Achievements and the art of raising (or lowering) your expectations

Many of us rate our lives according to our achievements.

Some point with pride to their college degrees, whether it is a Masters in Psychology, or an Associates in Electronics. Is one more of an achievement than another?

That, my friend, depends not so much on the destination, as the journey.

If you are the child of a wealthy family, never required to work while you attend college, with the choice of nearly any school to attend, then perhaps that Associates degree you received is not much of an achievement. On the other hand, if you worked your way through two years worth of classes two credits at a time while slinging burgers at McDonald’s and supporting your child... yes, that is an achievement to point out with great pride!

If you travel across the U.S from New York to California by train, that could be somewhat of an achievement, if you have always wanted to go to California. But if you make that same journey on a bicycle... well, it is all a matter of degrees, isn’t it?

If a young man wins an Ironman competition, there is no doubt he has achieved something. But what about the ninety-four year old man recovering from a stroke who manages to stand and take three steps on his new walker?

Yes, you knew this would get around to care giving at some point, didn’t you?

My point is... well, I don’t really have a single point here. Except, perhaps, that we all need to set goals, preferably difficult to achieve goals, and strive to attain them. Otherwise, we will simply sink into a predictably structured life, drowning in practicality in a long, colorless procession of days until boredom finally sucks us into our graves. (Yes, this is a quote from Nolen, from “The Rise of the Red Wolves.)

People sometimes wonder why I push my clients so hard. What difference does it make when you are ninety-four?

Well, it’s simple, really. Just refer to the quote above; life shouldn’t be like that, whether you have two months or two decades of if left to live.

Focus, please!

FOCUS!

A simple word, used as a noun or a verb, but with several applications either way.

The Oxford American Dictionary defines it:

n. 1) the point or distance at which an object is most clearly seen through a lens or by the eye.  2) a center of activity or interest.

v. 1) to bring into focus 2) to concentrate or be concentrated or directed (on  center, etc.)

I don’t know about you, but I go through times when I seem to have a maddening lack of ability to focus! Sometimes, it’s just my eyes; I’m not as young as I used to be, and it seems that as the years go by I prefer larger items on which to fix my gaze. Fortunately, this is a problem corrected with new eyeglasses.

The other kind of focus, the whole “concentrate or direct on center...” well, that is another issue altogether.

Take the past few weeks, for example. I have been writing... a lot! But my efforts have definitely lacked focus. I am currently working on four different novels.  (Five if you consider the brand new one that is attempting to be born, banging around in the back of my skull with restless glee. I have a theory that my chronic migraines are caused by the labor pains of these potential new babies, but that is a subject for another day.)

There, see? Four short paragraphs into this blog and already I lost focus and went off on a tangent!

Yes, this is where Rainie gets her tendency to be thinking odd and usually inappropriate thoughts all the time, when she probably ought to be concentrating on the situation at hand. Too often someone thinks I am paying close attention to their explanation of something (important or not, makes no difference) when in actuality my mind is a thousand miles or subjects away, racing down the autobahn of my subconscious with a full tank of gas and no brakes.

On occasion, if what I was supposed to be listening to is of real importance, I will stop the speaker and say, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I forgot to listen.”

Okay, yes, that is very rude, and truly, I rarely say it. Usually once I come back to the moment I can pick up the general gist of what was being said with a few well-placed questions, such as asking for a particular detail (time, place, whatever) to be repeated, and I can fill in the rest from there. It’s sort of how you figure out the meaning of a word you don’t know by the context in which it is used.

Of course, I am not always so unfocused. The thing is, I tend to be an all or nothing kind of woman, so what will happen (soon, I hope) is one morning I will open one of those multiple projects, type a word or two... and then not stop for hours. Eight, nine, twelve hours... it’s hard to say. I won’t stop to eat, and barely stop to relieve my bladder, and before I know it, another one of my babies has matured and is ready to go out on its own.

Right now, I have people cheering for the fifth book of the Rainie Series, the fourth book of the Red Wolf Series, and the sequel to “Shadow.” But I am leaning toward a rewrite on “Shattered World,” the very first novel I ever wrote. I don’t know which one will finally claim my full attention first.

Or maybe it will be the still unborn...

I’ll let you know, as soon as I focus.

For the sake of argument...

This blog isn’t about caregiving or  writing. It’s about being a human being.

You wouldn’t think this would be something to write about. I mean, we are all human beings, so we should pretty much know what it’s all about, right?

But it seems to me that some are better at it than others.

I know, I know, I said in an earlier post that it isn’t my place to judge. It isn’t, so I try not to, but the one thing that I can’t tolerate in my fellow human beings is... intolerance.

I am so weary of people defining others by one aspect of their humanity. So you meet a person and they are of a particular race or sexual orientation or size or even political bent, and right away you form an opinion based on that one fact.

I pity those that choose their friends that way. They are missing out on so much that people have to offer.

I have friends that are gay, straight, thin, fat, black, white, college educated, high school drop outs, geeks, former jocks and even... yes, even Republican! (and Democrats, if you want full disclosure.)

