WHERE THE WATER RUNS: Nancy's Green Book
April 1, 2019
Sizing Up Friendships: Spring Cleaning Isn't Just for Closets
Photo Credit: Trung Thanh
As a young woman, I assumed that friendships mellowed and improved over time, much like cheese and wine, growing richer and more precious through some mysterious, organic process. It was a great comfort to assume that, by the time I reached middle age, I would be surrounded by only the strongest, most gratifying inner circle-bonds.
But things didn’t really turn out that way.
Instead, I discovered that relationships require care, attention and sometimes a brutally honest look at whether or not they still work. Unhealthy, dysfunctional friendships - whether casual, work-based or those that began in childhood - can sap our life force and lead to a toxic mix of misery and resentment. Addressing the problem can be a formidable task, one that most of us would sooner avoid than embrace. But digging in can be well worth the effort.
The science of strong friendship
According to the May Clinic, friends “play a significant role in promoting your overall health. Adults with strong social support have a reduced risk of many significant health problems, including depression, high blood pressure and an unhealthy body mass index (BMI). Studies have even found that older adults with a rich social life are likely to live longer than their peers with fewer connections.”
A 2014 research paper published in the National Center for Biotechnology Information (NCBI) reports: “Friends may promote our financial success, health, and even survival. Social exclusion and the loss of social partners result in feelings akin to physical pain, and deficits in the ability or motivation to form and maintain friendly relationships are a symptom of pathologies like autism and depression.”
Why do friendships deteriorate?
What do you do when friendships go wrong?
Relationships that whittle away your sense of self will most likely unwind over time, either by choice or circumstance. When this happens, you may be left with a profound sense of loss but may also breathe a huge sigh of relief. Give yourself the permission and freedom to gravitate toward people that feed you.
It’s a win-win.
But things didn’t really turn out that way.
Instead, I discovered that relationships require care, attention and sometimes a brutally honest look at whether or not they still work. Unhealthy, dysfunctional friendships - whether casual, work-based or those that began in childhood - can sap our life force and lead to a toxic mix of misery and resentment. Addressing the problem can be a formidable task, one that most of us would sooner avoid than embrace. But digging in can be well worth the effort.
The science of strong friendship
According to the May Clinic, friends “play a significant role in promoting your overall health. Adults with strong social support have a reduced risk of many significant health problems, including depression, high blood pressure and an unhealthy body mass index (BMI). Studies have even found that older adults with a rich social life are likely to live longer than their peers with fewer connections.”
A 2014 research paper published in the National Center for Biotechnology Information (NCBI) reports: “Friends may promote our financial success, health, and even survival. Social exclusion and the loss of social partners result in feelings akin to physical pain, and deficits in the ability or motivation to form and maintain friendly relationships are a symptom of pathologies like autism and depression.”
Why do friendships deteriorate?
- Lopsided Listening: Not every visit with a friend can be perfectly balanced (nor should it be), but if you’re listening to endless complaints and problems without any reciprocal attempt by your friend to engage you, it could lead to an unhappy dynamic.
- Toxic Topics: If a friend seems more interested in gossiping about others than engaging with you, try a gentle redirect. If that doesn’t work, you might want to set clear boundaries. Catching up on goings-on about town is one thing, but rumor mongering is another. Besides being a poor use of your time together, it generates negative energy (not to mention that they may be doing the same thing with others—possibly at your expense).
- The Drag Factor: Friendships should nurture and lift you, not drag you down. If you feel worse after every get-together and find yourself dreading the next one, it’s possible the friendship is doing more harm than good.
- The No-Show: If you’re consistently disappointed by a friend who fails to follow through on plans or cancels at the last minute, resentment is sure to follow.
- To Grow or Not to Grow? If you’re friends with someone long enough, chances are you will face one or more life challenges that could spark a personal growth spurt and/or spiritual enlightenment. If your friend doesn’t embrace these changes or, worse, makes it clear they preferred the “old you,” consider it a red flag. Validation and respect are vital components to any healthy relationship.
What do you do when friendships go wrong?
- Talk about it: There’s nothing to be gained by avoidance. Having an open and honest discussion with a friend provides an opportunity to deepen your connection. If they resist or shut you down, take it as a sign that you may have outgrown the relationship. People sometimes equate speaking up with creating drama and conflict – but addressing an issue openly with kindness and compassion is the most respectful path. Refusing to answer calls, emails or texts, on the other hand, is hurtful and leaves the other person unsure of what they did wrong.
- There are ways to say things: Talking through a bump in the road is about speaking truth and taking up space, not about inciting hostility and vitriol. It’s best to start such a conversation on a positive note, emphasizing that you care deeply about the connection, but then make yourself heard by sharing your feelings in a measured but firm way.
