The Wallflower

Can you see her? Just one woman among many, nothing outstanding or interesting about her. Average height. Average weight. Brown hair. Glasses. Looks friendly enough although she clearly has an air of reserve surrounding her. You think you might even know her when she smiles politely as your gaze flits over her, but just as quickly as you glance her way, your mind forgets all about her. She is one in a crowd. A shadow. A nobody.

But let's look at her a little more closely. She is shy, perhaps. And, most likely she is an introvert completely out of her element. Literally in this case, a wallflower, clinging to the edges in hopes that no one will notice. Yet, she is not detached. She isn't purposely isolating herself, just unsure how to break into a world in which she feels the outsider. She observes all that she is going on around her, picking up minutiae of other people's lives in hope that knowing more about these people will finally give her entrance into a world to which she doesn't really belong. She likes the people around her, thinks they are fun, interesting, good-hearted people. But, for reasons she herself does not understand, she is scared to join in conversations, thinking it better to be invisible than to be rejected. Self-conscious, she is afraid she will be found lacking in humor, charm, intelligence. Better to never be acknowledged than to be found wanting.

A skill honed from childhood, being invisible has its uses. If no one thinks you are listening, you learn some interesting if not random stuff. Sometimes, she wonders if she could make it as a spy considering how much information she has gathered over the years. Unfortunately, there isn't much use for intelligence about the day-to-day lives of modern Midwesterners who fall in the 23-40 age bracket, at least at this time. And it isn't like she is going to share what she hears. Doing so would violate her sense of loyalty, broaching an unspoken trust between her and the others. Still, people reveal more about themselves when they do not realize others are observing them, not only in what they say but in what they do. When you are invisible, you see what others are too distracted to see. 

Will she ever change? Intellectually, she recognizes what she does to "protect" herself from being hurt only serves to further isolate herself.  Yet, she cannot take that next step to make herself visible in this new world, to speak up and acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, people may be interested in what she has to say. Having spent so many years believing otherwise makes it difficult to change one's perspective. But, to be honest, she has made great strides over the years. There has been the rare occasion where silence became too quiet, the loneliness too isolating, and she rose above her shyness and was all the better for it, so there is hope. Still, those times were definitely the exception. She does hope that one day she will finally be able to reconcile what she knows rationally with what she feels--that she doesn't have to resign herself to a life in the shadows because she is somehow unworthy of any kind of attention. That sometimes, it isn't a bad thing to be in the spotlight.

Easter Reflection

Photo by: fourstuarts

First, I want to wish you all a happy Easter. I hope that it was a peaceful, joyous day for you all, that you enjoyed it how you had hoped.

When I think of the Easter of my childhood, bluebonnets immediately spring to mind. No matter what time of year Easter fell, it seemed that our backyard had a thick blanket of bluebonnets, just waiting to help us take the perfect Easter photos. There are several shots of my sister and I, bedecked in our matching dresses and hats, wading through the oasis of blue in an otherwise drab brown of the surrounding field. (Unfortunately, I do not have a copy of any of those photos at hand, so you are stuck with a stock image instead.)

There was an egg hunt, too. Never one to be very competitive, I looked for the more elusive ones that even my mom had forgotten, letting my sister make the mad dash to the more obvious ones. I knew better than to get in her way, even then, and really, the prize of a plastic pastel egg with a penny or dime in it was not really worth being tackled. Candy was reserved for the Easter basket, but even then it wasn't much. Maybe a hollow chocolate bunny, maybe a few Hershey kisses. I was never sure why that was, but when Easter candy showed up a few days later, I realized that my mom and grandma, ever the savvy shoppers, waited until everything was discounted before buying. I see the wisdom of their actions now, but as a child I admit feeling a bit deprived of the sugar-induced coma associated with the holiday. 

Present-Day Easter Basket -- Thanks, Mom and Dad for the flowers!