I can’t point to a single one of them and use a single word to describe them. I have fat, gay Republican friends and thin, geeky anarchist friends. The thing they all have in common, if I count them as truly a friend, is their willingness to allow each other to be different.

I argue with my friends; this is a good thing, and pretty entertaining. It wouldn’t be much fun to hang out with people who agree with me all the time. What sort of conversation would that make, a group of folks just sitting around nodding their heads and repeating the same old doctrine, like listening to the same song over and over and over...

Dullsville, man!

I want to hear differing points of view. I want to argue my points, and even, sometimes, be convinced that my point of view is wrong. That’s how human beings develop into better human beings.

I’ve been told I’m pretty smart and creative, and there are some who like my sense of humor. I’ve been called a hippie chick and been told I have an “old soul.” I have been told I have a wicked temper that some fear, and that I have a bit of a stubborn streak (okay, I could out-stubborn Ghandi on a hunger strike, if truth be told.)  I will accept all those things as part of who I am, but I will not accept any single one of them as a definitive description of “Melody.” You want me, you have to take the whole package, folks, or just keep on going.

But if you’d like to stop and argue the point for a while... well, come on in, I’ll put the coffee on.

Observation and the Meaning of Life

A friend a I were recently talking about being observant.

To be observant, you have to be a bit outside of yourself. You have to be focused on the world around you, and pay attention to it, in order to actually pick out details.

As a writer, I find this attention to detail crucial, but I don’t know if I am observant because I write, or if I write because I am observant.

I’m fascinated by details. I love trivia, and I tend to notice all kinds of details, from the subtle contrast of colors in a field of flowers, to the tick of a tire on the road when there is a pebble stuck in the treads. I notice insects when I am walking (I try hard not to step on bees when I am ambling barefoot) and subtle scents on the breeze. I can spend long minutes contemplating the color of a fallen leaf, or even study a simple object, such as a pencil, and wonder exactly how it was made.

I love to watch for nuances in people’s facial expressions as I speak to them, or, even better, when they are engaged in a task not involving me... no, I don’t mean that in a creepy way! I like to look at people sitting in the car next to me at a traffic light, and try to figure out from their facial expressions what they are thinking, and speculate on what kind of person they are or what kind of day they are having.

I think perhaps this is a habit (or skill, depending on how you see it) that helps with caregiving. I have learned to read people’s facial expressions to the point that I can often figure out what even my most uncommunicative clients are feeling. I once had a client who had aphasia (loss of ability to speak) resulting from a stroke. It was thought that he had also lost the ability to understand language. I wasn’t with him long before I figured out his brain was still clicking along in high gear, and he had a great sense of humor! Eventually he reacquired the ability to say a few words: “yes,” “no” and “damn it!” With those three utterances and facial expressions, we could pass a pleasant day together, communicating quite well.

If you know what you are looking for, it is almost impossible for someone to get away with lying to you, and you can know when the people around you are hiding pain or irritation, or even if perhaps they love you.

Most of all, though, paying attention to detail gives me a deeper appreciation for the world, with all its beauty, fascination... even its ugliness.

As Thelma will tell you, it gives my life meaning, because if I don’t live it like it does... it simply won’t.

Writers block, cooking, and floods... oh my!

I am suddenly very much in the mood to cook.

I plan to make mac & cheese, ham & beans, stuffed peppers.... and probably whatever else I can whip up out of the pantry.

I don’t really plan to eat all that. I’ll most likely pass it around to family, friends and my client. It’s the cooking I’m in the mood for, not the eating.

This, my friends, is a symptom of writer’s block.

I am currently working on three books: The fifth in the Rainie Series, the fourth in the Red Wolf series, and the sequel to “Shadow.” They couldn’t be more different, and each requires an entirely different mood to be written effectively. Now surely, one would think, my mood should match one of them, and I should be able to write...

But no. I am not quite cheerful enough for Rainie, not quite ticked off enough for Shadow, and not quite whimsical enough for Red Wolves.

So, I must cook.

The creativity in me has to seep out somewhere. Sometimes I play guitar, or draw (not well) or do free hand embroidery or even paint little pewter figurines representing the characters in my books. Like Rainie, I sometimes resort to poetry (although I don’t often write it on bathroom walls) or if I’m really desperate I will simply rearrange the furniture.

All of these things do the same thing for me; they focus my mind on minutia, and let some of that creative energy trickle out a bit so it relieves the logjam in my head. Often, in the midst of stirring a sauce, inspiration will strike, and I abandon the stove for the keyboard.

Usually I remember to turn the burner off, but sometimes... well, I haven’t burned the house down yet!  I did, however, flood the bathroom once. I started water in the tub, thinking a hot bath might inspire me. I went back to my office to make a note on something, and Word pulled me in...

Two hours later, the bathtub was quite full, and so was the bathroom floor... carpeted, mind you!

That was somewhere around chapter three of “Rainie Daze,” if I remember correctly... but clearly, my memory is not to be completely trusted, especially if I am in writing mode!

So for the next couple of days I will cook, and hopefully get kick started into writing... which book, I don’t know. It might depend how the sauce turns out!

Maybe at my next book signing I’ll be handing out bowls of ham and beans to my readers along with a signed copy of my books...