Monthly Archives: November 2015

I’m just sayin’ … honesty isn’t always kind

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Friends, please read this post by Donna Cameron, who writes A Year of Living Kindly. She reconciles honesty with kindness in those moments of apparent conflict, and shows us how to navigate it with simple tools that apply in any relationship, anywhere, anytime. Thank you, Donna!

Donna Cameron's avatarA Year of Living Kindly

“Today I bent the truth to be kind, and I have no regret, for I am far surer of what is kind than I am of what is true.” (Robert Brault)

Attribution: Donna Cameron“I’m just saying this for your own good.”

“Don’t be so thin-skinned. I’m just telling it like it is.”

“Hey, I call it like I see it.”

“Jeesh, you’re so touchy!”

These phrases are often used to justify saying hurtful things. Sometimes the speaker may really believe that the listener needs to hear his unvarnished opinion about the poor sap’s looks, abilities, opinions, or prospects.

Speaking on behalf of poor saps everywhere, we don’t. We don’t need someone to tell us all the things that are wrong with us or all the things we don’t do as well as we should. That’s what that persistent little voice in our own head does—and it doesn’t need any help.

There are…

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Goose Poop Gratitude

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November Gratitude Shorts, Day 10

I saw the clumps (one divided neatly down the middle) strewn on the asphalt path, and was able to avoid them, this time. It took me a second—it didn’t look quite like dog poop, but it was definitely excrement (funny how we can discern that in miliseconds!)…too small for horses, and I’ve never seen a horse on the path…oh yes, the Canadian geese are here for the season!  Plop, gloop, splat…smulsch.  That must be what fresh goose poop sounds like when it hits the ground, and then when an unsuspecting biker runs over it.  I decided this today.  I didn’t smulsch it myself, thankfully.

As I admired my surroundings during this afternoon bike ride on a perfect fall day in Chicago, I wondered, who cleans this stuff up?  The geese have no owner, after all. The trees along the path have been trimmed so as not to smack me in the face when I pass by.  I see the refuse bins and rest areas.  But I have never met the workers who tend this lovely public space.

Bill was the custodian at my high school. I think I knew his last name once, but I remember him just as Bill the Custodian.  He was a tall white man, a smoker, and looked about 70.  He kept his crew cut short and orderly, and wore dark blue overalls and a permanently stoic expression.  His manner was gruff, blunt, and paternal.  Everybody loved Bill.  We considered it a personal triumph to crack a smile from him; he was a softy and we all knew it.  One day Ma was with me after school and we passed Bill in the hallway.  We exchanged friendly greetings and walked on.  I remember Ma saying that we should always treat custodians and other support staff with great respect and kindness, because they do the work that nobody wants to do.  They are why we can come to school every day and focus on learning, because the floors and chalkboards are clean and the trash cans are empty.  Bill represented all of his colleagues with integrity.

I know most custodial staff work nights. I wish they didn’t have to—this schedule goes against the body’s circadian rhythm and the price we pay—both the workers and society at large—can be high.  I feel naïve for thinking we should alter social economics so we can all work days, but really wish we could.  I know it won’t happen.

So thank you, Bill and colleagues, for taking such fine care of our spaces—inside and out. We take you for granted, I apologize.  Please know that you do truly noble work.  God bless you, every one.

Pass, Set, Hit, Repeat… Repeat. 

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November Gratitude Shorts, Day 9

Hallelujah for volleyball!!

It started 30 years ago, in 7th grade, when Mrs. Walton started a girls’ volleyball club, I think.  Then I seem to recall playing on an actual middle school team, against other schools?  We wore orange basketball uniforms–so ugly, but I didn’t care!  I was hooked.

The summer before high school I stalked the varsity coach, Bubba, and called him at home, requesting (begging) to attend volleyball camp, which incoming freshman usually weren’t allowed to do. I knew I needed the extra training to make the team.

Each year I made the team again, to my great relief and pride.  I worked exponentially harder at volleyball than at any subject in school. Maybe I felt I had something to prove, but I also just loved the game. It taught me discipline, focus, teamwork, time management, and perseverance (I think we never had a winning season).

But it was college where all that persistence really paid off. Growing up in mostly white, suburban Denver, I had no idea that volleyball was such an Asian thing. I got to Northwestern and hey, all these Chinese and Korean kids played!  That’s how I made friends with my husband, the tall, smiley Chinese guy.  We played all through college and med school. I realize now it’s one of the few things we love in common.

I had forgotten most of this over the years–residency, new jobs, kids, work…work, kids–until this fall, when our local Jewish Community Center started a club on Monday nights. We have played the last three weeks and I’m proud to say that though rusty, my skills and court sense remain intact!

The best part has been reconnecting with our younger selves. And, I have to say, he’s definitely still got it–just as sexy on the court now as 20 years ago. I love getting the perfect pass, setting him up, and watching him leap, then slam it with authority to the floor on the other side.   It’s pretty cool when he sets to me, too, and it helps that the net is set at women’s regulation height.

Our son, who is twelve, has started to play. I see in him his dad’s natural reflexes and talent for the game, and I look forward to growing that.  Our daughter, too small to play with adults yet, seems happy to read _Harry Potter_ for the hour each week, so this could easily become a weekly family routine, yay!

I never thought I would have a chance at this age, in this stage if life, to share this love again with not only the hubs, but with the kids, too. Thank you, Mrs. Walton!  Thank you, Bubba!  Thank you, Barbara, Jennifer, and Lisa, the coaches who never cut me from the team!  Thank you, husband, for showing up and playing with joy and abandon!  And thank you, JCC, for relighting this old flame. If I take care of myself right, by the time I die, I might have played for most of my life. I will feel nothing but gratitude for that.