The popcorn ceiling, valance curtains, brightly colored abstract images in gilt frames hanging over each double bed. Six hangers on a pole by the door, with its emergency exit and checkout instructions posted beneath a tiny keyhole. There is olive carpeting with a small pattern, striped wallpaper in the beige bathroom with its dripping faucet. Desk, stationery, chest of drawers, side table, alarm clock, television, phone.

I’ve been zapped back to the 1980s. To my decade of homogeneous hotel rooms, then so much a part of my work life – routine travel, about once a month. And even during those years, waking at two, again at three, finally rising at five after only intermittent sleep.

What has changed? There is internet access. The TV is a flat panel. I am no longer 30.

Business travel (the blur)

Most often, my business travel consisted of short trips – two days, possibly three – long enough to see a customer or give a training class. Overseas trips were sometimes equally brief, despite the distance and the jet lag. Occasionally they might run an entire week.

Rarely was there enough time to see more than a city’s airport, a generic conference room, and the accommodations – always so similar, always about little sleep, rising early, working late. Always the blur, and focused on the job at hand.

Weekend travel, parent-style

This has been a good weekend. But travel is harder for me now, and yesterday was a full agenda of parent-student activities at the university where my son begins his summer study. My 17-year old seemed excited. And seeing that, I was happy. Genuinely happy.

This morning, I rush to make another shuttle bus, the usual security lines, the flight, then a train and a walk to reach home. It will be another long day. And now, early, in this hotel room, these odd flashbacks after dreams about the future – two sons in college.

This place, somehow triggering a blending of past, present, and yes – futures. This perfectly nice hotel with its friendly service, and for me – these strange flashbacks to another self, another time, another life entirely. A life before a different sort of blur – before marriage, children, divorce, money worries, health issues. Before the first signs of aging.

The unfamiliar

I’ve always enjoyed exploring a new city. There has been little of that this trip, with its explicit purpose. Yes, there was a short walk Friday evening. Burgers and a bit of relaxation. A night of my teenager’s channel surfing with the remote. Yesterday’s full and well-executed orientation agenda. A tiring day, but a good one.

And all these memories of my years on the road are flooding back. Energy I took for granted. A steady income I assumed would always be there. The blur of being on the move, but real or false – a sense of forward momentum. Always the unfamiliar, but one in which I knew my role.

Now I head into a new unfamiliar zone, one that we all face if we are fortunate. I am moving more slowly, returning home, and I will begin the process of asking tough questions. Asking myself if it is still home once children have left. Asking myself what is next. Asking what remains possible.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Stereotypes and generalizations

Yesterday I wrote about why I find France, and French men irresistible. And everything I wrote  was based on my truths. As for the stereotypes and generalizations about French men? I stand by them, as examples of behaviors that I have personally experienced, and certainly more than once. I consider that I have enough information to acknowledge the realities in the stereotypes, and to sum up my own observations, and generalize.

After all, with 35 years of travel back and forth, as well as staying for very extended periods, I’m not speaking without some knowledge. I’ve lived, studied, and worked in France at various points in my life – in Paris, Nice, Provence, Normandy and elsewhere.

Does that make me an expert? Surely not! There are a hundred destinations in France (at least) that I’ve never seen and would love to visit. And even more spots where I’d like to take up residence for a time, in a rented flat or small house.  It’s clear that I adore the culture, that it suits me, and when I spend time in France I bring that positive energy to the experience. Who doesn’t enjoy a guest who is thrilled to be there, respectful of cultural traditions, and speaks the language?

As for my stereotyping, don’t we all use stereotypes, and therefore are potentially biased? More specifically – my generalizations? I consider that I have enough experience (beyond the superficial) to stand by my opinions. When stereotyping slides into judgment (or even prejudice), is that always a problem? Is judgment necessarily bad? Isn’t it just another form of opinion, and aren’t we entitled to our opinions?

Are stereotypes inherently bad?

Stereotypes are based on elements of truth, on attributes that are observed and then used to classify. We use those stereotypes to make quick assessments. It’s natural for people to form opinions (judgments) from the information we have on hand. As for stereotypes – we’ve got millions! There are stereotypes about America and Americans, just as there are about France and the French, Italy and Italians, Germany and Germans, Canada and Canadians, and so on.

