Filling in the spaces

I have many hours of unstructured time. I work part time which is absolutely wonderful if you can manage it. I run a household, cook, do laundry, shop, walk the dog, watch television, read a ton of books, and daydream.

I have some structure to my life. But not as much as I once did. Once there were small children who needed constant attention. These small children are now larger than I am. They still don’t mind the attention, but they are self-sufficient.

I once had a high stress, high responsibility job. I worked full time and then had call on top of it. That really sucks the time right out of one’s life. The most I ever worked was 20 hours during one 24 hour on call shift. It was a good ting that the travel time back and forth to work was under 15 minutes. All I did was work, drive home, eat, get called back to work – repeat.

But that is long ago and far away. Now I work a few hours a day. I can’t remember the last time I worked even an eight hour shift.

And yet I feel pressured by time. There is so much I would like to be doing and I sit in front of my computer instead. I play stupid games. I surf stupid sites. I waste time. Time – the only truly democratic commodity there is. Each of us gets exactly 24 hours each day to do with as we see fit.

I could be doing something worthwhile. I could be doing something that has an impact on the world or at least my little corner of it. I could do something that broadens my horizons. I could learn something new. I could teach something different.

I play solitaire.

That’s not really all I do. Today I went to water aerobics, then to work, then stopped and picked up Easter basket stuff for the grandchildren, then I did two loads of laundry, cooked dinner, took the dog for a walk, and then I played solitaire. I also read a couple chapters in a book and cleaned up around the house. This is a fairly typical day except I only do laundry once or twice a week.

I have all these spaces of time. I could use them more to my advantage. But is that even really advantageous? Does one have to be busy all the time? Can I spend hours playing solitaire without guilt? It’s not like I’m neglecting responsibilities elsewhere.

I just know I could use the time better. I know it. So I am getting away from this computer. Right now.

As I Turned Out the Lights …

I take my modern life for granted. I am surrounded by conveniences that have become necessities. They aren’t really necessary. Food, clothing, shelter, air, water … those are necessary. The rest is extra.

Electricity makes my modern life possible. Even my gas heat has an electrically run fan. We know how much we depend on electricity when a storm comes through and knocks it out. How did the world that was once dark at night become the place of light?

Electrical generators are based on Michael Faraday’s principle of “electromagnetic induction” that he discovered in 1831.

By 1837 the first industrial electric motor was in use.
By 1879 the first commercial power station was built in San Francisco.
By 1883 the transformer was invented.

And in 1882 Thomas Alva Edison used his patented electric distribution system to get power to 59 customers in Manhattan so that they could light the darkness with his candescent light.

Now for the history of humanity.

4,000,000,000,000 years ago the first life appeared
600,000,000,000 years ago multicellular life appeared
300,000,000,000 years ago amphibians were morphed into reptiles
220,000,000,000 years ago the first mammals appeared
15,000,000,000 years ago our human ancestors separated from the gibbon
2,000,000,000 years ago Homo habilis appeared
1,800,000,000 years ago Homo erectus appeared
100,000 years ago the first anatomically modern Homo sapiens appeared
10,000 years ago humans had covered the planet – except for Antarctica

We have had electricity to power our world for a mere 124 years. That is 0.124% of the time since modern humans first appeared. That is only 0.0000000031% of the time since life first appeared on Earth.

When my power goes out, when I lose my electricity, I am stymied. I cannot work much of anything in my house. There is no cooking because I have an electric stove. There is no television or computer. There are no video games. I can tell what time it is because I have battery operated clocks, but that’s cheating because it is stored electricity. I do have a pendulum clock, too, but it isn’t always wound up and working.

How different life would be if I was born a mere 150 years earlier. Candles are pretty now, but in the past they sputtered and guttered. They gave off smoke and grime. And not all that much light. Reading by candlelight isn’t all that thrilling. Kerosene lamps were available and they smelled even worse.

My life would have been quantifiably poorer without this marvelous invention that I simply take for granted. I believe it is necessary to life and yet … it is only necessary to modern life. For most of the time life has progressed on this planet, there was no electricity. Isn’t that scary?

I wonder how any of us from this society, this culture, this advanced technology could function in the societies of even 150 years ago. I bet we wouldn’t fare so well.

All these thoughts because I wondered at turning off a light!

What is all this diet crap?

Obesity is endemic in the US. We are fat. We are Super Sizing and wanting fries with "that." You could order fries and still get fries with that - and a Coke.

Obesity does more than just look bad. It strains your heart and joints. It increases the risk of stroke and diabetes. It is all around unhealthy.

I have heard people saying they are fat but in good shape. I'm not sure what measure this statement is based on, but I can't say that I even remotely understand it. After many years of working in surgery and seeing what fat looks like from the inside, it is NOT healthy. It is greasy. It is like tallow and it is slippery and disgusting.

I am not fat. I have never been fat. I have never weighed more than the charts say I should weigh. But I'm on a diet. Why? Because my pants are tight.