I more than able to make up for it this Easter as I gorged myself on jelly beans, chocolate eggs, and carrot cake. There may have been some other food involved, too, and lots of family around. Like with most family gatherings, at some point I ended up in the kitchen cleaning dishes (it is the quietest place in the house!).  My uncles managed to get something on the roof. My aunt herded the children around, making sure that they were running off their sugar highs. My grandma watched it all going on, enjoying the time with her family but also appreciating just how much we enjoy sharing in each other's company. It is all great fun, and it is amazing how fortunate I am to be a part of it all.

Still, I long for the quieter days where it was just a few of us, but I think it is the bluebonnets I miss most of all.

Brrr...

The sun may be shining and spring may be in the air, but judging by my clothing, you would never be able to tell. While I would love to trot out my spring dresses and short-sleeve shirts, I dare not in fear I will emerge from the office covered in ice. Instead, I come to work dressed in layers, never quite sure how many will be needed to fend off the piercing Arctic chill of the air conditioner. My wardrobe has witnessed an explosion in its cardigan population as the need to minimize any amount of bare skin has increased, and I fear what little fashion sense I do possess is eclipsed by the bulky yet practical sweaters I feel compelled to wear. I swear every day I flirt with the prospect of frostbite, and echoes of lectures about hypothermia symptoms resonate in my mind. Why, oh why, must it always be so cold?

Perhaps I exaggerate just a little. However, I know I am not alone in my struggle against the cold. I have seen others bundled up as much as I, some even resorting to mini-heaters (that last as long as they do not trip the circuit). Personally, I am not above hanging out in the stairwell for a few minutes to warm up if necessary. And, I have taken up drinking coffee in the morning just to have something warm to hold. (It helps remove the bluish tinge in my fingers) If it were more socially acceptable, I might even consider jogging a few laps to get the circulation going. Who knew part of the corporate lifestyle was centered on finding innovative ways to keep oneself warm?

Still, somehow I manage to get through the day, and it makes emerging into the sunlight all the more sweet when 5:00 p.m. rolls around. One of the benefits of working in a meat locker, I guess--it certainly enhances one's enjoyment of warmth!

Day of Rest...

Sunday used to be a day of rest, but the tradition of taking some time off to relax and recuperate from the other six hectic days of the week seems like something from the distant past. Long gone are the days of Sunday drives and Sunday dinners, days without agendas. Instead, it is just another day to be productive, to get things done. Something about our culture seems to encourage us to be on the go at all times, regardless of what our bodies, minds, or souls may say. No time for reflection, just more time to "do."

I am guilty of not taking time to rest and relax.  By 12:00 today, I had already made my grandma breakfast (homemade hash browns and a couple of eggs sunny-side up) and cleaned up the kitchen, mowed the lawn and tidied up the mess, taken a shower, and headed up to church for choir practice. Outside of the choir practice, if you add in weekly vacuuming, running errands, preparing meals for the rest of the week, and maybe a run to the library, you have my typical Sunday. If I do anything otherwise, I feel non-productive, as if I am somehow failing in being a good contributor to whatever--if I don't clean house, I am a lousy housekeeper. If I don't run my errands, I am not making good use of my down time If I don't exercise for x number of minutes, I am going to become a fat, lazy slob.

Now, I admit my evenings are quiet, but they usually are. And I guess that by most standards, I am fairly lazy. But I think back to when I lived in Wales, and I remember what it was like to live in a small town where every store outside of the grocery store was closed. There wasn't much one could do outside of hanging out with friends, reading, or taking a walk, so there was not any pressure to do otherwise. (Travel was also always an option, but limited funds sometimes precluded a trip to a larger town, and even then, many things had limited hours of operation.)

I recall how much I enjoyed my walk to church there, taking my time to stroll among the houses, no sense of urgency hastening my steps. I even lingered afterward to talk some with the members of the congregation, which is something I never do here. At some point during the day, I would sit in my room, BBC1 radio on in the background--nothing says relaxation than the quirky mix of techno, Brit pop, and the occasional Bhangra beat--and write in my journal. Sunday was my day to call home, too. Rain or shine, one could find me huddled in the little red phone booth outside the porter's office, checking on how things were going back home. Dinner with my friends lasted far longer than on any other day (there were times we were shooed away by the cafeteria workers). It was simple. It was quiet. It was amazing. I will acknowledge that many of my memories of Wales are surrounded by a warm, fuzzy haze that mitigates all of the negative thoughts and emotions from that time and accentuates all the positives. However, Sunday was consistently my favorite day of the week.

