraid. I had an amazing opportunity to do something I love in a way that very, very few people get to do… and my stupid pride kept me from doing it.
And that really pisses me off.
(Sorry for being coarse. I assure you that I tried for a long time to write around that sentence. But the bottom line is that there really isn’t any other way to say it.)
I firmly believe that both pride and fear have their place. Fear can keep us safe, and pride can keep your standards high. I’m all for healthy doses of well-placed fear and justified pride. Go team.
But fear for no good reason? Paralyzing fear that limits you, just because you don’t want to lose face? That’s tragic. And shameful.
Marks shot from the ice
What am I missing out on because I’m afraid of hurting my pride, or losing face, or failing? Isn’t there sometimes too high a price to protect a fragile ego? And if I decide the physical risks are worth it, then isn’t the risk of injury to my pride worth it too? How many opportunities do I miss because of a distorted mix of fear and pride? What do I give up when I give in to apprehension and vanity?
The next time my Pride-monster rears its ugly head, I want to squash it with a heaping helping of humility. I want to silence it with a great big wallop from my courage stick. Or at least drown it out with a hearty barbaric yawp. Because a missed opportunity is too high a price for saved face.
There are things about me of which I am less than proud. A lot of things, actually. I procrastinate. I do as little housework as possible. I routinely forget wet clothes in the washer and wind up with a damp, stinky mess. I act before I think. I am judgmental and overly critical. I truly suck at saving money.
And I allow bitterness to grow unfettered in my heart. I envy another’s wealth, possessions, life station, relationships, education, discipline… even hairstyle. Someone else’s grass is always greener. Always. I begrudge some of my fellow humans even the least bit of happiness or success.
Like I said… definitely not proud. Please don’t judge me.
Earlier this week we were watching The Biggest Loser. Two of the contestants faced off in a fierce head-to-head competition. One girl, after narrowly losing a physical challenge, cried foul and claimed her opponent had cheated. They had a rematch later in the show and the same girl lost once again. In classic sour grapes fashion, the twice-bested girl insisted that the physical battles didn’t matter because she knew she would win the war at the weigh-in. Except she didn’t. The other girl lost more weight. A lot more weight. Almost four times as much weight. While the victor, her teammates, and the teammates of the losing girl cheered this remarkable success, the defeated girl scowled and sneered and shook her head. She stood there, arms akimbo, and rolled her eyes as the other competitor enjoyed a brief happy dance. Wow, I thought. What a sore loser. She can’t stand for the other girl to have even a little bit of joy.
And while I sat there watching this sad, bitter girl doing a darn good job of being a black hole of joy… while I tut-tutted her pitiful envy and her hateful demeanor… while the previews for next week’s episode showed this girl’s teammates becoming fed up with her negativity and turning on her… a little voice inside my head was saying that’s you.
Yikes.
You know that feeling you get when you look at a poorly-timed snapshot of yourself? Your eyes are half-closed and you are mid-bite of some messy food and you didn’t have time to make sure your stomach is sucked in and your shoulders are straight and somehow your double-chin seems to have grown its own double-chin, and you think holy smokes… do I really look like that?
Yeah, that’s what I felt when I heard that little voice in my head. That’s you.
The funny thing about jealousy is that it works exactly the opposite of how you want it to. Begrudging someone their happiness is really saying, “I don’t want you to have this. I want it to be mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. You can’t be happy because I want to be happy. Not you. Me.”
Here’s the thing: the people I envy – scratch that. The people whose (fill in the blank) I envy can pretty easily be divided into two distinct groups:
- those whose joy would be truly lessened if they knew that I envied their (whatever), and
- those who would love to know that I envy their (whatever) because being envied would increase their joy exponentially
Either way, I don’t get what I want.
In the first group are the people whom I love and care about, and my jealousy would lessen the happiness of someone whose happiness truly matters to me. I may be projecting here, but I have to think that if they knew that their happiness and/or success caused me any degree of dismay, then their own happiness would be mitigated. Because that’s how I would feel if I would the happy one, instead of the joy-sucking one. I can’t fully enjoy my own happy dance if doing so causes someone else pain or dismay. When you get right down to it, when I begrudge someone’s happiness, what I am really doing is wishing them the opposite. And when I frame it that way, I shudder at the thought.
In the second group are the people that I know I am supposed to love but to be perfectly honest they make my teeth hurt. Ok, so that’s another thing I am not proud of: there are people that I just plain don’t like. I’m sure the feeling is mutual. I’m also sure that more often than not my level of dislike is completely disproportional to whatever slight (real or imagined) I have suffered at their hands. Also not proud of that. And I may be projecting again, but I’m pretty sure that if one of these folks knew that while they danced their happy-dance I was wishing fervently that the fabric of time and space would rip wide open and oops! they would happy-dance themselves right through it… well, I’m pretty sure that my dismay would only fuel their happy-dance fire. Because that’s how I would feel. Oh? You wanna try to suck my joy? Well here… let me show you just how happy I am ‘cause I got joy to share, honey. And while it may be true that I – once in a while – might wish that non-happiness would befall those folks who make my teeth hurt (wow, did I really just admit that?) the truth is that what I feel about them affects them about as much as their feelings about me affect me. Which is not a whole lot. But my bitterness definitely affects me. My jealousy serves only to make me miserable. When I let bitterness and resentment for someone else occupy my heart, then I don’t have room for my own happiness or the happiness of those I love. I have a limited amount of room in my emotional jug; I can fill it with bitter or I can fill it with sweet. Only I can choose. And once I fill that jug, lugging it around is my responsibility. And dang that bitterness is heavy.
