Showing posts with label The Present. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Present. Show all posts

Friday, January 21, 2011

Day 20: Flashback Friday: Failure to Fail

Today was a rough week, folks. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The euphoric high I was experiencing earlier in the trial started to wear off as the general stress from work, schedules, responsibilities and budget piled back on after the holiday season ended.

A few nights ago, I had a beer and a smoke. Actually, I had three smokes.


The next day I got up, put it behind me, and got right back on track. I haven't had another beer or smoke since.


But it reminded me of an experience I had a few years ago when I was working with the Miracle League to create a fundraising video for their annual gala. That same year, I was asked to be the keynote speaker at the induction ceremony for the Beta Club -- an organization at James River, devoted primarily to community service. In my talk I told the story of the Miracle League video.


While I was clearing out files (read: procrastinating) I found the talk I gave that night in April. I re-read it, and I remembered that I have tripped and stumbled before.


Not failed. I haven't failed. But I stumbled. I'll grant you stumbled. But it won't stop me from seeing this through.


Instead of telling some mortally embarassing story from my past to prepare and invigorate me for the weekend, I've decided to reprint the talk here, to remind myself that its okay to stumble. Real success is when you get back up.


***************************************************************************



Good evening parents, colleagues, Mr. Principal and Beta club members and inductees.



It is a privilege for me to be here, amongst students who choose to find ways to improve their community.



I want to speak briefly about my history with service, because I went to a high school similar to this one – except that it was all girls, only had 400 students and we all wore uniforms that made us look like elves. It was a Catholic school and while community service was not required, it was expected that we would all contribute to school-wide service events and seek opportunities to give back to the community on our own time. And we did, mostly because it was a part of our school culture, and that is very much what I see here. At Anonymous High School, there are constantly capstone projects in the works, Do-Something events in action, and members of PEACE club picking bottles out of the trash for recycling. But probably the greatest testament to the community service culture of AHS is the fact (and as the yearbook advisor responsible for taking all the club pictures, I can tell you this is a fact) that Beta Club, a service organization, is the largest club on the AHS campus.



My experience in high school has made me a person who feels a sense of civic engagement – a sense that I belong to the community in which I live – and so I feel responsible to help its members. Because of my high school experience, service is a lifestyle, not just a part of my life.



I want to tell you about my most recent experience with service, because I learned SOO much.



My future father in law, Marty, got involved a while back with an organization called the Miracle League. They build baseball fields with a special kind of smooth turf. The purpose of these fields is to allow children who use walkers or wheelchairs or even crutches or braces an opportunity to play baseball.



Marty was the contractor on the field and my fiancĂ© put in countless hours towards its completion. However, at this time I was not involved at all. When it came time to raise money for a second field, the organization decided to throw a giant auction and gala – and they wanted a video to play at the event.



Marty volunteered me. He is not computer savvy, so he confused my offer to make a powerpoint, with an offer to make a video. He is not aware there is a difference.



He volunteers me. Me! Me who has no idea how to make a video. Yearbooks, sure. Newspapers, absolutely. I even know how to use photoshop to make you look 10 lbs lighter and 10 years younger. But a video? That’s a different story altogether.



I didn’t even own a video camera.



But I said yes anyway, because not knowing how you are going to accomplish a goal shouldn’t prevent you from trying to achieve it.



I procured a video camera and I conned my fiance into being my videographer, and we visited kids who played on the team to speak with them about how playing baseball has affected them.



I met Chase, a thirteen-year-old who is completely paranoid about getting lost around high school next year, who hits the ball well over the heads of every kid on the field, and who has spina biffada.



I met Daniel, a sixteen-year-old who is completely bored by math class, thinks his Miracle League buddy is cute, believes that through prayer all things are possible and has cerebral palsey.



I met their parents, who were so grateful to have a place to go every week in the fall, where they could feel less alone, less isolated in their struggle to retrofit their homes for wheelchairs or fight with school systems to ensure their students were being placed in the proper classes.