- Know when to say when: Don’t let fear of confrontation keep you in a toxic friendship. If you feel like it’s time to part ways, listen to your intuition. A little space and time can create an opportunity for reconciliation down the road (or not). In the meantime, self-care is key to keeping yourself grounded.
Relationships that whittle away your sense of self will most likely unwind over time, either by choice or circumstance. When this happens, you may be left with a profound sense of loss but may also breathe a huge sigh of relief. Give yourself the permission and freedom to gravitate toward people that feed you.
It’s a win-win.
March 6, 2019
Fear of Middle-Aged Regret? Sing in a Band
To mark the occasion of my fortieth birthday (let’s just say it was a while ago), I decided to do something that scared me. Not bungee jumping or race-car driving - something far more terrifying.
I decided to sing in front of people.
Having suppressed my desire to sing for over thirty years, the milestone birthday magnified the possibility that fear might win both the battle and the war, that I might go through the rest of my life wondering if I could have done it and, ultimately, regretting that I hadn’t tried.
Everyone has regrets…missing an epic shoe sale, buying a lime-green car, lending money to a friend - all regrettable decisions. But I was suppressing something that fed my soul and that gave me joy from the inside out. The only thing preventing me from singing was my negative inner dialogue, and to battle that kind of monster meant being less comfortable with the threat of regret than with the prospect of utter humiliation.
Although it didn’t occur to me then, I was also building resilience for my older years. A study conducted by German researchers (and reported in the journal Science) concluded, “disengagement from regret reflects a critical resilience factor for emotional health in older age.” All well and good, but little comfort from the still painful memory of a disastrous high school audition for Pippin. Still, I opted for fight over flight, and braced for the battle the only way I knew how - one step at a time.
Step One: Find a Helper
Finding a voice teacher felt like a good start: If I could sing in front of one person, maybe courage would take root and grow. I found Christine, a petite Bohemian with a mop of black hair drawn up into a salt-and-pepper souffle on her forehead. Her modest, welcoming home smelled of curry and patchouli, and I was awestruck by her rich, velvety voice and how effortlessly she summoned it. Her hands waved in flourishes as she led me through nose-vibrating scales and vocal exercises replete with la’s, eeeeh’s and oooohs. Although sounding more like a wounded animal than a vocalist, I came through the process a bit less unnerved by singing, if not more bold.
After several months, Christine introduced me to her son, Rob, an accomplished musician who ran a recording studio in town. Rob quickly became a mentor, teaching me how to sing into a mic and how the recording process worked. Then, after a few months, he said, “It’s time for you to find a band.”
Step Two: Push the Envelope
Sure. I’ll just go ahead and find a band.
It was 2001, long before the days of the pajama-pants-internet-search. Rob told me that a local music store was holding auditions to put bands together - the mere thought of which sent shivers up my quickly weakening spine. But I felt compelled to capitalize on the small measure of courage I had managed to muster, so I took a slot.
Driving to the audition, I recited out loud:
Act like you’ve done this a thousand times before. If you hesitate, you’re toast.
I felt lightheaded, my mouth was parched, and I couldn’t even embrace the consolation that no one would be posting my blunder on Instagram.
Step Three: DO IT
Against all odds, I convinced the guy at the audition that I had taken a break from the music scene for a while but was ready to get back in the game (saved again by the YouTube-less world). If memory serves (which it usually doesn’t) I sang a Bonnie Raitt tune. I closed my eyes for most of it, swaying and rocking as if transported by the song (but really imagining myself riding a unicorn on the beach while wrapped in a cotton candy blanket).
When I opened my eyes, the guy was still in the room. A victory. Then he said he liked my blues-y voice. Another one. But when he said he had three players he thought would be a good match for my sound, I smelled cotton candy.
And, just like that, I was in a band.
We called ourselves The Rolling Heads and started weekly rehearsals. And, like in most of life’s creative endeavors, one thing led to another. And another. And a few others.
That was nineteen years ago, and I’ve been singing in bands ever since. I’m grateful each time I face an audience of listening faces, and I embrace every opportunity to collaborate with other musicians. That first, petrifying audition was a pivotal step in learning that convincing myself was the key to it all, one that opened a gateway to discovery and deep fulfillment.
Fear and the will to fight it, as it turns out, make a beautiful duet.
I decided to sing in front of people.
Having suppressed my desire to sing for over thirty years, the milestone birthday magnified the possibility that fear might win both the battle and the war, that I might go through the rest of my life wondering if I could have done it and, ultimately, regretting that I hadn’t tried.
Everyone has regrets…missing an epic shoe sale, buying a lime-green car, lending money to a friend - all regrettable decisions. But I was suppressing something that fed my soul and that gave me joy from the inside out. The only thing preventing me from singing was my negative inner dialogue, and to battle that kind of monster meant being less comfortable with the threat of regret than with the prospect of utter humiliation.