We also routinely generalize about men and women, ethnic groups, religious groups, and political groups. We toss out careless statements about kids, old people, nerds, preppies, stoners, jocks, ladies men, cougars – and so much more.  We adhere to our stereotypes (until something changes them), and we ascribe judgments, often simplistically: good versus bad, like versus dislike.

Yet stereotypes offer no shades of gray, provide no narration, no explanation, and certainly no exploration.

When you judge an individual based upon a stereotype, do you know his inner world? The stories of his upbringing? His talents? His choices? His constraints? The psychological and intellectual terrain that comprise his experience to date?

Traveling at a young age

I have been fortunate in that I traveled a great deal internationally, and from the time I was 15. I’ve dabbled in many languages, speak a few, and have been chameleon-like in my ability to adapt to new countries and cultures. As I’ve lived in or wandered through France, Russia, Poland, Greece – or as I vacationed in Aruba, Jamaica, or Guadeloupe, I found elements of truth to the cultural stereotypes I held in each country. And I found just as many surprises, as I got to know individuals.

Stereotypes are partial truths about groups, generally without context; they are as false as they are true, when it comes to individuals. So, judgments based upon stereotypes (with little to no additional information) will tend to be unreliable. Might that be what makes our judgments less than a good idea?

• If you generalize based on one experience, by definition, that is not a generalization.
• If you rely solely on “stereotype” of an ethnic or cultural group, a religion, or a political affiliation based on limited experience, you’re as likely to be wrong in your assessments, as you are right.

We all make judgments. Constantly. They are opinions that occasionally slide into prejudice. They are conclusions that sometimes serve to assuage us in some way. They are justifications for behaviors or actions. Judgments, in my judgment, are not inherently bad. What is problematic is the way in which we make them, wield them to damage others, or rely upon them inappropriately.

My world view on short men (or Napoleon?)

I generally prefer tall men, romantically speaking. Ridiculous, considering I’m barely five feet tall. But c’est la vie.

Once, I was involved with a short man. About 5′4″ tall, with elements of the dreaded “Napoleon Complex.” Being a petite woman, I’m very aware of the special difficulties in our world which seems to worship physical stature. So I understood the origin of some of his (over)compensation.

The gentleman in question was wildly funny, incredibly smart, spoke four languages, and… well… he knew a good deal about how to treat a woman. Yes, he was French.

He swept me off my feet, carried away my heart, painted us a delicious future, then dropped me out of nowhere. Piecing things together some months later, apparently there were several of us who had succumbed to his charms. No, he wasn’t married, but one of the women found out, and that was that.

Did he break my heart? Well, let’s say he bruised it badly. He was a Frenchman in the US (so I stand by my French men are irresistible remarks). But seriously – does this mean I should never be involved with a short man again? From one experience, can I say that all short men are not to be trusted?

Latvia

No, it wasn’t Colonel Mustard in the closet. It was our Latvian student, the 17-year old who came to stay with us, brimming over with a number of preconceived notions. About Americans, about the region we live in, and about the religion that we “sort of” practice. He was quite vocal about his ideas, which came from ignorance and stereotypes, based largely on stories he’s heard growing up, along with music and media.

Yesterday afternoon, he boarded a plane for home. I suspect he returned to Latvia with some impressions confirmed, and others irrevocably altered. I know he returned to Eastern Europe with the knowledge that he made two American friends, and one of them is my son.

As for us? We were the ideal environment for this very outspoken young man, in a relatively conservative part of the country. We are not “typical” in many ways. We’re culturally hybrid, reflecting two religious traditions, a single parent situation, and we mix our languages for pleasure. We get mad when we’re mad, we laugh when we find humor, and we take each day more or less as it comes. Study, learning, respect, and an open mind are the essential values in our particular family circus.

We are not stereotypical Americans. Yet we are the essence of America.