We stayed with these families for hours, talking well after the camera was turned off, and I went home absolutely certain that this video had to be good. It had to do these kids justice, and convince the moneybags at this gala to support this cause.



I was so siked. I was fired up with passion for the cause and these kids, and this video was going to be so great, dag nab it!



But so help me I just couldn’t get the footage off that camera.



Then, I got the footage off the camera, but not the sound.



Then I got the footage and sound off, but it wasn’t editable so I couldn’t cut out the stuff I didn’t need.



Then I got it off, but everyone’s head looked like a giant pixel, like in an old school video game.



Then, I bought some magical $100 cable which the Best Buy guy swore would work, and it did, so things were looking up.



But, as it turned out Microsoft really does create some crummy products, so the first round of video looked like my dog made it.



I actually told my fiance that we should give the dog a go at it, because we were totally botching the job. The dog declined.



I took the crummy video to the final planning meeting just five days before the gala. I showed up late, and everyone was anxiously waiting to see THE VIDEO. I showed it. It concluded.



Dead silence. One kid in the front row must have felt bad and he started to clap.



No one joined him.



It was so bad – you couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, the film quality was horrible, the transitions were choppy, the list goes on.



Because all the passion in the world won’t guarantee success, but does guarantee that you will work to the bone until you find a solution.



So I went back to the drawing board. Actually, I went to Office Depot. And I dropped a couple hundred on some decent quality video editing software and I STARTED FROM SCRATCH.



I don’t know how I came in to work everyday and didn’t fall asleep at a computer, because I stayed up until 2am every night from that Tuesday until the gala on Saturday working on that video. When I wasn’t working on it, I was thinking about it. I was agonizing over its length, the songs in the background, the quality of the footage, whether I had enough people in it.



Because if you are going to do something for someone else, do it right. Do it the absolute best you possibly can.



On the day of the gala, I was totally wiped out – physically and emotionally. When I showed that video, I cried – maybe because it was really touching or maybe because I was just so relieved that I did what I said I would do.



And then, I looked around. I wasn’t the only one crying. Suddenly it dawned on me – IT WAS GOOD! It wasn’t some shoddy video created by a random company – it made people feel something.



We raised almost 40,000 dollars that night. And that is not solely because of my video, but the point is – I was a part of it. And that felt so good.



No one knows I made that video. Well, you all do now, but I was not mentioned in the program. My name didn’t roll down the credits. If the video had been horrible, that might have been a blessing. But that’s not the point – see the point is that I never ever did it for the kudos and compliments. I never even imagined I would warrant any. I just did it because I knew those kids needed a voice, and I wanted to be that for them.



They were there that night. They all hugged me and we danced until their parents took them home to bed. When people at the gala asked me how I knew the kids, I just said, “We’re friends.” Because I think were are.



And that is the power of service. It prompts change in all those touched by it.



So as you start thinking about ways you can earn your Beta Club hours, I want to remind you of what I learned through this experience:



Be brave and take on big goals, even if you don’t know how you’ll get to them. You can always develop a plan.



If you are going to do something, do it the very best you can – not simply the best you know how. Learn more, find help and do it even better.



Finally, stay open to change as you work with others, because sometimes the changes within yourself are every bit as meaningful as the changes you make in your community.



Thank you and good night.



Saturday, January 15, 2011

Day 14: On Running (OR: A Brief Historie of My Relationship With Fitness)

Mike just said "Your post from yesterday was kind of gross," so I write this today in the hopes that a change in tone and topic will redeem me in the eyes of those whose opinion of me dropped considerably after yesterday's Flashback Friday confession.

On to the post:

Today I got up, put on my spandex pants, tied my laces and walked outside and took a big, deep breath of 27 degree air. I drove to the river, donned my headphones, and started to run.

I run along the James River, beneath oak trees that are canopies of shade in the summer and intricate webs in the winter. I run beside a fraternity of other runners and joggers of all ages and shapes, each of whom I wave to and who nod or say "hello" in return.