Although it didn’t occur to me then, I was also building resilience for my older years. A study conducted by German researchers (and reported in the journal Science) concluded, “disengagement from regret reflects a critical resilience factor for emotional health in older age.” All well and good, but little comfort from the still painful memory of a disastrous high school audition for Pippin. Still, I opted for fight over flight, and braced for the battle the only way I knew how - one step at a time.
Step One: Find a Helper
Finding a voice teacher felt like a good start: If I could sing in front of one person, maybe courage would take root and grow. I found Christine, a petite Bohemian with a mop of black hair drawn up into a salt-and-pepper souffle on her forehead. Her modest, welcoming home smelled of curry and patchouli, and I was awestruck by her rich, velvety voice and how effortlessly she summoned it. Her hands waved in flourishes as she led me through nose-vibrating scales and vocal exercises replete with la’s, eeeeh’s and oooohs. Although sounding more like a wounded animal than a vocalist, I came through the process a bit less unnerved by singing, if not more bold.
After several months, Christine introduced me to her son, Rob, an accomplished musician who ran a recording studio in town. Rob quickly became a mentor, teaching me how to sing into a mic and how the recording process worked. Then, after a few months, he said, “It’s time for you to find a band.”
Step Two: Push the Envelope
Sure. I’ll just go ahead and find a band.
It was 2001, long before the days of the pajama-pants-internet-search. Rob told me that a local music store was holding auditions to put bands together - the mere thought of which sent shivers up my quickly weakening spine. But I felt compelled to capitalize on the small measure of courage I had managed to muster, so I took a slot.
Driving to the audition, I recited out loud:
Act like you’ve done this a thousand times before. If you hesitate, you’re toast.
I felt lightheaded, my mouth was parched, and I couldn’t even embrace the consolation that no one would be posting my blunder on Instagram.
Step Three: DO IT
Against all odds, I convinced the guy at the audition that I had taken a break from the music scene for a while but was ready to get back in the game (saved again by the YouTube-less world). If memory serves (which it usually doesn’t) I sang a Bonnie Raitt tune. I closed my eyes for most of it, swaying and rocking as if transported by the song (but really imagining myself riding a unicorn on the beach while wrapped in a cotton candy blanket).
When I opened my eyes, the guy was still in the room. A victory. Then he said he liked my blues-y voice. Another one. But when he said he had three players he thought would be a good match for my sound, I smelled cotton candy.
And, just like that, I was in a band.
We called ourselves The Rolling Heads and started weekly rehearsals. And, like in most of life’s creative endeavors, one thing led to another. And another. And a few others.
That was nineteen years ago, and I’ve been singing in bands ever since. I’m grateful each time I face an audience of listening faces, and I embrace every opportunity to collaborate with other musicians. That first, petrifying audition was a pivotal step in learning that convincing myself was the key to it all, one that opened a gateway to discovery and deep fulfillment.
Fear and the will to fight it, as it turns out, make a beautiful duet.
June 13, 2018
My Father was a Martian
As Father's Day approaches, and we ask our readers to share stories of their family celebrations, I celebrate the memory of my father and the unique gifts he brought to my world.
My father was a Martian.
At least that's what he told me and my sister to explain his vast and seemingly limitless knowledge. And, given the ease with which he answered almost any question, we weren't sure he was kidding. How bridges were built, the habits of honey bees, why cream did that swirly thing when you poured it into hot coffee - he explained it all with ease and resolve. Dad rebuilt cars, brick walls, even the broken-down hair dryer came back to life in his able hands. He made his own liquors, brandied fruit and sourdough bread. And, although a more plausible explanation for his Renaissance-like inventory of knowledge and skill might have been his natural curiosity or the fact that he was a voracious reader since childhood, he defaulted to the extra-terrestrial.
Go big or go home, I guess. Mars was his story and he was sticking to it. However, on a practical level, all evidence pointed to the contrary.
I once asked, “Where are your antennae?”
“Surgically removed,” he explained, “so as not to scare you earthlings.”
Questions about his skin color (I wondered why it wasn't green) only triggered a lecture - why ever would I assume that Martians had green skin? Was it randomly conjured depictions on television and in comic books? I suppose so.
But if he were a Martian, then what was I?
“Half-Martian,” he quipped, shoulders shrugged and palms up to punctuate the sheer obviousness of it all.
In the late 1960s, when the four of us made a cross-country trek to Utah to visit my dad's family, vindication seemed imminent. Grandpa Russell would never lie to me. So, when we arrived at the beautiful house in Millcreek Canyon after five dusty days of driving, I wasted no time in asking, "Is daddy from Mars?"
With a glisten in his eye and a stony smirk, my grandfather answered, "Yes, he is."