If this young man “judges” based on us, will that be a bad thing?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I even took an hour to actually enjoy the web, buzzing with all manner of pleasurable and intriguing vibes. I read about how Stone Fox was outed. I grinned when Sarah at Momalom played a happy song, and I wandered my housebound head space, returning to Lindsey’s ruminations on (among other things) what feeds the imagination.

I spent time at T’s place, as she touched on disappointment, thinking about institutions that have disappointed me, rather than people. And I thought about writing, which never disappoints. The act of writing, the energy of writing, the full force of writing as it reinterprets recollection, and teases the senses. Writing is friend, family, lover, counselor. Writing is my co-conspirator in mischief-making, my didactic dealer in discovery.

Then I thought about Natalie Goldberg, and Writing Down the Bones, a book given to me by a painter friend 15 years ago. Goldberg, and her lessons on specificity. On the necessity of writing practice.

And it hit me.

It’s just another day

In my mind it is morning. I am standing in Starbucks, leaning against a glass barrier, counting down the minutes until doors will be unlocked so I may enter the adjoining bookstore. I’m eyeing an older gentleman at a seemingly simple task: he lingers at the counter after picking up his coffee, fiddling with the cap. This is the spot that is covered in crumbs and spills, where we rarely register the standard choices of whole milk or Half and Half, Splenda or Sweet ‘N Low, spices, stirrers, raw sugar, refined sugar.

The man can’t decide between the shaker of chocolate or cinnamon. He picks up each, one at a time, sprinkles a bit, then stirs, then sips. He hesitates next over the two sorts of milk, labors to pour from the closest pitcher, then stirs and sips.

And he begins again.

His air is placid. A broad, irregular scar fans out across his forehead. Whatever caused it, the wound is recent; it is only partially scabbed. He’s seventy, perhaps older, and he appears unfazed as he goes through a third round of the very same set of steps. I wonder if he fell and hit his head. If a surgical procedure took place. If he needs a hand, though he seems unbothered by those who come and go. He’s nodding and smiling as he repeats the cycle of sprinkling, tasting, stirring, and pouring. He wears a wedding ring. Someone, somewhere, loves him.

All the while, I’m watching. I’m making mental notes. I’m writing, in my head.

The writer in the corner

I see the woman in the corner in my peripheral vision. She looks up, then down, then types a little.

What if the woman in the corner is watching me, as I’m watching someone else? What if she is tapping out her commentary on the disheveled little woman staring rudely at the old man? Is she observing the observer? Writing about the writer?

What if another writer at the far table is now describing her, as she in turn practices her daily act of  writing? Is this the age-old conundrum of two mirrors, and the strange effects of the reflection perpetually bent back on itself? Is it nothing more than navel gazing ad nauseum, or is this an exercise – or imagery – worthy of mention?

• If all is fair in love and war, what about writing?
• Is writing on writing always self-indulgent?
• Is any observation potentially of interest?
• What about “Blog not, lest ye be blogged?”

I have no answers; I only know there is a line, and also a wide berth. My boundaries will not be your boundaries. My wonderment will not be your wonderment.

Lindsey’s question returns: what feeds the imagination, anyway?

I am keenly aware of my need for observation, participation, participation in observation, and equally – for thinking, feeling, and thinking about feelings. When I can, I live more fully through adventuring – in other languages, other selves, other places.

In the meantime, there are two-way mirrors, when we are aware, and watchers and writers, even when we are not.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Groundhog Day was on TV the other night. I only caught the end of it (I’ve seen it, um… over and over), but it made me consider what it would be like to re-frame a particular day. To “tweak” it. Perhaps a pivotal day, or perhaps a seemingly ordinary day. But by adjusting an action, a response, speaking up or not – you achieve something different than what actually happened at the time that it occurred.

It’s an interesting proposition. And if you could turn back the clock and change something, would you dare? Or would you be concerned that you might affect that inexplicable “fabric of time” and impact something else, with undesired repercussions?

