On the Edge

I'm standing on the edge and my choices are to stay ... 

                                                                ... or take a leap of faith.

Recently, on Brain Pickings (a site I highly recommend), I read about a 1960's experiment "The Visual Cliff." Originally intended to investigate the concept of depth perception in humans, the study revealed much about how we make decisions based on emotional signaling. 

Babies were placed on a solid surface that appeared to end when the checkerboard gave way to clear Plexiglas. The question was, what would the babies do when they reached the edge? What the researchers discovered was the expression on the mother's face, across the way, more reliably predicted what action the infant would take. If mom's look was encouraging, the baby would continue, even though the surface appeared to drop off. An anxious, fearful mom would likely stop the infant when the table 'ended'.

In both cases, the child was trying to please the one person they trusted to know what was best.

So I began to wonder ...

What were those mothers afraid of? Their child's safety? The child's ability to navigate? Feeling like a failure if their infant didn't perform or show courage? Rationally, they knew it would be all right and there was no danger. But something else was going on and their child sensed it. "Mom doesn't want me to do it. Mom doesn't think I can do it. There's danger. Mom is afraid — I should be afraid. I should stay here. It's safer."

And that got me thinking ...

Don't each of us look across the abyss for those encouraging expressions that say "You can do it. I'm here to catch you if you stumble. It's okay"? When we see those clues, we feel more confident, knowing someone believes in our ability — to either leap, or fly. Confident that we will make it across or soar to unimaginable heights. Confident someone we trust, on the other side, trusts us.

What we are more likely to see are expressions of fear.

And when we do?  Well ... we stay where we are. It's safer.


(P.S. As I wrote this post, I could visualize this scene from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.  But honestly, I'll take any excuse to visualize Harrison Ford!)

The Clock on the Wall

I swear I just wound that clock a few days ago and yet today it sounds lethargic again. Trying its best to make the effort to chime, but not feeling quite up to the task. So I wind it to put some pep in its ring.

If only it were that easy for people. And right now, what I mean by people, is me. I need that big hand that comes with the key and winds me up when I'm feeling as wound down as the clock.

I guess I should phrase that a bit differently, because I can get pretty wound with no one's help - it's not in a good way though. Just like my clock, over-winding is almost worse than just winding down. When I over-wind the clock (and I have) it takes awhile for the mechanism to loosen up enough to do what it's supposed to do. And sometimes, it's been over-wound to the point it's going to take a repair expert to put it back in working order.  For instance, while this clock rings the Westminster Chime on the quarter hour, it no longer counts the hour. It does what it can and I debate whether it's worth having it fixed, or I'm okay with just enjoying it as it is. (Do I really need it to count the hour when I hear it at 3:00 am and wonder why I'm awake? I don't think so.)

I can't decide if I've wound down or been over wound. So I look for the key.

I read books, knit, organize, search for a new interest (jewelry making anyone?) ... all the things that I have used, in the past, to come back to balance. But I wonder if I'm not over-winding right now. When I feel the inertia begin to set in, rather than just let my body and mind unwind, I work hard to wind back up. Not always successfully. 

Have I got myself so wound up, that while I can ring the Westminster Chime, I can no longer do the easy thing and simply count the hour?

In my study of psychological type, one theory is, when stressed, we try to overcompensate by stepping up our strengths and using them at full throttle   When that doesn't work, we move to the complete opposite as we look for the center. Like a pendulum. I'm action oriented, so stress makes me move at, what can seem like (at least to those around me) warp speed. 

I over wind.

And then I stop. 

Period.

Because the opposite of over action is no action. Until my internal mechanism loosens up a bit, I can't count the hour, in fact, by then I can barely chime. Now when I say "no action" I don't mean relaxation. I mean not moving, along with a mind that is frantically trying to figure out what's wrong and how to fix it. I keep trying to wind and only manage to continue tightening the spring. Thus a vicious cycle begins.

So, is it better to look for the key and keep winding or just wind down and let the springs relax for while? That is the question I keep trying to answer ... it seems like an easy one, it's not.

Now, where is that damn key? Do you have it?

Alzheimer's, It Giveth and Taketh Away

There are two women in my life who's strength, patience and love are something I wish I could emulate. I try, but they are a tough act to follow.

Aunt Nancy, Marilyn and my mom

While there are a lot of reasons to admire them, it has been their ability to remain calm, in the face of a loved one with Alzheimer's, that leaves me speechless. And not just with one person, but two. So while the disease robbed one, and is now robbing another, loved one of their memories, it has given me two women who have taught (and continue to teach) me a great deal.