At least that's what he told me and my sister to explain his vast and seemingly limitless knowledge. And, given the ease with which he answered almost any question, we weren't sure he was kidding. How bridges were built, the habits of honey bees, why cream did that swirly thing when you poured it into hot coffee - he explained it all with ease and resolve. Dad rebuilt cars, brick walls, even the broken-down hair dryer came back to life in his able hands. He made his own liquors, brandied fruit and sourdough bread. And, although a more plausible explanation for his Renaissance-like inventory of knowledge and skill might have been his natural curiosity or the fact that he was a voracious reader since childhood, he defaulted to the extra-terrestrial.
Go big or go home, I guess. Mars was his story and he was sticking to it. However, on a practical level, all evidence pointed to the contrary.
I once asked, “Where are your antennae?”
“Surgically removed,” he explained, “so as not to scare you earthlings.”
Questions about his skin color (I wondered why it wasn't green) only triggered a lecture - why ever would I assume that Martians had green skin? Was it randomly conjured depictions on television and in comic books? I suppose so.
But if he were a Martian, then what was I?
“Half-Martian,” he quipped, shoulders shrugged and palms up to punctuate the sheer obviousness of it all.
In the late 1960s, when the four of us made a cross-country trek to Utah to visit my dad's family, vindication seemed imminent. Grandpa Russell would never lie to me. So, when we arrived at the beautiful house in Millcreek Canyon after five dusty days of driving, I wasted no time in asking, "Is daddy from Mars?"
With a glisten in his eye and a stony smirk, my grandfather answered, "Yes, he is."
May 13, 2018
Of Moms and Memes
The definition of meme (noun) is two-fold:
a. A cultural item that is transmitted by repetition and replication in a manner analogous to the biological transmission of genes.
b. A cultural item in the form of an image, video, phrase, etc. that is spread via the Internet and often altered in a creative or humorous way.
a. A cultural item that is transmitted by repetition and replication in a manner analogous to the biological transmission of genes.
b. A cultural item in the form of an image, video, phrase, etc. that is spread via the Internet and often altered in a creative or humorous way.
With my daughter, Shawn
|
As the mother of two adult children, I have played the role of both mom and meme - proud of my son and daughter and of the fine humans they have become and pleased with the values I have transmitted by repetition and replication. Not so much my penchant for organization - their bedrooms underscore the failed transmission there - but more the value I place on compassion and kindness, on respect and generosity of spirit. They each, in their own inimitable way, approach life soulfully, with great integrity as well as intense vulnerability. I've tried to strike a balance between protecting them from inevitable hurt and allowing them to navigate the rough waters toward growth - an unenviable spot to live in, but that's motherhood.
|
With my son, Jimmy
|
I've witnessed my kids mold and weave these tenets into their worlds through everyday kindnesses, with poise and integrity, through their disdain for bullies and disrespect - all shining moments for a mother to enjoy. But even more profound is the experience of seeing the embodiment of these values in how my children care for me. During times when I've been at my worst, warts in plain view, when my actions seemed to fly in the face of the very values I've touted as so dear…they have never judged me harshly or held a grudge. I've made some big mistakes, yet they embrace me just as I am and love me unconditionally, foibles and all.
As a parent, I have strived for authenticity over perfection, to teach my children that failing doesn't make you a failure, but rather makes you human. They have seen it firsthand in me, and they've grown up understanding the messy organisms that we all are. Layered, complex and full of contradiction, the best we can do is just that…our best. I see it in my kids every day, and it fills me with pride. Whatever "items" I may have transmitted to them over the years have blossomed well beyond anything I could have hoped for.
As a parent, I have strived for authenticity over perfection, to teach my children that failing doesn't make you a failure, but rather makes you human. They have seen it firsthand in me, and they've grown up understanding the messy organisms that we all are. Layered, complex and full of contradiction, the best we can do is just that…our best. I see it in my kids every day, and it fills me with pride. Whatever "items" I may have transmitted to them over the years have blossomed well beyond anything I could have hoped for.
April 15, 2018
Find Your Fear to Find Your Happy
The mission of Sanctuary is to empower and inspire, to create a sisterhood of women that can usher each other toward the most fulfilled versions of themselves. The idea here is that we are bigger together than we are apart...that as a community we can pave a path toward overcoming hurdles and self-doubt by sharing knowledge, purpose and passion.
The process has to start, however, with finding your own sanctuary.
Where is yours?
The process has to start, however, with finding your own sanctuary.
Where is yours?
#WheresYourSanctuary
Photo Credit: Evelyn Brokering
The conversations we have with ourselves lay the foundation for everything we do, for all of our thoughts, beliefs and, perhaps above all else, our FEARS. Fear will trip you up every time – if you let it. So, maybe you can find your sanctuary by identifying what scares you the most - and in so doing, take the first step out of the fear and toward your happy.
