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...

An Author's Multiple Personality Disorder

It's four o'clock in the morning, usually my best time for writing, but it seems all my characters are still sleeping in those back rooms of my head where they go is between adventures.

I read somewhere a long time ago that four A.M. is the best time to launch an attack on someone. That's the time that most people's circadian rhythms are the lowest, and they are most vulnerable. At the time I read it, I wondered about the ones launching the attack; shouldn't their energy levels also be ebbing?

"Ah," I say to myself, (and myself listens eagerly, always excited to hear a revelation) "not all of us march to the same drummer." Some of us clearly pulse to a different rhythm, and four in the morning is when we peak. It seems then, that we insomniacs could take over the world... but unfortunately most of us seem to prefer to spend our time at serious introspection.

Or writing. Which some might consider an introspection of another sort. All those characters, after all, do come from within my own mind: Rainie, Jack, Thelma, Nate and Phenny, George and Katrin... I suppose in some way they are all aspects of me. Does that make me Sybil, suffering from multiple personality disorder?

Some might think so, when I explain how it can be when I'm writing. How sometimes I am shocked by the way my characters behave.

"How is that possible?" I'm asked. "You are doing the writing, the characters do what you tell them to do."

Well, not so much. I start a character with a very basic personality and no more than an outline so far as looks go. For instance, maybe it is a woman with a sense of humor and high intelligence, medium build, brown hair.

Imagine you are meeting someone at a party for the first time, and this is all the description you are given of her. You might form a few opinions of what she will be like, but then you meet her and spend an evening with her.

You are surprised to discover that her brown hair is actually a stunning shade of auburn, and she has nearly golden colored eyes that keep you almost mesmerized. You hear her discussing string theory with someone as if she has studied it since birth, but the next minute she turns and guffaws at a fart joke with a laugh so contagious the whole room cracks up.

Suddenly a fire breaks out at the party, and this woman heroically throws a man over her shoulder when he is overcome by smoke and carries him outside before returning to the burning room to rescue a couple more...

Now, if asked the next day about this woman, would you repeat the description you were originally given? Probably not, because you know so much more about her beyond brown hair and a sense of humor.

That's how it is with my characters. And as I get to know them, I get to understand how they will behave in certain circumstances, and if I try to write them behaving in a way that is counterintuitive, they will balk. They simply will not do it.

Now, don't get me wrong; they often surprise me. Just like my friends in the "real world," they can do unexpected things that make me laugh, or cry, or simply shake my head. That's because human beings are unpredictable... which is why I like them so much.

And that includes the human beings that are currently napping in the deep recesses of my head, waiting for the next adventure.

 

 

The truth about lying...

Have you ever told a lie?

Most people have, at one point or another in their lives. It can be useful as a form of self-preservation (Suzie, did you break Grandma’s antique china dish? No Mommy, I don’t know how that happened....) and it is also an important social tool (Hey, honey, do you think I’m too fat? No dear, you look wonderful...).

Some lies are told to others, some to ourselves. Even the most introspective person needs to lie to themselves once in a while, or facing our imperfections would become overwhelming and we’d end up rocking in a corner somewhere, wearing a hair shirt and flogging ourselves with a knotted rope. Ok, maybe not that bad, but you see what I mean.

There are a lot of people who lie to better their own positions, in work, in relationships, even to get a better place in line at the grocery store. There are people who seem to tell lies as a matter of course, to make themselves look better or maybe just because it amuses them.

I have always had trouble telling a lie. I blush and stammer and look away, sure that I will be confronted and then die a slow death of embarrassment.

But caregiving has taught me the usefulness of some lies.

For a time I took care of a wonderful elderly man who was in a nursing facility. This was a beautiful place, well laid out and clean, but the staff... not so much.

During the course of my day with Mr. Smith (there, a lie... that is not his real name) I would have occasion to interact with the other residents. There was one very sweet lady, a retired schoolteacher I will call “Mary.”

Mary’s husband had died some years before, but she was long lost in the dark woods of dementia, and didn’t remember that. She would sometimes walk around the facility, asking if anyone had seen her husband “Bill.”

“No I haven’t, Mary,” I would tell her. “Maybe he isn’t home from work yet.”

“Oh, you’re probably right!” She would say brightly, and go on about her day. She might come and ask me the same question a few minutes or an hour later, but the same answer would satisfy her.

A lie. I could tell it without the slightest stammer or averting of eyes, because in that case it was a kindness.

Sadly, the staff didn’t see it that way. They were told to “keep the residents oriented. Tell them the truth.”

So, one day I was sitting on the sofa with Mr. Smith, and Mary came running in, sobbing almost hysterically. She had asked one of the staff members if they had seen her husband, and the staff member had bluntly told her “Your husband is dead.”

Mary, thinking that she was twenty years in the past, believed that this tragedy had just happened. She curled up next to me, crying her heart out, having just lost the love of her life.

And so I told her another lie. I told her that staff member was just being cruel, that of course Bill wasn’t dead, he was at work, it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, after all. He was probably sitting in his office sipping a cup of coffee.

After some discussion as to why that staff member would be so cruel (it helped that Mary had been a schoolteacher for years, and understood the ways of bullies) she finally calmed down, and went back to wandering the facility, waiting for Bill to get home from work.

I went in search of that staff member.

It was not a lie when I told her I would come looking for her if she did such a cruel thing to Mary or any other resident again. Did I threaten her with bodily harm? Don’t be silly, I’m a caregiver, I don’t resort to violence...

I have no idea why that woman avoided me with a look of fear in her eyes thereafter (why am I blushing and averting my eyes while I write this...)

I do know, she never again told Mary that her husband was dead.

So go ahead, call me a liar. I’ll wear the label proudly if it saves a lonely old woman from grief.