Marilyn
In 1975 my grandfather remarried after my grandmother passed away. I wasn't sure how I felt about it at the time. I worshiped my grandmother and, as the oldest grandchild, always sensed I occupied a special place in her heart. But I love Marilyn, she had been a part of the family for as long as I could remember, and she loved my grandfather. Of that I have no doubt. What should have then been years of them growing old together, became years of Marilyn dealing with my grandpa's decent into Alzheimer's, devoted to him until the end. And while, in the beginning I wasn't ready to let someone else fill my grandmother's shoes, I have always felt that my grandfather and our family were blessed to have Marilyn be a part of it then, and now.

Aunt Nancy
My mom and my aunt, both widowed, decided to sell their individual houses and jointly build one in 2003. They were living alone, I was 300 miles away. The grand plan was for them to travel, quilt, craft, entertain and enjoy keeping each other company. In 2006 it was becoming obvious that my mom was losing her short term memory. She told people she'd had mini strokes. The sad reality? CAT scans showed there were no strokes ... dementia was setting in. And my aunt slowly became less of a companion to my mom, and more of a caregiver. I've watched her, over the past few years, trying everything she could to keep a sense of normality as well as slow the process that was ravaging my mom's brain. All this while her sons began families and her dream of becoming a grandmother came true.

I don't know how she did it. I really don't. I've spent weeks with my mom while my aunt traveled. It wore me out.  More mentally and emotionally than physically, although I'm not going to say there wasn't a physical response to the mental and emotional strain.  And that was only one week at a time, or a few days here and there. But otherwise, I could be in my remote bubble, 300 miles south, and not focus on what was happening with my mom.

Until now.

Recently I moved my mom closer to me. To a facility where she is comfortable and well taken care of. I did it so I could see her more. I did it so my aunt could focus on her five grandchildren (number six is on the way) and herself. I did it so I wouldn't feel as powerless as my mom slipped further and further into the past. But unlike Marilyn and Aunt Nancy, I have the 'luxury' of knowing that a skilled staff is caring for my mom between my visits.

So there you have it - four women, all affected by Alzheimer's, although only three of us remember. A husband, father, grandfather, and now a sister, dear friend and mother. I look at my aunt and Marilyn and use them as a model when I think I can't cope with my mom.

Someday, I hope to have the patience and strength they've shown. But that's a tall order and I have a long way to go. In the meantime, they get filed in the box, in my brain, labeled "Heroes."

Now You See It, Now You Don't

Do you see that? Where I messed up my stitches? It's so obvious.

At least to me.

I once had a knitter tell me that if you couldn't see the mistake, while galloping past on a horse, it wasn't worth fixing.  That sounds great, except I will always know it's there.  And when I look at the finished product, my eyes will go straight to the mistake — no matter what the rest of the knitting looks like. Everyone else may see miles and miles of beautiful stitches and yet all I'll focus on are the four rows where I didn't carry my yarn up the side properly.  Probably because I wasn't paying attention, kept knitting, and it wasn't until yesterday that I hit that "Oh crap" moment. (When you're working with pretty yarn, it's hard not to be mesmerized and fall into a fiber induced trance. And I'm using yarn from SpaceCadet Creations, which is VERY trance inducing.)

In knitting there is this awesome concept called 'tink'ing.  It's a knitting do-over.  T-I-N-King — it's knitting in reverse (get it?) It's a way to go back and fix the mistake. Ask another knitter "should I tink back?" and the answer will inevitably be "is it going to bother you?" Some knitters are fine with it, figuring it adds to the uniqueness and makes it their own. Me? I'm not one of those knitters and I WILL focus on the mistake. I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter, that no one will notice, that you wouldn't be able to see it riding past on a horse. But I don't usually wear my knitting near a stable.

And so I tink. Back to correct the mistake, knowing that I will be more aware of how I made it and watch to make sure I don't do it again.

Wouldn't it be nice if there was a way to tink back in life? So that instead of focusing on all the mistakes I've made over the past half century, I could correct, learn, and not do them again?

Now, truth be told, there are times in knitting, when tinking is no longer a viable option — you can only rip back the same yarn so many times before it starts showing the stress, and the best thing to do is start over again, at a different point in the skein.

Not too different in life I guess. Sometimes you have to let it go and say "well, that just made things more interesting" and at other times all you can do is know the mistake is there, learn from it and move on. I have yet, though, to figure out how to go back and start again, at a different point in life, when I keep making the same mistake over and over.