Hmmm… I wonder what it could be like if I let it go?
It wasn’t all that long ago that I was in high school. Really. In fact, it was just a couple of weeks ago.
No, it wasn’t that dream where I’d forgotten to take my Calculus final and I had to go back to school and repeat my entire senior year. I was actually in high school. With high school students. And a teacher. All day long.
Even through lunch.
Scary, right? At least I didn’t have to go to gym. Because that, my friends, would have been just. Too. Much.
If ever you think you might want unfettered access to just about everywhere, become a photographer. Even my teenagers don’t balk at my presence because they know that my presence means they will have a complete photographic record of the eighth grade dance, the winter formal pre-party, behind the stage at the choir competition, and all the other events to which parents are usually flatly refused entrance. It works with surly ushers at performance venues, too. “I’m sorry ma’am, the audience is not allowed… oh, you’re a photographer. Right, of course. Step right this way.” Ditto for ticket-takers at festivals. “That’ll be a gazillion dollars admission, please. Oh, a journalist? Well, well, well. Welcome! Come in, come in!”
So that’s how I wound up spending the day in high school, photographing the retreat for the school’s uber-talented Concert Choir. I could go on and on about the amazing talent and impressive commitment of these 70 students and their indescribably brilliant choir director. And in another post I probably will go on and on about them. But this post is all about me. And what I saw. And what I learned.
I saw one teacher manage a room full of 70 teenagers without once raising her voice or even asking for their attention. I saw that when she was ready to speak, those students were ready to listen. I saw their complete and total dedication to an adult who inspires them. I learned that respect and commitment are far better disciplinarians than fear and intimidation.
I saw every color of socks you can imagine, but nary a matching pair anywhere. I learned that I no longer have to worry about the dryer eating just one sock, because matching socks are now completely out of style.
I saw a brand new, state of the art school building after just one week of classes. I saw high ceilings and natural light and wide-open spaces. I saw students taking pride in their school, and I learned that infrastructure matters. Great teachers and great lesson plans are most important, but comfortable facilities help a lot.
At lunch time I saw a sea of tables and faces. I saw kids who looked more than a little worried about whether or not they would have someone to sit with at lunch. I saw that I was more than a little worried about the same thing. And I learned that no matter how old you are, it’s all about having someone to sit with at lunch.
I saw a team-building activity that had students working together to problem-solve, communicate, plan, and overcome. I saw them face disappointment, the temptation to be less than honest, and frustration. I saw leadership skills displayed where shyness once prevailed. I saw teens encourage and cheer other teens, without regard to who was most popular or prettiest. I learned that high-schoolers don’t always deserve that bad rap.
I saw a group of kids that I have known for close to 12 years, most of whom I have had in my home, fed at my table, held while they cried, corrected when they’ve gone a little off-course, and cheered while they succeeded. I saw kids that I think of as my own, regardless of what DNA says. I saw them struggle with this team-building challenge. And I saw them fail. I learned that one of the hardest things to do as a parent is to stand back quietly and watch your kids fail. And I learned that letting them fail, and learn from that failure, is one of the best things a parent can do.
I saw a long loop of rope held above the ground represent an obstacle that the entire team had to overcome. I saw the kids quickly figure out that the success of the entire group was dependant on the success of its individual members. I saw them unite behind the common goal of making sure every individual overcame that obstacle. Then I saw that long loop of rope transformed as it linked each choir member in a large circle. Over and over I saw the entire group, as one, hold on to that rope while they sat down. Then the entire group, again as one, stood up in one smooth motion. I saw how, even for their strong young muscles, this movement from sitting to standing as one could never have been done without the help of the rope. Every person in that circle needed the rope in order to pull him/herself up. I learned that the same thing that challenges a team can be the thing which unites a team; the shared challenge becomes the team’s shared strength. And what once tried to best them will bring out the best in them.
I saw kids take what they saw and what they did and convert that into lessons about life. I learned that I am never too old to be a student, and a kid is never too young to be a teacher. And I learned that I am truly, richly blessed to be able to be a part – even in some small way – of these kids’ lives.
I heard on the radio one morning last week that it was National Mulligan Day (although the internet tells me that National Mulligan Day is actually October 17… as is National Pasta Day… and National Wear Something Gaudy Day… combining all three provides a rather interesting visual, doesn’t it?). No matter what the actual date is, the idea of a Do-Over day is intriguing. If copious offerings of Do-Over plotlines in Lifetime Channel movies is any indication, then I know I am not the only one who at least once in a while entertains an “If only…” thought. Just the other morning I was convinced that my high school social career could have been vastly improved if only I’d had a flat iron. Oh CHI, where have you been all my life?