It wasn't easy at first to adjust to this slower pace. Initially, I felt there was always something I had to be doing otherwise. I felt like my day was wasted because I hadn't checked off an arbitrary number of "to-dos" from an imaginary list. Eventually, though, I embraced it, realizing that imaginary list bore no role in my greater happiness. Indeed, sometimes it caused an even greater distress, and I began to wonder what I had been missing in pursuit of being productive--what conversations, what experiences had been lost to complete one more task.

I wish I could recapture the Sundays in Wales. Sadly, as I have grown older, the outside noise has increased ten-fold, and it seems there is always so much more to do, so many things that need my attention that to take th time to shut it all out doesn't seem quite possible. I take that back. It is quite possible, but I am not sure I am ready to do something about it really. There are so many things right now that I want to change in my life, but I have, time and time again, underestimated the sheer force of inertia. It is possible to have the Sundays of yore, but it is difficult when it seems that everyone and everything are conspiring against you...and when you are your biggest impediment, it seems at least ten times harder. Still, it is with small steps that change can occur. Maybe sometime very soon, I will take the steps necessary to reclaim Sunday as a day of rest...and I will remind myself it is possible to stay unplugged for twenty-four hours and not have the world crash in around you.

It's Only Rain

As I type, I cannot help but listen to the sound of the rain falling on the carport outside my window. Occasionally, the steady stream is punctuated with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, just in case I had any doubts about the what the weather was like outside. No matter how hard the rain falls or how loudly the thunder roars, I feel no anxiety. This is a far cry from the feelings nighttime storms evoked in me as a child.

It may help to know that much of my childhood was spent living in a tiny mobile home in South Texas. Sitting several feet above the ground, tied down by what seemed to be tenuous threads of wire, this little trailer was all that separated me from the raging Texas storms and complete devastation. Needless to say, as the winds buffeted the trailer like a ship on a raging sea, the cacophony of pounding rain amplified ten-fold on the aluminum roof, I lay in my bed, wide awake, afraid that the next gust would blow the house away, that my parents and sister and my beloved pets who somehow managed to sleep through it all would not wake up in time, and that I would fail them by not saving them from destruction.  I was a bit of a worrier as a child, I admit, and my mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. Despite the indulgence in melodrama, my fears were real, acting far better than any caffeinated drink in keeping me alert. If a storm raged on, I maintained my lonely vigil in my self-assumed role as family protector until I was certain danger had passed. Even then, I slept lightly, unconsciously keeping an ear out for a sign that the worst had not moved on. Funny how something that can be so fascinating and even exciting during the day transforms into something so frightening and unrecognizable, and funny how I assumed the responsibility (needlessly, I realize now) for everyone in the house.

Storms no longer faze me. I can appreciate their power and respect what they can do, but I do not live in dread of what they can do. No, I have moved onto more insidious fears to tackle during the night, the kind that are not so tangible, those that are worse because they originate from within. As a storm seemed a million times worse during the night, my anxieties, insecurities, and worries are magnified to the point that I have a hard time keeping them in control. Even though a small part of my mind tries to keep everything in perspective, it is drowned out by the more persistent nagging from the day. I know that everyone has periods of time that they think back on the day or reflect on how there life is going, but I have the horrible habit of taking those small, normal things and adding layer upon layer of 'significance' upon it. I fret over my job (what if one day someone...myself included...discovered I have no clue what I am doing some days?), over interactions with my co-workers (should I have asked how they are doing? Should I have been more supportive? Did I offend them in some way by one of my off-hand comments?), over how I acted during my commute (I should've let that person merge instead of blocking them), and even over what I write in this blog (seriously, some of my phrasing in an earlier post seemed potentially offensive to the point I woke up at 3:00 to remove it from the entry).  