This morning I watched a white and grey speckled owl, perched on a branch three stories high, swivel his head so he could see his next meal.

This morning I watched two geese push off of a rock and glide over the water, only inches apart. Each wing moved up, down, up, down in a rhythm so perfectly aligned, so aware of the other's movement, so perfectly close and in sync with its mate, that I thought I could cry.

This morning I felt my muscles burn, and I felt my feet pound, and I felt my nose tingle in the cold and I felt alive and strong and healthy.

And I wondered why I ever stopped doing this.

***********************************************************************************
Long ago, in a land called Middle School -- or hell, ya know, whatever -- I was picked last for dogeball. And kickball. And all sports beginning or ending in "ball."

I was a sideline-sitting, nose-picking, size-extra-large-wearing, schlubby kid who no one wanted on their team.

With good reason. Let me illuminate:

I was, like, 5'10'' at age 12, so my parents signed me up for basketball. Logical. The coach was initially enthusiastic about my membership. He too saw the obvious: I was taller than every other kid on the court. By like, six, eight inches. His plan was to stand me under the basket, pass me the ball, and watch as I place the ball in the basket without even lifting my heel from the gym floor.

Unfortunately that was not what was to transpire. When passed the ball, I:
1.) Ducked and covered.
2.) Received and froze.
3.) Cried and passed to someone else.
4.) Took three steps without dribbling.

But never, ever did I successfully put the ball in the basket. I played basketball for three years, but I never scored a single point.

Additionally, I was a second quarter girl. Always. I mean, unless the flu was going around and we were down, like, five players, I only played the second quarter. You know what that means? You know what the second quarter is?

In middle school, all the coaches put their nose-picking, extra-large-shirt-wearing, schlubs in during the second quarter. We would all bumble around and trip over each other and pick the wedgies we received running down court and not score a single point. I was so slow to run back to the other side of the court after a rebound, that sometimes I would just not bother. The other team would just pass to the girl I was supposed to be covering, score, and then -- yay! -- everyone starts heading back to me!

The refs hardly ever blew the whistle unless someone's shoe came untied, and none of us had a clue why we only EVER played during the second quarter, but this way the coaches could say we played (which I believe was required in middle school intramural athletics) without jeopardizing the win.

Sad, right? But it was totally fair, because while all the other girls actually practiced, and tried to be physically fit athletes, I preferred to sip a juice box, kick back on the sidelines, and dream about the MacDonald's chicken McNuggets I planned to devour after the game.

Frankly, I pretty much stayed that way through college. I never played in any of the intramural athletics organized by the inter-Greek council. I never utilized my access to a free, fully equipped gym. I did, however, drive to class one block away toward the end of my tenure at Radford.

It wasn't until I moved to New Hampshire that I started to consider exercise. I went to the mall one day and the sizes found in typical mall stores no longer fit me. I cried, I left, and I joined Curves.

Have you been to a Curves? Oh, dear jesus, you need to go. My friend (and fellow blogger) Colleen and I joined Curves, and we were unilaterally hated by all the other Curves-goers. Why? Because we were a solid 45 pounds lighter and 25 years younger than every one of them. Our perky asses hopped off those machines and leaped onto the jogging squares! We smiled and and giggled while they huffed and puffed -- and got off a circuit early. They gave us the stink eye, and we tried not to look annoyed when we waiting 30 seconds for one of them to extricate herself from the leg-lift machine.

But I lost a bunch of weight, and I got fit.

I graduated from Curves, and, due to my meager finances, started running. Because its free. At first I couldn't run even a quarter of a mile. And let's just go ahead and put "run" in quotation marks, because it was more like some strange epileptic gallop, replete with awkward arm-flailing and loud, alarming hacking.

And I was "running" around Boston, mind you, so as I'm "running", people are crossing to the other side of the street and pulling their children closer.

Whatever. We all start somewhere.

More than one person has said to me: "Yeah, I don't know how you do that. I don't run."