Fear is personal and can be very tough to pinpoint. Humans are layered and complex, after all, and have an uncanny ability to accommodate and adapt to deeply-rooted thought processes. But by digging into ourselves and our remote areas of consciousness, we can usually uncover the things that are holding us back.
Give it some thought. Maybe it's a job, a relationship, or a dream that you keep talking yourself out of. Or maybe you just feel stuck in a mindset, unable to shift the way you think about your world and your path forward. If you can find your fear, I'll bet you can flip that into your happy - your sanctuary.
I'm not suggesting that the process is either easy or quick, but there's nothing more important. So…why not start?
#WheresYourSanctuary
Fear is personal and can be very tough to pinpoint. Humans are layered and complex, after all, and have an uncanny ability to accommodate and adapt to deeply-rooted thought processes. But by digging into ourselves and our remote areas of consciousness, we can usually uncover the things that are holding us back.
Give it some thought. Maybe it's a job, a relationship, or a dream that you keep talking yourself out of. Or maybe you just feel stuck in a mindset, unable to shift the way you think about your world and your path forward. If you can find your fear, I'll bet you can flip that into your happy - your sanctuary.
I'm not suggesting that the process is either easy or quick, but there's nothing more important. So…why not start?
#WheresYourSanctuary
March in Minneapolis with Jonatha Brooke
March 19, 2018
I have followed Jonatha Brooke's musical career for the better part of 20 years. She is a highly acclaimed singer-songwriter with four major label releases, and nine CDs on her own label, Bad Dog Records. She has also written for film and for other artists (Katy Perry, Madeleine Peyroux, Lizz Wright, Joe Sample).
I have followed Jonatha Brooke's musical career for the better part of 20 years. She is a highly acclaimed singer-songwriter with four major label releases, and nine CDs on her own label, Bad Dog Records. She has also written for film and for other artists (Katy Perry, Madeleine Peyroux, Lizz Wright, Joe Sample).
Nancy (left) with Jonatha
|
From the moment I first heard her, I was rapt by her songwriting (the melodies, poetic lyrics, themes), her rich, silky voice, and her effortless and skilled guitar playing. I aspired to embody that creative freedom of expression, her songs quickly becoming a soundtrack for my thirties - years steeped in the joys and stresses of raising children. In my forties, when I turned to my own musical passions to find balance and fulfilment, Jonatha's influence loomed large, inspiring me to create, play and sing. Her songs provided both an escape and a beacon, helping me forge connection with my own passion and a need to express through music.
When I heard that her one-woman play, My Mother Has 4 Noses (a phenomenal play that I'd seen two times before) would run for several weeks at The Jungle Theater in Minneapolis, I took the opportunity to attend and to ask Jonatha for an interview for Sanctuary. She not only graciously accepted my invitation, but also invited me to her charming, newly-renovated Minneapolis home to conduct the interview. We spent several hours talking about her work, life, and what she'll be delving into next. |
It was an exciting and provocative visit, punctuated by a private performance of her song, Put the Gun Down from her 2016 CD Midnight. Hallelujah.
Goosebump-worthy.
By staying true to her passion and artistic vision while adapting to life's meanderings and challenges, Jonatha reflects the spirit of Sanctuary in a big way. Stay tuned for her feature in our November issue!
Goosebump-worthy.
By staying true to her passion and artistic vision while adapting to life's meanderings and challenges, Jonatha reflects the spirit of Sanctuary in a big way. Stay tuned for her feature in our November issue!
March 1, 2018
Reinvention
The older I get, the more I think that reinvention is a frame of mind rather than a chosen path.
Sure, we may get forced into reinventing ourselves due to a job layoff, health challenge, or any number of rug-out-from-under-you, externally-motivated scenarios. But reinvention can also be an internally-motivated process, a kind of daily practice.
Sure, we may get forced into reinventing ourselves due to a job layoff, health challenge, or any number of rug-out-from-under-you, externally-motivated scenarios. But reinvention can also be an internally-motivated process, a kind of daily practice.
For me, this process involves doing work around my own imprinting - the reactions, thoughts and beliefs my mind has stored on its hard drive. Unfortunately, negative life experiences can stick with us longer than we might like to believe, unless we actively work on shifting our thoughts around them. After all, the evolutionary process has left us humans hard-wired to remember the bad stuff - lest we forget where the tiger lives.
So…reinvention by way of reframing thoughts and feelings, while possible, takes work.
Try this exercise:
Notice how you feel after doing this for a few weeks. Do some of the words start to feel easier on your tongue and brain? There's no right or wrong outcome, but it's a great way to raise awareness of how you approach your world and yourself. I have found this to be both fascinating and helpful in my ongoing process of reinvention. By essentially "flipping" negative thoughts and feelings, I have been able to see myself in a different way.