Do you recall “The Prime Directive” on Star Trek? Not to interfere with an alien culture even with superior knowledge, or knowledge of the future? Not to mess with time because of the ripple effects? While not precisely the same thing, this concept touches on what is known as Chaos Theory – the sensitivity and interdependence of forces we may not entirely understand as yet. To those who are more poetic, perhaps it is best known as The Butterfly Effect. Of course, I’m looking at its possibilities through the lens of time, which is a little different. Still, I wonder…

Life altering personal decisions

There are major decisions in life that we sometimes come to regret. But often, those regrets are intertwined with positives. For example, had I known what I know now about my former spouse, I wouldn’t have married him. But if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have two incredible sons. Then I think – had I anticipated certain events rather than turning a blind eye, I could have approached the end of the marriage very differently, with a better result in many ways. But who’s to say that something else wouldn’t have screwed up?

I think about the car accident three years ago. My son was fine; I still pay the consequences in unhealed injuries. Had we left the house 5 minutes earlier or later, would our lives be entirely different? Better or worse?

At the professional crossroad

What if I had taken the job offer I received in France at 24, when I was working there for a summer, instead of returning to the States to pursue an MBA? No telling what my life would be like – including whether I might be happily living in Paris now. A place I always felt a greater sense of belonging. Then again, what’s to say some tragedy wouldn’t have befallen me there? Or that I simply would’ve grown bored with the work, and missed the opportunities that came with my graduate degree, and the career that eventually led me to meeting the man who fathered my children? And can I even imagine this world without the joy of my boys, and all they have yet to contribute?

Can we ever assume that a “do-over” would set us on the “right” path?

Health and the crystal ball

When I look at smaller, more isolated events – things to do with paying attention to my own health, that’s where I think that possibly, a small adjustment might have made a big difference. More attentiveness to my body’s needs – nutritional for example. Or managing stress at an age when it could’ve made more difference. And, um, hello, flossing?

Since we are never privy to the future, can we really believe that if we could turn back time, we would be happier? Healthier? More prosperous? Less frightened?

• What would you risk doing over, if you could?
• Is it a “pivotal day,” or something simpler?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Last evening, for three hours, I hovered in the pleasure zone, my brain and body exquisitely in sync. This was delight the likes of which I haven’t felt in six months, or perhaps as long as a year. The kind of pleasure, intense and pervasive, that obliterates worry and fatigue as all the universe seems to buzz and sizzle in the moment, and the moment goes on and on…

This is not the stuff of my everyday life; it is affirming and energizing to relive this extraordinary fullness, the mind-body connection, the airy sense of well-being that results. And as the thrill of the experience began to ease, very late last night, I lay down and slept. Without turbulence, without waking, for nearly six hours. Miraculous.

This morning, I woke still basking in a very particular afterglow following a remarkable night. Care to hear more?

Passion of the mind

An acquaintance came to my home last evening to speak with my son about architecture, about the ways to approach an architectural education, and the architectural profession. He is a photographer, an artist, an architect, a professor of architecture, a researcher, and more. He has designed some stunning structures. What I didn’t know is that he is an inspired teacher.

He asked my son some questions, and they talked. Then he spoke, eloquently, about his own meandering path into architecture: the intersection of philosophy, psychology, fine art, history, engineering, chemistry, mathematics, environmental studies, and more. That is – or can be – the realm of the architect who creates in harmony with his own imagination, with the land, the elements, and of course, the human beings who will live in or interact with the private or public structures he is designing.

I listened in an adjoining room, as the discussion wandered from Le Corbusier to Frank Gehry to Santiago Calatrava, from  theory to pragmatism to bringing an idea to life, and the distinction between “a building” and true architecture.

Transported in time, boosting my brain

I began to take notes. I felt 17 again, exposed to a brilliant mind in a lecture hall, scribbling as quickly as I could to document the possibilities pouring in. I caught a glimpse of my son’s face, open and engaged, and as the discussion progressed I felt the space in my brain reorganizing – its furnishings shifted, adjusted, rearranged; the walls easing outward in order to house broader concepts than I’d entertained just an hour earlier. 

The rooms of my own capacity were undergoing renovation; a new structure was forming, even as I was nudged, bombarded, and overwhelmed by words and the visuals they crafted that came in jolts and waves. There is potency in the pairing of certain phenomena, in the tension of opposites and opposition: presence and absence, form and function, process and material, imagination and engineering. And they all combine most effectively when coordinated with mother nature as well as human nature.