So for now, I'll have to be content with the do-over opportunity knitting gives me, knowing in the end I'll be happy with the results ... whether or not I wear it to the Kentucky Derby. 

Much better...

Putting Things in the Proper Order (because that's what I do)

Before I get too far into this blog business, you're probably wondering why I'm here.  Me too.

The short answer: "I'm on a quest."  ("for what?" I hear you asking.)

My Center

I've misplaced it.  Somewhere.  I'm not sure where.  It's been gone for awhile.

Honestly, I'm not sure I even know what it looks like anymore.

The long answer (because I hear you saying to yourself "tell me more."  Frankly, I'm a bit concerned that I'm hearing these things, but that's probably a post on mental health): I keep thinking that if I pull all the knots and tangles out of my head and put them on (virtual?) paper, maybe, just maybe, there will be room for my center to return when I find it.

Oh the clutter up there in that noggin' of mine!  You'd think, for someone who's so compulsive about tidiness, things would be better organized.  But about the time I think I've got everything compartmentalized, in matching boxes, and labeled appropriately, something else shows up. And it doesn't fit into any of those categories I've already identified. (If you think I'm kidding about the labeling and matching boxes, may I present exhibit A — a sampling of my sewing room closet.)  

(note the bin that's marked Labeler)

Or worse, something that I've already labeled now no longer fits in/is appropriate for the box I had assigned it to.

Some of it's due to an expansion of what I thought I knew — kind of like learning the earth is round when you've believed it was flat.  That re-categorization is okay, although it may take me awhile to remember I've relabeled it.  

But some of the chaos is coming from things over which I have no control.

Like the box I have labeled "Parenting."  Twenty six and twenty eight years ago I gave birth to sons and over the course of time, while the contents of the box remained the same, they sometimes shifted.  Children grow up, they go off to school and then college.  They move out, they move back in, they move out again.  They have families of their own and parenting takes on the joyful preface "grand".

But just as my role of parent of two sons eased up a bit, I took on the role with a parent, who at seventy six is reverting and sadly, at times, takes me back to my days of dealing with preschoolers.  This does not fit into any box I have shelved in my brain.

So, you're welcome to join me on the quest ...  clutter busting ... relabeling ... whatever you want to call it. I don't know where it will take me, the GPS isn't working and the map has been folded and refolded too many times.  But I have my trusty label maker at the ready and am starting to move.

In the meantime - if you should find My Center, please let it know I'm looking for it, offer it a cookie (it's partial to chocolate chip oatmeal), and send it home.

Knitting is the New Yoga

I am learning...

If I don't pay attention to what I'm doing...

That while the results may be potentially entertaining (depending on the vantage point)...

They will not be what I intended.

Let me give you a couple of illustrations that are personal favorites of mine.  

• When I was doing yoga (more to the point, when I COULD do yoga, but that's another post on exercise and diet, and well, I'm supposed to be concentrating on this post, right?) I could flow through movements as long as I paid attention to my body and what I wanted it to do.  But if I was in, let's say, downward dog too long, my mind would start a dialogue that sounded something like this: "man this was a crappy day. I didn't get what I wanted done. Wonder what's for dinner? Do I need to stop for gas? I hope I remembered..."  You get the picture.  The picture the rest of the yoga class got was me falling over.  Yup — mind went down the rabbit hole, body followed.
• In 2008, I bought a Harley. I had to have it delivered. I didn't know how to ride it. I took lessons.  First thing you learn in class: the bike goes where your eyes go.  Repeat after me: Where you look is where you'll go. Simple, right? I learned to ride, and on one memorable occasion, early on, I had taken my bike to the dealer for maintenance.  My son drove me to pick it up and then was to follow me home.  As we left the parking lot, with me in the lead, I looked across the street and said (to myself, no one's going to hear you over that engine!) "don't go up that curb over there, don't go up that curb over there." I'm sure by now you know exactly where I went — up the curb, lost my balance and as slowly and gently as possible, laid the bike down. (see previously referenced lesson) 
• We won't even go into how I set fire to a pan while boiling pasta.

So knitting has become my new yoga.

When the running dialogue in my head sounds like "knit two together, yarn over, knit two together, yarn over, slip slip knit..."  (or K2tog YO K2tog YO SSK in the lingo) - things look great because I've paid attention ... to the pattern, the yarn, my tension.

What's not not pretty is when the mental conversation is more along the lines of  "knit two together, what the hell was I thinking, yarn over, that was a stupid move, I should have thought that through better...  why doesn't this look like the picture on the pattern? (or in the lingo, K2tog, damn, YO, crap, grrrr... ugh!)

