Got a minute?

It was 1976. I kneeled next to my grandmother listening intently. Stories. About herself. About my father. About her life. I remember when I first saw a television set. I remember when I saw us walk on the moon. I remember when Kennedy was shot. I hung on every word creating black and white picture movies in my head. What would it be like not to have a TV? I could barely imagine.

Today my stories are different but the same. I remember when our phones plugged into the wall. I remember eight tracks. I remember when I bought my first computer. And today I can say I remember when our first African American president took the oath of office.

She walked five miles with no shoes to school. You?

I feel as if the world almost moves on without me. Podcasts. Deciphering text message languages. Twitter. DVR's. I feel so out of touch. I remember when the Internet was some bizarre, advanced way our armed forces communicated with each other.

They said things would change. Speed up. If you can send information fast, you can receive it faster. If you can call anyone anywhere, you can make decisions anywhere. They were right. We raised the expectation of communication return times. Send notes of your meetings before you finish the meeting not 1-2 days after it. Return my call within hours not the next day. Give me information anytime I need it not when you are ready to offer it.

That was so last decade!

In fact, this very topic was already discussed, decided and considered out of date years ago. But I want to write about it because now is when I am actually feeling it. In another world, my turn around times used to be fast but now they are barely keeping up. The crazy truth is that I do not want to be bigger, faster, better. I want to wake up each morning and create my day. My beautifully unplanned gorgeous day. I want beauty and the organic effort of going with the flow to be my job description.

Judge me by what I build up not what I tear down.

I sat in my condo living room watching a review of today's inaugral events. There. In his speech. Confidence with no excuses. The words I need to hear. The words that help me understand why my work breakdown was so hard. I am here. I show up. I want to see the best in people. I want to help our company offer the best. That's what I do. That's my skill set. I build processes and connect people. Judge me by that.

Trust that I am working hard on my weaknesses. Spend time on your own not mine. No excuses. Just confidence. Let us make a difference together. Let me see we are all genuinely trying to make a better life not a worse one. Let me build you up not tear you down. Let me take a minute to practice grace not grudges. Can I do this? Don't know. Have to try.

Beauty in the Breakdown

It happened. I could see the veil was thin. I did not want it to happen. But it happened.

Remember when?

I was 6 going on 18. The scene was set in a humid, summery, midwestern afternoon backdrop. The characters were my brother, father and I. Lawnmowing 101 was the lesson of the day. Crouched over the green, oily beast, my baby brother pulled back with all his little boy effort and a burst of fumes followed with a roar of scattered, noncontiguous noise filled the air. Now it was my turn.

Foot on beast, both hands on puller thingie, deep breath, big tug as hard as I can. Silence. Okay. Wait. I can do this. Foot, hands, puller thingie, breath, tug: nothing. My brother and father laughed. "Use some elbow grease," my dad thundered as they headed toward the house to make some lemonade.

You'd think I know. Right? Elbow grease. Everyone knows. Right? It is not the leftover oily membrane at the end of your elbow. Not a neatly labeled can in the garage. But I didn't . I was 6. My brother was 5. He knew. I searched everywhere for that damn grease. Instead I stumbled on another round of uncontrollable laughter by my now thirst-quenched father and brother.

Diagnosis: histrionic, tends towards outbursts

The it I referred to also happened on that sweat-filled, sticky, underachieving day many years ago. It starts slowly most of the time. A catch in the throat. A sinking feeling in the stomach. Word stutter is a common pheonomenon. Then the face. Oh lord. I hate the face. My blood cells rush madly as if a fire drill had been declared in my lower extremities. They quickly stand in little red rows on my face. At that point, it's pretty unstoppable. Teardrops well in both eyes with threats of base jumping. My body will continue to betray me and eventually uncontrollable convulsions emerge. All I want to do is hide.

I have come to mostly accept the majority of people would classify me as an emotional person. Some people call it passion. Some people call it drama. I refer to it as fully experiencing the spectrum of what life brings our way. Truth be told, I would welcome the ability to remain stoic. Emotions unphasing in the light of external roller coasters. But, no. It is similar to how some women have curly hair and want straight hair and vice versa. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, stoicism is not an option for me.

Scene: breakdown, Location: office
The problem with it happening yesterday was the backdrop. A neatly groomed, sterile 2nd floor conference room in the middle of a meeting of peers. One of the greatest things about my boss is that he strives to improve me as a person as well as seeing me as a contributing role in achieving our company goals. One of the hardest things about my boss is that he strives to improve me as a person and does not see me as just a role contributing to our company goals.

When I breakdown I want to hide. I want my body to stop betraying me and I want to 'get control' of myself. If only those straight-haired women understood how much time it takes to make my curly hair straight! They don't though. They just see curly hair or straight, unaware of effort.

Beauty. What beauty?

My boss and I had a meaningful discussion but somehow I left yesterday feeling icky. I hate feeling vulnerable. I really don't want people to see that side of me. Especially my co-workers. Whether we like or not, we make judgments about those things. And those judgments usually cloud how we interact with that person in the future. Unfortunately, I am afraid I will experience backlash. Not in the traditional way. But in the subtle, they won't even know they are doing it way.

There is a song on my mp3 I listen to while working out. [Chorus:]So, let go,let go, jump in. Oh well, what you waiting for? It's all right'. Cause there's beauty in the breakdown. Today I am struggling to find beauty in yesterday's breakdown but hopefully something in today's activities will illuminate a path of understanding.

Coincidences

It's not always clear when I start a journey. Sometimes it's a decision. Sometimes an action. It may be carefully thought out or just a random series of pushes in one direction. Today I discovered a co-worker's blog. I was super impressed with her honesty and grittiness. In 2009, I am re-engaging in my life. I want witnesses.

A while back I thought a blog would be the answer. I started one. Never did anything with it. Now her blog places itself on my monitor. Words rushing in and out. Memories, images, cycles, emotions. I pause. I express myself through words too. That's what I do. It's messy. Unkempt. But it works. I stare down the 'Create a blog' link. Deep breath. I click. Guess what? Apparently 2 years ago today I had the same push. Here. In this direction.

I guess this journey is a random series.