This is the heart of architecting: the structure as art, as sculpture, as music, as evolutionary and satisfying space created purposefully. This is the iterative, cumulative and perpetual process of discovery.

At one point, our guest said: “You may have an idea, and conceive it one way. But it’s something else as you’re building it. When you’re in it. Be open to not knowing.”

Renaissance man (and woman)

Last evening, I experienced the full body pleasure of learning. I was quickly aware that the Renaissance man at my kitchen table was no “ordinary” architect. He showed images of various projects and described them. One in particular is a masterpiece of visual poetry.

As the reason for inviting the architect was to talk about various educational routes to the architectural profession, I couldn’t help but think about the benefits of a liberal arts education, its exposure to classics, to the overlap and interaction of many fields of thought and endeavor. It provides a foundation in the tools of learning as much as subject matter.

If the proverbial Renaissance man or woman is one who has knowledge in a wide array of both arts and sciences, then the gentleman in our kitchen epitomizes that particular role. Personally, I would like to do a better job of becoming a Renaissance woman. I was on that path, once, and had to yield to another that was more “pragmatic.” As important as it is to make a living, the desire to pursue language, literature, and art is no less pressing than it was when I was 17. If anything, it is more so, as life at 50 seems so much more precious than it did when I was an adolescent.

Seduction and motivation

I am reminded that my brain can still be seduced by ideas, pleasured by putting pieces of a puzzle together, teased by trailing off into imagery, encouraged by the playfulness of meticulous language and a searching mind. For me, this is life force. This is hopefulness.

I believe my son, in his own way, was deeply affected. He is normally taciturn in the mornings, but on the way to school today we talked.

“See that house?” he said pointing to a large, pseudo-federal structure clearly constructed in recent years. I nodded. “That’s nothing like what he designs. His architecture is awesome. Every element flows together and each has a purpose. And it’s art.”

Stress reducers, memory boosters

I wonder if last evening will be a turning point for my son. I know that he “got it.” Now it’s up to him to run with it, to do the work. To prepare his future.

Perhaps our best memory inducers, brain boosters, stress-reducers and even pleasure centers are those lit up by what naturally engages us. The gift I offered my son by inviting this fascinating architect to sit and talk was a gift to myself. I had no idea that would be the case. I am now keenly aware that somehow I must dust off the tables and chairs neglected in my own brain. I need my mind challenged, stretched, and stimulated. That cannot be done in isolation.

As for the generosity of this man, in sharing his time and arranging for a followup, I am immensely grateful. Where my son may go from here, I can only imagine. As for myself, I am uncertain. But I am open to not knowing.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Not Paris? Try the Riviera or the countryside

Isn’t this a nice time of year to imagine a get-away to somewhere romantic? Is Paris too chilly and gray? There’s always the South of France. I imagine that “tu es très mignon” (you are very cute) works quite nicely there, too. Somehow, I think I’d put my restless legs to better use in an adventure on foreign soil, rather than pounding on my keyboard every day in my current all too familiar locale.

Dream trips?

Ah yes, I do still have those metro tickets in my pocket. And the emergency Euros in my wallet. I know exactly where I would go and put my mastery of the French tongue to use. But first, vitamins, bills, parenting, real life. Fortunately, I have a cache of foreign films of my own. In memory.

• Where would you go, if you could pick up on a whim and just do it?
• Would you go alone, or with someone? Who?
• Up for foreign intrigue at this time of year?
• Or time of life?

Yes, I admit. The lure of France has caught hold again. How long until another 7′ tall French man swings by with a job offer? Ah oui. Still parenting. Oops. 2012 – Parisian adventure? For the museums, the galleries, the bustling quartiers and cultural opportunities, of course. Yes, I said culture. How could you doubt me?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

What haunts us?

Don’t we all have images that haunt us? Real or imagined – the death of a loved one, childhood trauma, a secret terror?

I still flash to the accident of three years ago, those instants before the other car slammed into us. That is a memory that haunts me, yet keeps me aware of how fortunate I am.