Like everything good, it takes time and consistent effort. But the upside is limitless.
So…reinvention by way of reframing thoughts and feelings, while possible, takes work.
Try this exercise:
- Think about some of the most negative experiences you've had in your life. In the first column, list words describing how they made you feel.
- In a second column, write a word or short phrase that represents the opposite of each word in the first column.
- Create a new list with only those words in the second column and put it somewhere you can easily access it throughout the day.
- Several times a day, recite the words on the list to yourself. Get into the habit of doing it every day. Read them slowly and deliberately - out loud if you can or just imagine saying them and hearing them. Adopt them into your consciousness.
Notice how you feel after doing this for a few weeks. Do some of the words start to feel easier on your tongue and brain? There's no right or wrong outcome, but it's a great way to raise awareness of how you approach your world and yourself. I have found this to be both fascinating and helpful in my ongoing process of reinvention. By essentially "flipping" negative thoughts and feelings, I have been able to see myself in a different way.
Like everything good, it takes time and consistent effort. But the upside is limitless.
February 11, 2018
Music as Sanctuary
We've been asking our readers to share with us using #WheresYourSanctuary. Readers may post inspiration on social media using this hashtag if they'd like to address our community. We are also asking readers to let us know: What does the word Sanctuary mean to you? Where do you find your joy, peace, strength and fulfillment? In a place? In another person? Maybe in a hobby or a passion? In a quiet moment alone? We would love to know what feeds your soul and fuels your fire. Tell us on social media using #WheresYourSanctuary or send a note or short video to: seniorstaff@sanctuary-magazine.com
Myrna and I have asked ourselves the same question - Nancy's Green Book and Myrna's Musings are spaces where those in our community can learn something about us as well.
Myrna and I have asked ourselves the same question - Nancy's Green Book and Myrna's Musings are spaces where those in our community can learn something about us as well.
|
#WheresYourSanctuary
Music Music is my Sanctuary because it gives me the freedom to express whatever emotions I’m sitting with at the moment and color them in a way that best serves me. I can speak truth while feeding my soul and celebrating my passion. Music fills in my blanks.
|
Boomerang
©2016 Nancy R. Burger There's time to stay but you better go Your beauty flame is getting low A souvenir at the show Old in a day (You wanna) be like them but you know it's hard A hand-me-down with a tattered heart Piece by piece you fall apart Then they give you away (Chorus) Flying around like a boomerang Hoping to land on your feet Hard to come down after all this time Like a boomerang...on the street After all is said and done The battle bruises that you won Let you walk away but never run Too gone to stay (Chorus) Flying around like a boomerang Hoping to land on your feet Hard to come down after all this time Like a boomerang...on the street… Let me be your boomerang….4X |
June 2017
My Dad: Sweet and Salty, and Really Cool
I find holidays like Father’s Day, Mother’s Day and National Wear-Your-Pants-Inside-Out Day (okay, that’s not really a thing) to be contrived and overdone. But the hype around dads during the month of June makes me think of mine even more than I usually do.
Which is a lot.
My dad had a brilliant mind and a heroic heart. He was stern, funny, loyal and loving. As a young girl, I followed him around on Saturdays, helping him with chores and running errands to the hardware store (I still love the smell of wood shavings), the liquor store (I always got a lollipop from the cashier) and the fish store (to replenish his aquarium). I watched him repair our stone wall, work on his grey Corvair, fix just about anything that broke, cut the grass. He converted half of our basement to a dark room and installed a red light outside the door so we knew not to barge in while he was developing. I learned how to create ‘negatives’ with a machine called an enlarger, dip prints into a series of chemical baths and hang them with clothespins from a string above his workspace. He loved the sea and spent hours upon days building elaborate ship models, attending to every small detail with what seemed like tireless focus and fervor. A strict disciplinarian, he had no tolerance for rudeness or disrespect. Equal parts kind and salty, his moodiness only made him more fascinating to me.
Back when such a thing was still possible, my father was a career IBM guy. We attended grandiose company Christmas parties and spent summers at the country club, swimming for hours on end and eating our weight in burgers and ice cream sandwiches. In 1976, his job transferred to the Netherlands for a 14-month assignment and we were catapulted into a new and vastly different world. While most of the ex-patriot families lived in large homes with thatched roofs and elaborately landscaped yards, he opted for a small row house with a narrow, winding staircase and a swath of Delft tiles around the living room hearth. We were flanked by families who spoke broken English (at best) and were immersed in Dutch culture. My bedroom was an aerie on the top floor with a clear view of the town’s windmill. I attended school with diplomats’ children and participated in a model U.N. (my country was Lesotho). When one of my friends (daughter of the U.S. Ambassador) invited me to a dinner party, her house staff called my mother to review dress code and protocol. I sat next to Yitzhak Rabin, Israel’s Prime Minister at the time.