The morning radio host asked the listening audience to call in and share how they would call a Mulligan on their life. One guy called and said he would go back to college and change his major to architecture. It’s what he had always wanted to do and even now, years later, he found himself dreaming of a career as an architect. A woman called and said that when her daughter was nine her husband had wanted out of the marriage. She said she hung on until her daughter was 17, but she wished she’d gone ahead and sent the guy packing when he first suggested it. She said she spent eight years in misery, but after she finally divorced her life improved greatly.
I spent a good part of today wondering where in my life I would call a Mulligan. The first night my dad let me borrow the convertible he gave me three conditions: don’t put the top down, don’t go anywhere except straight to your friend’s house, and do not let anyone ride in the car. When I got home that night I had to show my dad the speeding ticket. Speeding tickets in Los Angeles County are very detailed; it told my dad that I had the top down, had four passengers (in a car meant for two), and was speeding along a stretch of road very far from my friend’s house. I’m pretty sure if I had a chance to do that over I would make different choices. Yes, having all my friends piled in to my convertible Mustang was cool… for about 5 minutes. But then I spent the next several months of my junior year confined to my bedroom. Not so cool.
So I’d probably call a Mulligan on that ill-advised joy ride.
And that’s about it.
Don’t get me wrong; defying my father that night is not the worst choice I’ve made in my life. Not by a long shot. I’ve dated guys who were so wrong for me that I look back now and wonder if I was entirely sane back then. I sacrificed a quality education at a world-class university so that I could follow a boy… twice. I am (almost) solely responsible for the failure of my first marriage. I have made colossal parenting flubs that will, in all likelihood, make some therapist in Katherine’s future a very wealthy individual. And it has taken me far, far too long to learn the value of humility, generosity, and faith.
But if I look at a flowchart of my life… wait, I have to pause here for a minute to visualize my life as a flowchart. I love flowcharts. They speak to my left brain. So organized, geometric, and linear. So objective. Simple YESes and NOs and no subtle shades of gray. Sigh. Flowcharts are works of art, I tell you. Works of art.
Ok, back to my point. If I look at a flowchart of my life, I can’t pinpoint any one decision where I can say, “If only I’d chosen that path instead of this one, then my life would have been so much better.”
And here’s why:
Ain’t No Flowchart for Life
I can’t look at a diagram to show me the exact steps I should take in life. There is no pre-defined set of shapes that appear to tell me when I am making a decision, when to execute a process, when to start or stop a routine. Life is not organized. Or geometric. Or linear. On a flowchart, the diamond shape signifies a choice. Only two arrows can lead from the diamond: one for Yes, and one for No. In life, I have a whole lot more than a Yes arrow and a No arrow. And for every arrow, there is a different path. I’d love to have a map that shows me what lies ahead when I choose a particular path, but life doesn’t work that way. Not anywhere close.
Even Hindsight Ain’t 20/20
Arguably you could say that even if there’s not a flowchart for the future, you could come up with a flowchart for your past. Start -> Graduate high school -> Go to college -> Stay in college? Yes = success. No = failure. Really? Are you sure? Just like there isn’t a clear roadmap for the future, there is no diagram for what would have happened had you made a different choice back in the day. Remember Jurassic Park? When Jeff Goldblum said that a butterfly could flap its wings in China and it rains in Central Park instead of Los Angeles? Or something like that? That’s chaos, baby. That means that even when you look back at your life, there is no way that you can say without a doubt that this ONE thing is why your life turned out the way it did. I got married too young. I had a baby way, way too young. It’s possible that if I hadn’t been a mom at 20 then my life would have taken a very different path. Maybe I would have finished college. Maybe I would have stayed in Dallas. Maybe I would have gone into “business” with my dad. Maybe I would have been arrested. Maybe I would have become a mom at 21 instead of 20. Who knows? Yes, my life may (or may not) be different… but how do I know it would be better?
Ain’t No Rewind Button
No matter what path I take, life moves in only one direction: forward. I can’t wonder about where along my life’s journey I would take a Mulligan if I could… because I can’t. I also don’t wonder about where I would go if I had wings, or how much easier my commute to work would be if my car could fly. It’s not that I don’t have an imagination, or that I wouldn’t enjoy a flying car or the ability to fly all on my own. But while I’m imagining the flying car I may or may not have in the future, I still have to get to work today. And if I spend all my time and energy wondering what I could or should do-over in my past, then what will I miss out on in my present? The sticky thing about a Mulligan is that it’s really a regret, and the tricky thing about regret is that it’s not terribly productive. And it tends to get us stuck in the could-have-been, instead of the what-can-be or even the what-is. The truth is that every second of every day presents us with the opportunity to call a Mulligan. You don’t have to go back to some crossroads in your past to make that do-over decision because every day is a crossroads.
To the guy who wishes he had become an architect, I say: become an architect. Or don’t. Live the life you have always wanted, or enjoy the life you have right now to the fullest extent you can. Either way, don’t live your life in the could-have-beens. Because that’s not really living at all.