An old friend, one of the strongest and most courageous women I’ve ever known, is terrified of spiders. She is otherwise utterly fearless, having toughed out hard knocks and medical dramas most of us couldn’t imagine. But put her in a room with a few cobwebby corners? She’s stricken.

You have nothing to fear but fear itself

I think of this phrase often: you have nothing to fear but fear itself, spoken by Franklin Delano Roosevelt at his 1932 Inaugural. The exact quote:

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

FDR pronounced these words during a time of depression and global unease. The power in his message lies in the reminder that fear will paralyze, and in paralysis we accomplish nothing because we attempt nothing. And so, when I sense debilitating emotion creeping in around my edges, I recall this phrase. I fight back, fully aware of the impact of worry, stress, and fear on physical health and well-being. I don’t always succeed, but I try to deal with whatever is frightening me, move beyond its paralyzing potency, and forge ahead. Smartly.

Parenting and fear

Like most parents, I don’t think I knew true fear until I became a mother. Fear lives inside the tiniest microbe that might endanger a child, or the stranger lurking behind a fence.

When it comes to children, most of us don’t hesitate to do whatever it takes to keep them healthy, happy, and out of harm’s way. In the face of menace, fear evaporates and we act, protecting them at all cost – whether they realize we are doing so or not.

What frightens me

For the record, I am terrified of:

• anything that threatens my sons
• snakes – any type, anywhere
• being stuck in a crowded elevator



• choking on a chicken bone like Elizabeth Taylor, and no one to help (and no Oscar afterward)
• spare ribs on a first date (and no toothpick)
• homelessness
• never dancing again.

It is an odd mix (and yes, there’s more). I confess to a touch of the wry along with the real. Yet the fact remains that when trapped in an elevator (even for a few minutes), my chest tightens, I break out in a sweat, and I hyperventilate. Do I ride in elevators? Sure, but not without a tiny act of bravery each time.

Happily, there is plenty that does not frighten me, and I also know that fear is part of life. As is the case with grief or anger, I’m not sure we overcome fear, so much as we ultimately learn to manage it.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Oooo baby, yeah!! Give this Female2Female word-image-thought blog challenge a twirl. I found it on the lovely April’s blog post today. Just copy the bolded words, and complete the sentence or thought with whatever comes to mind first.

Then link up over at Female2Female. It’s fun!

Female2Female Random meme

If I could I would sleep for three days and wake up in the South of France. On a beach. With a hot man next to me. And a sipping drink. Mmmm.

In my kitchen cupboard is a mouse. . . because I think I gave him a cookie.

On my desk is a landslide of documents, files, and hidden objects I cannot even begin to imagine uncovering, or everything will topple. Yes, a metaphor for my life.

Image in my head is better than my bed, scrimmage when you’re dead, take a breath instead. (Huh?)

In the middle of my to do list is another to do list and another, each scribbled tinier and messier, splattered by a giant stain of yesterday’s spilled milk, over which I am not crying.

I am dreading empty nest.

Right now I want to sleep, sleep, sleep and wake up in a clean house, 5 years younger (no surgical intervention, thanks), with a healthy dinner on the table waiting.

I think I think too damn much; I know I know too damn little.

Going to Paris on the subway is not only possible, it’s therapy. Just a wee bit more expensive. At the end of the rainbow: a pocket full of metro tickets, designer shoes, and French men.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Doesn’t every kid have a treasure box? Some sort of secret container tucked under a bed or stowed in the back of a closet?

Made out of cardboard or straw, velvet or plastic. Perhaps an old cigar box. Remember those? Or a metal case that held who-knows-what, subsequently rescued and re-purposed.

I knew I had a child’s jewelry box somewhere; perhaps more than one. And much as I may have hoped it to be vintage Louis Vuitton (filled with opulent brooches and bangles from the 1950s and 60s), I knew it wasn’t that. I could picture it – a turquoise jewelry case, very small, with a simple divided compartment inside. And this morning, I found it.

The pleasure of treasure

Is it human nature to collect, and then to imbue a trinket with near magical powers? Good luck charms, sentimental letters, the gold beads worn by a beloved grandmother, the pocket watch of a great great uncle?