What the hell do you mean "You don't run?" You run. Barring something unfortunate that has rendered you physically unable to run -- you can run. We were all pre-programmed to run. I concede that the original impetus for running was probably towards a meal or to avoid becoming one for something larger than you, but the principal still applies: All humans are created to run.

You can run, you just don't want to. Which is fine, but call it what it is.

Furthermore, give it a try. I guarantee if you get outside on a beautiful day, and jog for just a few minutes, you'll want to stay out there. You'll want to do it again tomorrow.

Because that Runner's High stuff? That shit's for real, yo. I forget about how one run makes me want to run tomorrow and the next day...

But I did have some trouble running at first. I kept getting anxious. I would run, and I would start thinking. I would think about how slow I am running, or how stupid I look running, or how fast other people are running; how I wish I could run that fast; I used to run that fast; now I can hardly run a mile; I used to run miles and miles; that guy can run miles and miles; I'm never going to run like that again --

ENOUGH. God. My own monologue just stressed me out. Jeez. Isn't that nuts? I did that. To myself. During a run. And then I would feel the anxiety rise in my chest, it would choke my breathing, stifle my energy, zap my strength, and then: run over. Everything would be wasted on useless worrying.

It occurred to me recently that I was doing the very same thing to my entire life. I was worrying it away. I was planning and pitying and stressing, but I was not living at all.
***********************************************************************************
Running is so very much about being in the present.

It is not about how far I will run. It is not about how fast I will run. It is certainly not about how far or fast anyone else will run.

It is about how good it feels while I am running. While I am taking this step. And this step. It doesn't matter what the next step feels like.

Because right now this one feels perfect. Right now I am running.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Day 7: The Present. Its In Right Now.

Today, I have made it one week without a cigarette or a beer, and I have run 8.5 miles.

Hell yeah.
(By the way, is it weird that you're reading this while Cesar Milan seduces you with his eyes? Because its kind of weird for me, but that awkwardness just makes me even happier with my photo selection.)


Let me tell you, this is not the first little celebration I have indulged in over the last week. I am proud of myself every damn day for what I'm accomplishing, and I've been treating myself to whatever the hell I want as a reward.


Most self-help literature suggests saving the money you would have spent on smokes (or beer) and buying yourself something you really want after X amount of time.


Eff that. I'm spending that cash now.


Why? Because I don't know what will happen next week, but I know I made it through today.


I'm living in the present. And I learned this from a man who changed my life. Who moved me near to tears. Who brought me to the light...


Cesar Milan.


Yes, laugh all you want, reader, because I just said it and I'm not afraid of saying it again: The Dog Whisperer changed my life.


I don't know if you noticed -- Mike and I sure as hell did, for like eight consecutive hours -- but there was a Dog Whisperer marathon on Animal Planet or TLC or whatever over the holidays. As we now have a dog, this show has suddenly become meaningful and relevant, albeit mostly because we like to talk smack about the crappy dog owners and pat ourselves on the back for not sucking like them.


This one particular episode features an overweight, super-dramatic,woman in her early 40's who lives with her mother -- let's call her Pathetic.


Oh! Wait! Sorry. I meant Patricia. I have no idea what came over me...


Patricia owns a small, yappy, black dog of unknown breed named Dimples (or something equally demoralizing).
Dimples is making it difficult for Patricia to have men over (frankly, I think Dimples is the least of her problems in the romance department, but that's neither here nor there) because Dimples barks at and attacks any man who tries to sit on the bed like he is wearing a mask and carrying a weapon.


Wait a second...

Okay, Patricia's possible kinky bedroom penchants aside, the dog is snapping at men and Patsy's mom.
Cesar to the rescue! He shows up at this woman's house, and meets with Patricia and her mother. The conference before Cesear starts working with the dog, is unbelievable. Mother and daughter do not stop talking for 15 minutes straight, and they are like:


Patty: "Well, if you would just pay attention to the dog, maybe Dimples wouldn't chew your bathrobe into, like, 100 small washclothes."