I should be on a diet because it is healthier to be thin rather than fat. It is unhealthy to be anorexic. I am not anorexic. I used to be thin. I want to be thin again. So I diet. And exercise.

I am grateful, I think, when people tell me that I don't need to diet. I don't know what measure they are using, but apparently is has nothing to do with my closets. I know that I need to diet. I know that two years ago my clothes fit differently than they do now. I liked the way they fit then. I want them to fit like that again. So I diet.

I did not wait for the weight to be astronomical. I do not need to lose 200 pounds. I didn't even need to lose 20 pounds. But why should I wait to lose? It is far easier to lose 12 pounds than 120 pounds. I could have kept eating and buying larger clothes. But why?

It may be vanity. It may be denial of age. It may be that my clothes didn't fit. But ... I want to get into my pants.

Those are my reasons for dieting.

Readin' - Writin' - 'Rithmetic

I love to read. I can't remember a time when I didn't love to read. Words are my friends. My vocabulary is vast because of reading. I learn new words - even though I have heard it said that one does not want to LEARN anything while reading for enjoyment - along with new ideas while I read.

I have four bookcases stuffed with books. But that is because I mostly get books from the library. I love to read, but I also listen to books on CDs or tapes. The library loans these out for free. The CDs are often scratched and the tapes are often wrinkled and don't feed perfectly. However, I not only love to read - I'm cheap - and the library is the right price. So far this year, I've read/listened to 32 books. Last year my total was 170 books. [I have the books all entered into a spreadsheet and can actually list them all.]

Reading is fun-damental. I refused to go back to Kindergarten because I learned to my horror that they had no intention of teaching me to read - my sole purpose for allowing this indignity in the first place. My mother, not yet a teacher, proved herself adequate to her later calling and taught me to read. Admittedly she had a brilliant and eager student and so I learned to read quickly.

Reading is passive. Writing is active. Not that I am that into activity. But writing is actually more fun than reading. Some people do not find this to be true, but I do. I have written for a monthly magazine that was put out by my one-time neighborhood. I now write an article three times a week for an ezine called Really Good Quotes or RGQ. http://groups.yahoo.com/group/reallygoodquotes/messages
Please feel free to look at past issues or even subscribe.

Genetics is a strong force to overcome. My mother loved to read. She could be seen with a book or a crossword puzzle whenever the spare moment popped up. I grew up to read and do puzzles. My elder son, another avid reader, is also a writer. He writes here: http://maxfalco.typepad.com/its_simple_in_that_compli/. I find from reading this that he is a paid writer, something I have never achieved. I'm so proud of him.

So that covers two of the three "Rs" which never made sense since only one is an R-word. Now about that arithmetic. I have stated, much to some people's disenchantment, that I hate math. I really don't so much hate math as hate the higher, stupid, not useful to me math. I have no use for calculus or even finding a point-slope. I am interested in figuring out how much a pair of $45 slacks marked down to $40 and then another 1/3 off is going to cost me. Luckily, I can do that kind of math.

It is rather fun to be living in a time and place where I have been afforded the opportunity to learn to read and cipher. It's even better to live in an era where I can have a forum to print some of the stuff I write. This is a nice place. RGQ is great, too. Even Landon Living had it's good points.

I think that some of the things I say may in some way make a difference. Perhaps to the reader, but mostly to me for having to think it through in order to write in down.

Anyway, that's my reason for writing.

Mistakes …. were made …. by me.

I am picky. I am a perfectionist by training. I think that living in an imperfect world means that one should strive to make as much order from chaos as is possible. That means realigning the world to meet one’s expectations, wants, or possibly even needs.

My mistake caused no overt harm. I did make life difficult for over 100 people, but only as so far as a change in scheduling. As Shakespeare noticed, All’s Well That Ends Well. Except for me, that may be true. The woman who counted on my accuracy was wonderful. She worked around my stupidity and made it possible for everyone to attain the desired result.

The two words in the above paragraph that are the most galling are “my” and “stupidity.” They are especially galling when concatenated. Other people’s stupidity irritates me momentarily. My own irritates me for days. I have been chastising myself for close to 24 hours now. I would never do that to anyone else. She has forgiven my error, why can’t I?

There was a time when any error I committed might cause someone else serious, grievous harm – even death. That is no longer true. That is one of the things that justifies a much [very much] lower salary. And true enough, no one died because of my clerical error.

As an aside, I once caught a clerical error that did indeed almost kill someone. If it had continued, it would have killed someone. I know clerical errors!

But … I want to be perfect. I want to never, ever make a mistake. Because I do try to live like that, I make fewer mistakes. That is good. Because I make fewer mistakes, I don’t have a lot of experience with self-forgiveness. It is much easier for me to forgive someone else’s error than to forgive my own.