Doesn’t every child pluck up the found penny with glee, no matter how dirty? Or the pigeon’s feather stuck in the sewer grate? The smoothest pebble ever, washed up on a sandy beach?

As we grow older, our collections multiply exponentially – and I don’t mean expensive possessions. I mean the ephemera and sentimental objects that we hold dear, because they connect us to a moment in our lives, to a self we were once. We mark our history by saving tangible reminders – the first love letter and thus the first love, the cherished necklace offered as a gift when even a small sum meant great sacrifice. Polaroids of the new baby. Coloring books, accomplished by a tiny hand.

These are powerful treasures – talismans, tangible proof that we lived a life, that we were loved. That we were born into wonder.

My childhood treasure

Every morning I look around my room and think I must clean this mess. I may start with a particular stack (of books, folders, “stuff”) only to get distracted or too tired or tell myself tomorrow. Oh how I love that Scarlet O’Hara influence. Thank you for my mantra, Margaret Mitchell.

But this morning, when I approached my dresser to clear a space I remembered that buried in one of the drawers was my treasure box, my very first, and I wanted to find it. So I rummaged through envelopes of photographs and a handful of my boys’ carefully wrapped “summer projects.” And there it was. The small leather box with rounded corners and its tightly snapping hinges. Just where I expected it, although it’s been years since I thought of it.

Childhood lost and found

I couldn’t recall what was inside (I was hoping for a string of Mikkimoto pearls or a long lost lapis ring), but when I opened the box, the most glorious feeling swept over me. Childhood. The full-blown openness of possibility. I was transported to a time of gathering objects from nature, adventures dreamed and lived, a projection of my life as an adult from the eyes and heart of a girl of seven, and again, 16.

I flashed to my brother’s bedroom before my own, ironically. To his gold chenille drapes and soldier emblazoned wall paper, his hidden stack of Playboys under the bed, and his several cigar boxes, one of which was filled with Matchbox cars and trucks. Others must have held objects he hoarded – army knives and trinkets of his own, though I don’t recall more than that.

I can picture us as children, and I remember tenderly removing my jewelry case from a drawer, fingering the objects inside, then putting them away just as carefully.

Inside the treasure box

What’s inside my treasure box? I discovered a delicious mix, both strange and familiar. There was indeed a string of pearls! Not Mikimoto (a girl can dream), but a small strand of baby pearls, which some think portend good fortune and longevity. There was a tiny beaded chain, a mesh Victorian purse, and a lilliputian china cat (no doubt from the Five and Ten). There were also two Kennedy half dollars from the 1960s, a Buffalo nickel and a Liberty dime, none of which are of any value (I looked them up), but each, beautifully worn. There was a silver locket that belonged to my grandfather. It bears the insignia of the US Marines, and I believe he carried it when he fought in the Pacific in World War II. I imagine it held photographs of my grandmother, or of their children. 

There was also a small transparent container with an odd necklace and a reflective disk as amulet, as well as an award pin from High School, and another pin from my travels in Moscow at 16.

From that same summer, I found the bracelet given to me by a boy I met in Kiev, and remembered a park bench and a lingering kiss. There was one more object – a tiny cardboard box, inside which were two antique jugs for my doll house, and a scrap of note from my mother, in perfect condition although it is more than 40 years old. In her lovely cursive, it read: Happy Brownie Flying Up Day. Love.

Inside that leather case are precious mementos; reminders of family history, my innocence, my hopefulness, my once nurtured self. Still intact.

Next generation treasure

My younger son has a green treasure box that sits on a bookshelf. He made it when he was six or seven, and he keeps private things inside. I don’t know what, but it remains his place for special objects. I am glad to know it exists.

• Why do children create a space for private treasure?
• As adults, do we need this as much as we did in childhood?
• Do you still have your special case, your treasure drawer, your secret box for memories and magic charms?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

On a rainy afternoon, three years ago, my elder son and I were in a car accident. He was driving. My son was unhurt as was the other driver, but I sustained injuries, the car was totaled, and I was without employment or disability at the time. I will sum up that day and its aftermath as “difficult.”  My injuries never fully healed. The emotional, logistical, and financial consequences persist, though less so.