I am not sure when my fears changed. There is little outside of myself that I actively fear. I have come to accept that many of the things I used to fear are beyond my control. I can take certain measures to prevent them from happening, but in the end, there is only so much I can do. However, when it comes to dealing with everyday life, I am afraid of screwing it up. I am not really sure what that means except that maybe I am human (which, to be honest, some people have questioned in the past--me included). I want to be the best person I can be, but, typical of my perfectionist personality, anything less than that is unacceptable. Even more, who I am tends to limit my solicitation of support or perspective from others.  Just as I took on the vigil to keep my family safe at night as a child, I feel it is my responsibility to fix all my fears. (Kind of like somehow I got myself into this mess, whatever it is, so I must get myself out.) But unlike storms that eventually dissipate, these fears multiply. While the light of day does much to quiet them, once the shadows begin to creep in, it is hard to dispel them. In all honesty, I wish I could vanquish these shadows, at least long enough to quiet my mind for one good night's sleep.  

Countdown...

Seven weeks. That is how long I have until I embark on my latest adventure. Choosing my latest destination was not as easy of a decision to make as last year's trip--hiking and kayaking around Crete with the highly recommended Gap Adventures--so a lot of time and research went into this decision. However, once the decision was made, I jumped on it, booking my flight, my tour, and extra accommodations the very next day. It happened so fast, it even took me by surprise. Now, I am just counting down the days until I board that plane once again and am swept off to create even more fabulous memories in...Croatia.

Croatia? Not France or Germany or Italy? Well, yes. While I had flirted with the idea of each of those countries,  I was unable to decide just what it was I wanted to do there. I have already spent some time exploring Germany and Italy, and while France is on my list of places to visit, it just is not a top priority right now. However, as I was browsing through the information about Croatia, I felt drawn to its rich, complicated history and its diverse natural wonders. I stumbled upon a locally owned and operated tour company that offered a great tour of the National Parks for an extremely reasonable price. You can check out the tour here: http://www.huckfinncroatia.com/holidays/walking-national-parks.php.  And even though I wavered between this and a few other options, it was the first tour that truly made me take notice and say "I want to do that." Even though it takes me a while to acknowledge, my first instinct is always the one that I return to in the end, for better or worse...

I am ridiculously excited about the prospect of hiking several miles each day, enjoying the natural beauty of the area. Most people would question how this is at all relaxing or even remotely a vacation, but I have found that one of the best ways for me to connect to another location is to see it through its terrain. Many of my greatest memories of my times in Wales are associated with the strange outdoor adventures in which I and my travel companions engaged during our time there (hiking through mists so thick, you couldn't see in front of you, navigating the narrow confines of a cave, swimming in a frigid lake after your self-made raft falls apart...), and I have found that it continues to be the best way for me to embrace somewhere new. I won't say too much about why I travel...and particularly why my past few trips have been conducted solo...but there is something liberating to go somewhere completely different with nothing to rely on but yourself in many ways. It is a great challenge and a great reminder of all the things we are capable of and how easy it is to take for granted our lives at home...

Counting down is the hardest part. I have a few books to read to get me ready for my trip, and I have started listening to a CD with a few choice Croatian phrases (two that I hope I will not need: "I am innocent." and "I would like to contact my lawyer." Whoever put together this phrase book wanted to be sure to cover all kinds of scenarios, it seems...). While I know I won't be able to have a meaningful conversation in Croatian by the time I get over there, I will hopefully know how to say "Please," "Thank You," "Excuse me," and "Where is the bathroom?" Oh, and maybe be able to order something to eat and drink as well. (Lucky for me, English is widely spoken throughout. One of the benefits of other countries emphasizing the importance of multilingualism...) In another couple of weeks, I will go through the process of contacting my credit card company, arranging for rides to the airport, and finalizing any arrangements that are still up in the air. Also, I will need to do a bit more research on Slovenia, as I will take a side trip there before coming back home. And, because I was really curious about it, I booked a room in the capital Lljubanja (sp) in a hostel that was once a military prison. Not sure what possessed me to do so, but it should make for an interesting experience, which is what this is all about anyway.

What are your plans to get away? Which places, near or far, draw you to them and provide renewal?