From early on, my father ingrained in me the power of daring to be different. One particularly indelible memory is of his help with a junior high school assignment to build a mobile of our solar system. When I described the teacher’s recommendation to twist a metal coat hanger and hang paper planets from the helix, he raised one bushy eyebrow and said, “No no no, that won’t do. The planets are at different distances from each other. That wouldn’t be right. We’ll do it our own way.”
With a hanger, wire cutters and cardboard, we created a solar system of free-floating planets, suspended in unique orbits around the sun. It was different from every other one in the class, and I took great pride in explaining how and why my dad helped me design it that way.
Which was pretty cool.
A brain tumor took his life at 71, a short two months after diagnosis. For a man with such keen intellect, the rapid and tragic loss of cognition was all the more devastating. The only saving grace was that the trajectory rendered him unaware of what was happening. That’s my hope, anyway.
Which is a lot.
My dad had a brilliant mind and a heroic heart. He was stern, funny, loyal and loving. As a young girl, I followed him around on Saturdays, helping him with chores and running errands to the hardware store (I still love the smell of wood shavings), the liquor store (I always got a lollipop from the cashier) and the fish store (to replenish his aquarium). I watched him repair our stone wall, work on his grey Corvair, fix just about anything that broke, cut the grass. He converted half of our basement to a dark room and installed a red light outside the door so we knew not to barge in while he was developing. I learned how to create ‘negatives’ with a machine called an enlarger, dip prints into a series of chemical baths and hang them with clothespins from a string above his workspace. He loved the sea and spent hours upon days building elaborate ship models, attending to every small detail with what seemed like tireless focus and fervor. A strict disciplinarian, he had no tolerance for rudeness or disrespect. Equal parts kind and salty, his moodiness only made him more fascinating to me.
Back when such a thing was still possible, my father was a career IBM guy. We attended grandiose company Christmas parties and spent summers at the country club, swimming for hours on end and eating our weight in burgers and ice cream sandwiches. In 1976, his job transferred to the Netherlands for a 14-month assignment and we were catapulted into a new and vastly different world. While most of the ex-patriot families lived in large homes with thatched roofs and elaborately landscaped yards, he opted for a small row house with a narrow, winding staircase and a swath of Delft tiles around the living room hearth. We were flanked by families who spoke broken English (at best) and were immersed in Dutch culture. My bedroom was an aerie on the top floor with a clear view of the town’s windmill. I attended school with diplomats’ children and participated in a model U.N. (my country was Lesotho). When one of my friends (daughter of the U.S. Ambassador) invited me to a dinner party, her house staff called my mother to review dress code and protocol. I sat next to Yitzhak Rabin, Israel’s Prime Minister at the time.
From early on, my father ingrained in me the power of daring to be different. One particularly indelible memory is of his help with a junior high school assignment to build a mobile of our solar system. When I described the teacher’s recommendation to twist a metal coat hanger and hang paper planets from the helix, he raised one bushy eyebrow and said, “No no no, that won’t do. The planets are at different distances from each other. That wouldn’t be right. We’ll do it our own way.”
With a hanger, wire cutters and cardboard, we created a solar system of free-floating planets, suspended in unique orbits around the sun. It was different from every other one in the class, and I took great pride in explaining how and why my dad helped me design it that way.
Which was pretty cool.
A brain tumor took his life at 71, a short two months after diagnosis. For a man with such keen intellect, the rapid and tragic loss of cognition was all the more devastating. The only saving grace was that the trajectory rendered him unaware of what was happening. That’s my hope, anyway.
February 2017
Don’t Believe Everything You Think
My friend actually suggested this to me a few months ago. I was sharing a story about how I felt when someone said something crappy to me. And by crappy, I mean infuriating, marginalizing, made-me-want-to-smack-her kind of crappy. My friend listened intently, and then made the suggestion with a straight face, as if she really meant it. “Nancy, don’t believe everything you think.” I laughed at her (obviously), but felt stupid for laughing when I realized she was dead serious.
In an effort to redeem myself I asked, “Exactly how does that work? Do I look at myself in the mirror and say out loud, ‘I don’t want to be really pissed off right now, so I won’t,’ or ‘I refuse to let this irksome thing that’s happening right now irk me.’? Do I have to be more specific? How long does it take before I feel better? Does it involve traveling to Narnia or barreling through a train station wall?”
The fact is, I explained, I don’t choose my feelings or decide when they’re going to strike. I can’t control what I feel. I react to my world. Things hit me however they hit me. I can’t help it. Right???
Maybe not so much.