Mom: "Well, I would pet the dog if it just didn't smell so funny."


Patty: [Sniffles. Reaches for Kleenex.] "You always find the negative in everything I love! Its just like that time I brought Ronald home and you said his ski mask was disconcerting!"


Mom: "I just think its inappropriate for young ladies to be hanging around with convicts..."


Patty: [Sobbing] "I'M NOT A CHILD ANYMORE! GOD! I HATE YOU!"


You get the idea.


Poor Cesar is just sitting there: looking at Mom. Looking at Patsy. Looking at Mom. Looking at Patsy. Looking exactly like a man caught in the middle of some Momma-Daughtah drama: Shocked. Entralled. Cannot pull away from the two trains as they careen closer and closer...


I feel so sorry for him at this moment.


Afterwards, he is interviewed privately and looks like he is still processing the Incredibly Inapproprate Airing of Dirty Laundry. His eyes are completely glazed over and wide as frisbees, and he says something to the effect of:


"I think the dog might be affected by the negative energy in the house."


Ya think? Gee. I was thinking he might just need a change in kibble.


So, Cesar teaches her how to act in a calm, authoritative manner and after only two attempts, Cesar is able to sit on the bed next to Patsy Poo without Dimples going for his good stuff.


Patsy the Pessimist won't shut up about how "Dimples would never do that before" and "Well, Dimples will clearly go right back to attacking my man meat the second you leave the house."


And Cesar says "You need to live in the present. When you live in the past, you expect the past, and you repeat the past. When you live in the present, you enjoy the moments that are good, and you make a step towards future good moments."


::DING::


That is the sound of my internal light bulb going off.


You see, last year had some ups, but it had its share of downs. More downs than usual. I'd go into detail, but the downs are not all about me, so they are not my stories to share. Please just know that it wasn't the easiest year, and that I kind of poured myself a swimming pool of pity and wallowed around in it for the better part of the summer and fall.


When Cesear spoke of living in the present, I realized I had been living in the past. I had been postponing taking care of myself, because I felt I deserved drinks and smokes. I felt I was entitled to them, because life wasn't fair to me.


In hindsight:


Well no effing shit, life ain't fair. Get the hell over it, self.


So on December 31st, I decided to put on my big girl panties, pull my shit together, and move forward by living in the present.


And here we are: Day #7 of living for right this minute. Today I rewarded myself for running 3.5 miles and making it through a Friday without a drink or smoke. I got a pedicure with Sara (aka: Blog Supporter Extrordiaire) and I'm going to have guacamole for dinner. Just guacamole.


I don't know what will happen tomorrow, and I don't care about what happened yesterday. Today, I was successful.


And that's worthy of celebrating.


*********************************************************************************

Post Script:


It occurs to me that you may now be invested in the complex saga of Patsy and Dimples, and that I ought to provide you with the riveting conclusion.


Okay, so Cesar leaves Patsy with strategies for dealing with Dimples the Dick-Hater, and promises to return in a month to check on their progress.


He returns only to find Patsy an even hotter hot mess than when he left her.


Patsy: "Well, I tried your techniques, but they didn't work."


[Read: I kind of tried your techniques, but I am lazy.]


Cesar: [Starting to glaze over again (I think this must be a self-preservation strategy).]


Patsy: "She keeps biting people, so I'm going to either have to put her down..."


Cesear: [Suddenly alert! Alarmed! Eyes like frisbees, again, but now intense! Focused. Shocked!]


Patsy:"... or, I don't know... have you heard of this procedure where they remove the dog's canine teeth?"


Cesar: "Why don't I take your dog?"


Oh praise jesus, because this woman should not own plants, let alone a dog.


Ultimately, the Patsy the Plump forks over Dimples, who is taken to Cesar's rehabilitation center and was completely rehabilitated -- the minute she was taken from Patty's home.


Shocker.


Dimples was adopted and renamed something less terrible by a family who loves her and none of whom own ski masks.


Fin!