In the Dirt

I got to play in the mud today, and it felt great. Having tackled the windows last weekend (I washed over twenty  in a little under two hours! Hurray for productivity), I was looking for another task to help out with the spring cleaning. Something that required little thought but plenty of activity. That is how I found myself crawling on the ground this morning, pulling up this pervasive ground cover that will not die. Its infinite tendrils had long since overtaken the garden bed where my grandma has a mix of flowers and ornamental shrubs, and I, in my naive hubris, sought to conquer it once and for all. Um, yeah, complete domination is probably still a couple mornings away, but I made great progress, I promise!

While I was tackling this ungainly foe, I couldn't help but wonder why it is I enjoyed working in the dirt. Usually, most people tend to shy away from getting their hands caked in mud, the legs of their pants stained with grass. On most days, I am one of them. Yet, today, as I was kneeling down, following the vines to their roots, freeing them from the grip of the soft earth, I relished the sensation of working the soil in my hands, not caring that my hands were caked in gray by the time I had finished. I appreciated the fact that I could do something so physical, so active without hesitance or difficulty. And not to get to esoteric or anything, but it really felt like this is what my body is made to do.

So often, in our world of cars and computers, it is easy to forget that in many ways, our bodies were designed to be active. I do my best to remain so, but I admit that sometimes it is so much easier to stay glued to my chair at night than to get up and do anything that requires movement. While our minds have come up with so many brilliant ideas to make our lives easier, the convenience of these inventions leaves something to be desired. I am not giving up my computer, my car, or my indoor plumbing just yet. But I am trying to be more aware of what goes into what I consume, and I would like to be more active in the creation process. As I fought the vines, I decided that this is something I would like to do more often (the gardening part of it all that is). In that vein, I hope to cultivate a small part of the yard and ready it to plant some seeds to grow a few of my favorite vegetables. This is something we did every year growing up, and I miss going out and searching for that night's side dish. Let's hope this year, I will be successful enough to do the same.

When I finally retreated for the day, I stood back a moment to see what I had been able to do. Where there was once a group of flowers choked by an alien being, now they stood out free to grow and breathe to their fullest ability. (Well, the ones that survived the removal process...I try to be careful, but graceful and delicate are not exactly my strengths...) Oftentimes, I feel as if much of what I do at work disappears into an abyss, and it is something I truly struggle with. I like to see results. And at least with this, I was able to.  Sure, I came out a little worse for wear, but what are a few scratches on the arms, sticks in the hair, and errant streaks of mud when you can feel as if you spent a few hours doing something that made a difference? Perhaps tomorrow, I will once again take up my clippers and forge ahead with the next round.

An Education

I miss school. Perhaps not so much the deadlines, the seemingly pointless essays and assignments, or the self-important lectures of arrogant professors (of whom, thankfully, I had very few), but I miss the free discussion of ideas, that in all honesty have little practical application but were still fascinating.

Most of the conversations I have at work are about Microsoft Excel, our perpetually challenged digital asset management system, or our beleaguered website. To be honest, conversation may be a generous term. Long strings of obscenities exchanged back and forth may be a more accurate assessment. It leaves a lot to be desired.

So it is with great wistfulness that I look back on discussions about abstract theories and ideas. Does the language we use really shape the way in which we perceive the world? By using 'phallocentric' language, do we really reinforce the already dominant patriarchal bias in our culture? Could one invention, the printing press, really spark a revolution of thought or were there other factors involved? Why has Western civilization played such a dominant role in the world to this point? How do we reconcile the different understandings of God without denigrating our own? 

To ask some of these questions in normal conversations seems absurd. Outside a traditional academic setting, most anyone I know would stare at me a moment after I asked and return to talking about the latest episode of "Dancing With the Stars." (Which then sparks the question "what is it about today's society that supports/encourages us to indulge in this kind of voyeurism; to elevate people from a certain field as being worthy of celebration and support?") And really, outside of satisfying my random curiosity, I admit these questions have no real practical application. Within the microcosm of academia, though, it makes sense.