It sounds like a pipe dream, like willing it to rain or trying to blink away a crow’s foot. Even worse, it smacks of a bumper sticker sound bite, staring back from the kick line of dog paws and stick figures, making the red light seem inordinately long. But it was delivered to me in earnest, from a woman I deeply respect and who deeply respects me. And, while it took a bit to wrap my head around the concept, I soon came to realize its breadth and girth. Humans, after all, are meaning-makers, but wouldn’t it be arrogant to assume that one person’s take on a given situation is the absolute truth? If so, what would be the point of political debates, religious sermons or car commercials?
This led me to the stark realization that, while we can accept how we feel about things as irrefutable, we can also choose to change how we think .
I started experimenting, first on a relatively small scale. “Just because I think this pair of slacks makes my ass look like a barge doesn’t mean it actually does,” or “If I don’t want to meet him for dinner, I don’t have to explain why.” I eventually graduated to a pithier realm, “I’m not causing her passive aggressive behavior. It’s not about me. It’s all she is capable of.” Before I knew it, the practice was paying off. “I may think I can’t do this job, but I’m wrong. I can. I CAN.” I was able to negotiate some pretty slippery roads while keeping control of the wheel. It was new and hugely empowering. That’s not to say there were no lapses along the way, but the fact that I was aware of them, meant I was aware of the choice.
At one point on this revelatory journey - during a beach vacation - I walked into a boardwalk shop that reeked of coconut oil and was organized like a maze of dried starfish, mermaid statues and shark tooth jewelry. There, among the mass of Chinese imports, hung a small yellow plaque with bright green lettering: “Don’t Believe Everything You Think.” I marveled at it, hanging there in all its sound-bite glory, abutting a rack of dog paw and stick figure decals. This fist-sized souvenir somehow validated my mantra. It’s on this plaque, therefore it MUST be true.
I bought every one.
Okay, so I probably can’t make it rain and have certainly made some ill-advised slacks purchases. But let’s face it; crow’s feet serve the vital purpose of keeping our feathered friends secure on their phone line perches. And that’s the thought I will choose to have when sizing things up in the less-than-flattering dressing room light. Don’t believe everything you think.
Go ahead, say it out loud. You might surprise yourself.
In an effort to redeem myself I asked, “Exactly how does that work? Do I look at myself in the mirror and say out loud, ‘I don’t want to be really pissed off right now, so I won’t,’ or ‘I refuse to let this irksome thing that’s happening right now irk me.’? Do I have to be more specific? How long does it take before I feel better? Does it involve traveling to Narnia or barreling through a train station wall?”
The fact is, I explained, I don’t choose my feelings or decide when they’re going to strike. I can’t control what I feel. I react to my world. Things hit me however they hit me. I can’t help it. Right???
Maybe not so much.
It sounds like a pipe dream, like willing it to rain or trying to blink away a crow’s foot. Even worse, it smacks of a bumper sticker sound bite, staring back from the kick line of dog paws and stick figures, making the red light seem inordinately long. But it was delivered to me in earnest, from a woman I deeply respect and who deeply respects me. And, while it took a bit to wrap my head around the concept, I soon came to realize its breadth and girth. Humans, after all, are meaning-makers, but wouldn’t it be arrogant to assume that one person’s take on a given situation is the absolute truth? If so, what would be the point of political debates, religious sermons or car commercials?
This led me to the stark realization that, while we can accept how we feel about things as irrefutable, we can also choose to change how we think .
I started experimenting, first on a relatively small scale. “Just because I think this pair of slacks makes my ass look like a barge doesn’t mean it actually does,” or “If I don’t want to meet him for dinner, I don’t have to explain why.” I eventually graduated to a pithier realm, “I’m not causing her passive aggressive behavior. It’s not about me. It’s all she is capable of.” Before I knew it, the practice was paying off. “I may think I can’t do this job, but I’m wrong. I can. I CAN.” I was able to negotiate some pretty slippery roads while keeping control of the wheel. It was new and hugely empowering. That’s not to say there were no lapses along the way, but the fact that I was aware of them, meant I was aware of the choice.
At one point on this revelatory journey - during a beach vacation - I walked into a boardwalk shop that reeked of coconut oil and was organized like a maze of dried starfish, mermaid statues and shark tooth jewelry. There, among the mass of Chinese imports, hung a small yellow plaque with bright green lettering: “Don’t Believe Everything You Think.” I marveled at it, hanging there in all its sound-bite glory, abutting a rack of dog paw and stick figure decals. This fist-sized souvenir somehow validated my mantra. It’s on this plaque, therefore it MUST be true.
I bought every one.
Okay, so I probably can’t make it rain and have certainly made some ill-advised slacks purchases. But let’s face it; crow’s feet serve the vital purpose of keeping our feathered friends secure on their phone line perches. And that’s the thought I will choose to have when sizing things up in the less-than-flattering dressing room light. Don’t believe everything you think.
Go ahead, say it out loud. You might surprise yourself.