Now, don't get me wrong, there are times when I knit, that I'm not paying attention because of the laughter and bantering with my knitting partners in crime friends.  I will never complain about that scenario, it's a fellowship I enjoy. By now most of us have learned not to try complicated or intricate patterns while in that group's presence. Just like yoga has levels of effort, so does knitting; sometimes you need Shavasana, sometimes you need a garter stitch.

I'm still trying to tame my inner dialogue and pay attention, and the results are showing.

Now all I have to do is learn to tune out the dialogue in the yarn store, which tends to result in yarn purchases, pattern overload, and ... oh wait, are those new project bags with cute sheep on them?

My Father, Myself - Part the First

I miss my dad — it's been 25 years, almost to the day, that he died semi-unexpectedly.  I guess, more appropriately, he died suddenly — it's just that we'd been waiting for almost 20 years for the inevitable.

He died of his third heart attack. One he couldn't have survived, based on the previous two and the scars they left years earlier.  My last phone conversation with him had been along the lines of "is mom there?"  It never occurred to me that shortly after that call, he wouldn't be.

We didn't always agree on everything, what parent-child combination does?  But, he was my champion and no matter what, would have fought dragons to defend me (even knowing at times that I had provoked them.) But I believe, after the struggles he'd been through in his own life, he was determined to protect me.  As he had his family and his country long before I came along.

Dad was the youngest of seven children born to parents who had immigrated to the United States to flee the turmoil in their native Hungary.  He grew up during the Great Depression.  He served in the Army Corp of Engineers on the front lines in Europe during World War II. Helping to build bridges and roads for Patton's troops, only to watch them be demolished after the last truck and soldier had crossed.

My father didn't talk much about his early life, as though it was something to forget, and he certainly didn't talk about the war, unless it was with someone else who had shared that experience.  In fact, he was so determined to leave the past behind that he changed his birth name to something more "American". And he never understood my desire to go to Europe when I lived in the greatest country on earth (cue Kate Smith singing God Bless America)

One of the greatest gifts I have been given (just too young and stupid to know it at the time) was a visit my dad and I had with a vice president of the university I attended.  This man had also served in Europe during WWII and I sat and listened as he and my father talked about their common experiences in Luxembourg, France and Germany.  And all I could think was "jeez dad, why are you talking about drinking and cavorting along the Seine with a university V.P.?"  I was too embarrassed to realize that what I was getting was a glimpse of my father, that rarely saw the light of day and few knew existed.

I still, on occasion, encounter that long-retired V.P. and every time I do, I thank him for the gift he gave me that summer day in 1979.  I leave out the part where it took me 10 years to receive it — a year too late to tell my dad how much it meant to me.

So dad (I know you're still there, watching for dragons, lance at the ready): thank you.  And tell Aunt Helen I said hello.

What a Tangled Mess...

Sometimes all you can do is pick up the tangled mess and try to decide what you should do about it.  Is it worth salvaging?  Would it be better to just toss it and start fresh?  Is the effort time well spent?  In the end, did you come out with something useful, or is it merely an untangled mess?

Lately I'm not sure if this is about yarn or life ... my life  

I have spent a great deal of time, recently, trying to make sense of a number of things.  Often it's the massive knot that somehow my mother's yarn has become.  She claims it's gremlins in the middle of the night.  If that's the case, they need a new hobby, or at least someone else to pick on for awhile.  But it's surprising how determined (nay, some might say stubborn) I get to prove that I AM smarter than the yarn, and I WILL NOT be defeated by the yarn.  If it became tangled, it can become untangled!  I SHALL BE victorious!

Score so far?  Yarn 2, Leslie 3  You know, people stare when you hold aloft a neatly wound ball of yarn and do a happy dance.  I guess not everyone takes untangling yarn as seriously as I do.  Most don't understand why I take it so seriously — it's just yarn, right?

And as I work with the tangles and knots, my mom looks at me and says "you want it, take it."

Here's the thing, I don't want it.

I just want to feel that I have some semblance of control — over something — even if it's only a ball of gremlin knotted yarn.

And now we're back to life ... my life  

An adult child moves out, a child-like adult moves closer.  When you finally think your parenting days are over, you find yourself playing that role with your parent.  A parent that doesn't understand the shift because parts of her brain have become as tangled as the yarn, and it's out of my control.

So my tangled mess is no longer made of yarn but the threads of everyday life.  And those original questions don't apply.  That the only option is to make sure it's time well spent as I try to loosen the knots, figure out what goes where, and wonder how it got like this.

I'm pretty sure it's not gremlins.