Category Archives: relationship

Reconciliation Is For Kids

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November Gratitude Shorts, Day 11

“Mama, I like how your mood gets better when you listen to music .”

“You’re always telling us to eat less sugar, and you’re eating ice cream and cake.”

Thank God for my kids who call me out and keep me honest. They don’t do it to embarrass me or make me feel bad about myself. Their goal is not to shame me. They simply make observations of my behavior and its inconsistencies with my rhetoric. They are curious, and seek reconciliation. 

Earlier today I reblogged Donna Cameron’s excellent post on the judgement required to determine when naked honesty is not always the best policy. I think talking about this stuff out loud, especially with our kids, is important. We need to be clear about our guiding life principles, and hold them up. We also need to practice flexibility and discretion.  It’s not always easy, and we must keep trying. 

I counsel people all day about the virtues of fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and lean protein. And they would find me eating ice cream and cookies more often than I’d like to admit. I work on it every day just like everybody else. I need my own advice as much as the next person. 

I think it’d be nice if we adults approached one another’s inconsistencies like children do, from a place of curiosity, non-judgement, and love. 

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.

The Marvel of Words

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November Gratitude Shorts, Day 6

Today I give thanks for the gifts of language. To have such a vast array of words, in so many languages from around the world, to express our ideas, thoughts, and feelings—how magnificent!

My friend tells me a story about an exasperating conversation with her boyfriend. I start to remember a similar encounter with my husband.  Before long we’re laughing together, saying, “Yes!  That’s exactly how I feel!”

I read a blog here on WordPress where the author has written my thoughts better than I ever could have. Articles I find on Facebook, my friends’ posts, books that I read or listen to—words are what connect us.  By the way, audiobooks are my new favorite thing, especially when read by the authors. The Art of Possibility, Start With Why, Bossypants, Leaders Eat Last, Rising Strong, Big Magic—it’s like driving to work or sipping coffee in the intimate company of these amazing writers, sharing their divine truths with just me.

There is almost always a precise expression for our experiences:  Queasy. Slothful.  Euphoric.  Hung over.  Resonant.  Cosmic.  Mind-blowing.  Oblivious.

Then there are figures of speech that perfectly capture a concept:

Peeing in the ocean.

Needle in a haystack.

Mess with the bull…

Bite thy tongue.

Own your shit. 

The only other language I know well is Mandarin, and I often find myself thinking of phrases that have no English equivalents. For instance, “shang nao jing” literally means “wound brain scripture.”  It’s used when we feel severely mentally taxed—but trust me, ‘mentally taxed’ just sounds lame in comparison, and does not capture the full meaning.  One of my favorites, “yuan fen,” loosely translates to “fate; destiny that ties people together.”  The Chinese is much more elegant and efficient.  Similarly, my slack foreign grasp of the meanings of “ohm” and “ubuntu” probably fall miserably short of their native speakers’ understanding.

But no matter, language bonds us. I don’t paint or play an instrument.  Though I appreciate art and music, they are not my media for relationship.  The most rewarding moments at work are always when I’m talking with my patients—hearing their stories, getting to know them, relating.  It’s probably no accident that I ended up in primary care, where every encounter carries such potential for rare connection—through words.  And I’m forever grateful for the privilege.