Granted, I am idealizing the experience of education. I talk here in its truest form...where discourse is encouraged to test, to challenge previously held understandings in order to gain a better understanding of the world around us. With that understanding would hopefully come a desire to extend what we know to those around us. For knowledge gained and not shared is a waste, and as some might say, an immoral act. (My knowledge of philosophy is tenuous...as is much of the 'knowledge' I possess, so please forgive any overgeneralizations.) I just wish that I gave myself more opportunity to learn because as it stands, my mind feels stagnant, my ability to learn stifled.

Vanishing Acts

As many of you know, I walk. A lot. And it was during one of these regular perambulations at lunch today that I began to wonder, "What if I kept walking and never looked back?" I didn't have much on me outside of my Hallmark badge and my mp3 player, so at the time I wouldn't have gotten very far. 

But the idea kept tickling the back of my brain as I wandered around. What if I had had my car keys with me, my wallet?  What would it have been like to hop in my car, no explanation given, and just drive wherever the road led me? This is not the first time, and I am guessing not the last time, such thoughts have crept into my mind unbidden. I admit that there is nothing in my life that would require me to disappear, and for the most part, I would never want to. Still, I find the idea of leaving this old life behind completely, divesting myself of all baggage, good and bad, to start new alluring. No longer be Wendy, but choose for myself a new name, a new persona, a new everything. 

In my mind, I was working out how best not to leave a trace, the ridiculous knowledge from watching too many police shows clouding my mind with a Hollywood-type plan.  I would have to ditch the cell phone, the credit cards, find a way to create a new identity with all proper documentation. No longer could I rely on credentials obtained as my former self...hard work and charm would be the only way to secure a job in this fictional new life. I would have to change my behaviors perhaps even my appearance. (However, it seems to be I have that look about me where people assume I am someone they know. It can be annoying after awhile...I know I am not alone, but I feel a bit like I have been blessed/cursed with a face that blends in seamlessly into most cities, a face so...undistinguished  I could be any woman.) Crazy. A lot of work. Wholly unnecessary. Strangely, exciting.

After thinking about all the things that I would have to do, I began to wonder about those left behind. And that is where I began to realize how truly perverse the idea was. While it might seem exciting to plan, I couldn't live knowing about the worry I create for my parents and other family members. There would be challenges I would leave behind at work, gaps in things that I participate in regularly. Even if I were to somehow communicate my well-being to my parents, the "Why" would haunt them forever, I think. In novels, when a character purposely disappears, she may send loved ones an occasional postcard, never from where they currently are mind you, as reassurance that if nothing else, they are alive. But does that add more anguish to those behind?

Why was I thinking all this on a beautiful spring day? I am not sure. I could put it down to the fact that when I walk, I think, a lot. Mainly about me (because I am quite the narcissist in this way). Much of my life has been a struggle of me as I am with me as I want to be. In many ways, a clean slate would be far easier way to approach the world anew than taking who I am now and shaping it into who I know I can be. While my family and friends have always been nothing but supportive and understanding, they have only known me to be the reliable one, the responsible one. I am predictable. I am quiet and reserved. Shy to a fault. It is tiresome to be this all the time, but it is hard to act in a way out of character without fearing for a reaction from others. Instead of hearing questions or criticisms if I veer off my traditional path, it seems as if it would be far easier just to leave it all behind. As I am more and more seriously considering doing just this, it comes top of mind far more often. (This being "veering off my traditional path," not disappearing into thin air!)

I know I am not alone in my thoughts, but in many ways that isn't necessarily reassuring. It seems like a fun idea at first...exciting to try on a whole new persona...but what you leave behind still follows you, and really, your essential self remains the same. Or so I have learned. Perhaps this is why fiction exists. To give its authors a chance to adopt multiple personae and recreate these scenarios without ever having to drive on down the highway, catch that train to nowhere, or hop on that bus to the airport. Something for me to think about, I guess.

Have you ever felt 'this close' to running away from it all? What is the closest you have ever gotten? And, perhaps, would you say there are times it would be wholly justified?

(P.S. As I read the above questions, I had this weird feeling as if I am a teacher asking her class for personal reflections. Oops! Not at all intentional, I promise!)