That last statement probably has a lot to do with pride. When I forgive someone else, I am in a position of power, granting absolution for their dumbness. To forgive myself, I have to admit and own my own dumbness. My humanity. My less-than-perfect self. I have to let that person off the hook. I can’t do it from a position of power. I have to get there from a position of humility. I am not very good at humble.

I am not perfect [even though I tell my family that I am] and when I make a mistake it becomes glaringly obvious. “No one’s perfect.” I’ve said that – a lot. But I invariably add “except me, of course.” I wish I were. I wish I were strong enough to know that I am permitted mistakes because it is part and parcel of being human. That one should make atonement for mistakes [I have a small gift for the recipient of my stupidity] and correct them as soon as possible. One should then take measures [pains?] to make sure that the mistake does not recur [I surely, positively, definitely have].

Forgive me, self, for I have erred. My last error was … not long enough ago. For this and all my errors I am heartily sorry. In fact, I wish I could erase them. Where is the “backspace” key when you need it.

That’s my story and I’m stuck with it.

How do you like it here?

I am often asked that question. What am I supposed to say? "I hate it here!" or "I love it here!" or perhaps "This room? Well, I think the ambiance could be improved."

I have yet to live in the perfect place. I assume there is no perfect place. I can find faults in every place on the planet, perhaps in the universe. I don't think it is because I am too picky - although I am very picky. I think it is because Paradise is not of this plane.

So how do I like it here? When it is 98% humidity and the temperature is 105 degrees I think it is hot and muggy. When it is the dead of winter and the temperature is hovering in the 50s and the sun is shining I think it is beautiful.

When I think of my family I am grateful that my children and their children are two hours distant. When I think of my sisters I am saddened that we can only see each other after putting great effort into the task. They are a 12 hours drive away.

The southern charm is alive and well. I like that. The pace is different and it is difficult to get natives to show up for an appointment. Not so good.

I have met some wonderful people here. My neighbors are lovely. My childhood and young adult friends are far away. I hear from them at Christmas time when we all send out cards with notes of varying lengths.

Is this better than any other place I have lived? Not really. I like the floorplan of this house but I really miss my basement. I keep throwing out stuff, but my stuff still seems to expand and overrun.

Is this worse than any other place I have lived? Not really. The climate is so vastly improved. I think that snow is lovely in pictures but if I never have to shovel another flake as long as I live, that will be okay.

There is no perfect place. I would, if I were given the choice, surround myself with my entire family. I am not sure how they would feel about that since I don't think that any of them would like to live exactly where I want them to be placed. Up and down this street would be okay. For me. Not for them. I write and talk to my family frequently. I like that. With modern technology on my side, I can communicate frequently without causing a problem. I like that even better.

My reasons for moving here stand. I am happy with that choice. I would make the same decision again. But ...

How DO I like it here?

Imperfectly Reasoned

Is my life boring? In a word - yes. However, it is my only life. Every time there is some excitement in it, it gets to be almost too big for me to handle. Therefore I choose boring and safe and predictable.

Except that life is never predictable. I can try to control all that happens around me and make life conform to my way of thinking. I do try. But as Yoda, that wonderful philosopher says, "Do or do not, there is no try." So I do not. I cannot, even when - or especially when - I most want to. [English purists - I know I should not end a sentence with a preposition - but I wanted to.]

When given the choice, I choose the safe and predictable. And yet I have two seemingly fearless sons. I didn't teach by example. I have no idea how they learned. I am proud of them beyond measure. Their choices, while both diametrically different, are so very risky from my viewpoint. That flying by the seat of one's pants lifestyle - verbing oneself through life - seems fraught with danger to me. Going. Doing. Being. Having. Getting. Giving. I prefer a passive live. Reading. Listening.

And then ...

I see that even in a passive mode I can only live by verbs. I watch the going and doing and being and think that if I were less fearfull that I, too, could go and do and be. It is so chilling to think that I am master of my fate. I am captain of my ship and I keep my ship in port or very close to the shore. If it were up to me, Columbus would never have set sail across the vast and uncharted seas. And I know the folly or idiocy of that choice.

Is this a function of motherhood? Protect life because it is so difficult to create. Is this a function of age? I'm too old to behave that way [whatever that way may be]. Is it simply a function of fear? Admittedly this is probably the most accurate cause.

So how does one go from wimpy, scared, and safe to courageous and risky? I suppose one chooses to take the next step. Whatever that step is. However small it is. The risk of not taking the step begins to outweigh the risk involved in taking the first step. It is the first step that is the riskiest. Each time I move farther out to sea - farther away from the safe shores of my life - I somehow survive. Survival is necessary, but the growth that comes in the next millisecond is the true goal.

My choices are not always brave. My responses are not always based on my own best interest. I sometimes retreat into the safeness that I crave. Okay - I often retreat. But is it safe?

My dreams are minimal to non-existent. This is because to dream, to hope, to look away from the safety of the past, is so risky.

My reasons for choosing safety don't seem so perfect.