Eventually, there was another car to drive, and both of us had to get back behind a wheel. When you are knocked down, you must get up. Period.

There are days I am angry, still, when my arm and leg ache. Yet every day, I remember to be grateful that my child was unhurt, and that I am still here finishing the job of raising his brother.

While my son was not at fault, the accident was deemed his fault.  (The other driver was speeding, his lights off, in fog and rain. No way to see him coming as we made a turn.)

Life isn’t fair.

Life isn’t fair: We, the children

When we are children, we learn the hard way that life isn’t fair. The lessons may come in major form: illness, death, poverty, abuse.  The lessons may come in minor form: the bully who goes unpunished, the cheater who gets away with it, the mediocre grade despite valiant effort, the parent who favors one child over another.

We learn in athletics, as rules of the game are reinforced and good sportsmanship is modeled. Sometimes we see the cheater get away with an infraction. And we know again, that life isn’t fair.

Yet our parents control perceptions of fairness through their dealings with us. It may be a matter of keeping one’s word and not breaking a promise without good reason. It may require positioning disappointment tenderly, or respectful and loving responses to a child’s concerns. Perfection? No, our parents weren’t capable of that and nor are we. Relative fairness? Shouldn’t we expect that? To receive it and to give it?

Life isn’t fair: Teaching our children

Most parents try to teach children to play fairly, to believe in fairness (dare I say “justice?”), even as we attempt to instruct in self-protection and competitiveness. We speak of fair play, but when disappointments occur, we resort to “life isn’t fair” as if it were the only (knee-jerk) response available.

I suggest an alternative: save “life isn’t fair” for a serious tone and times of careful thought. All too often, we toss out that line rather than seek a more judicious comment. There is a distinction between competing and being disappointed, and unfairness. Don’t we owe it to ourselves and our children to make that differentiation? Shouldn’t we position success in the trying, the risking, the going for it? “Not winning” shouldn’t elicit an automatic “life’s not fair.”

Turnabout is fair play

Some teach their children that “turnabout is fair play.” In other words, if the other guy hits below the belt, you do the same. Perhaps there is equity in that. But isn’t that two wrongs make a right (if indeed they do)? Isn’t that what spawns a society of politicians versed in dirty tricks, and steroid-enhanced sports heroes?

Is turnabout fair play? Many say yes. I am ambivalent on the subject, while still clinging to my integrity. Perhaps I would be better off (as would my sons) if I had mastered that particular lesson years ago. But I did not.

You make your own luck

Then there are those who insist you make your own luck. To them, I say that’s an overly simplistic (if popular) concept. There are forces beyond our control – illness, accident, disaster. It is hard to find anything of “fairness” in an earthquake and its ungodly toll on human life. In the suffering and despair that follow. There is no rhyme or reason to any child who is abused, or who struggles with disease. There are millions of people in our country who are out of work, homeless, without sufficient food to eat, and without adequate health care. Without hope.

They did not “make their own luck.”

I have never had eloquent explanations for any of this. Not when my children were young and brimming with questions on every subject. Not now. Things happen; we deal as best we can, experience providing some perspective. And we make a choice to focus on the blessings, and point them out, over and over again.

• How do you speak to your children about fairness and unfairness?
• How do you speak to the child in yourself on these same issues?

Life isn’t fair, but we deal

Life isn’t fair, and I do not believe in Karmic retribution.

I do believe in learning from mistakes, in caution where it is warranted, and in calculated risks.

I believe in trying, and that in itself is success, even if I do not accomplish my goal.

I believe in gratitude, and taking whatever comes with as much grace as I can muster, and I confess that some days that’s none at all.

I believe in reminding myself on a day like today, when darkness is palpable, that there will be light again. That there is light, and for me, that light will always be my sons. They are healthy and flourishing. With values they can honor.

As there is light in the privilege of having raised my children, my younger son yet to be launched, so, too, am I learning to raise the child in myself. None of this has been easy, but it is a life. It is my life. And on an anniversary that casts onerous shadows, this morning there is sunshine.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy