Don’t Blame Me!
I left the house for the third time this week. If you have friends who work from home, you know most of us are loath to leave the house to meet up, run errands, or anything that might hazard bumping into other people. It’s a bother to go out. The shower (yep, we probably need one), the real clothes, the face, the hair, and (the horror!) shoes! Who could blame us for not wanting to meet up for a drink?
After going through this treacherous routine for a long overdue hair cut (it’s been seventeen months), I arrived to discover that my appointment was misscheduled. They had scheduled me for last Thursday, the week I was out of town, something I clearly explained when I asked for an appointment the next week. This week right here.
The receptionist probably unintentionally clicked on the wrong Thursday. These things happen to the best of us. I was almost over it, going through my list of consolations (fabulous weather, at least I don’t live far), when the manager came out. I assumed she was there to placate me.
You were scheduled for last Thursday. You even confirmed your appointment.
Wait, what?
Yes, we have an automated system, and you confirmed.
That’s impossible. I was out of town.
They only had my landline, so she suggested maybe someone else confirmed it for me. Seemed unlikely, but I let her go with that, since I had no way of knowing until I was home to check caller ID. Rescheduled, so sorry, see you tomorrow, . . . On the way home, I called my honey.
I don’t remember confirming a stylist appointment, but maybe . . .
So he’s folded into this blame game too.
Why blame anyone?
When my children were young, if they started playing the blame game, sometimes I would diffuse it with It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. It’s about responsibility. Pinning the blame on specific people is tricky and not necessarily useful. Approaching a mistake or mishap by engaging responsiblity and next steps is much more effective.
The salon had blamed me. At home, I checked my caller ID and found only one call from the salon, on the day of my appointment, fifteen minutes after the misscheduled appointment should have started. I won’t even flesh out all of the crimes against customer-is-right code that the salon manager committed. The need to blame is outside of that. My initial feeling was to call the salon and cancel tomorrow’s appointment because I had been falsely blamed. But that would be petty, and I truly need a hair cut!
More importantly, even if she broke the customer-is-right code, she may have honestly thought I had confirmed an appointment. I’m not sure how their system works and what she was seeing on her computer screen to make that determination. And who would lie about a phone call these days? We all have caller ID.
I did call the salon.
Hi, this is Pennie Nichols. I was just there. Yes. The misscheduled appointment. I checked my caller ID. I didn’t receive a confirmation call before the appointment. The only call I received from the salon was fifteen minutes after you had me scheduled. The message was that you were checking on me because I had an appointment. You should check your automated system. Apparently it’s not working.
What fabulous weather we had today. I’m happy I was able to get out for a bit.
Addendum: A fellow blogger shared this Brené Brown YouTube® with me in the comments. Don’t miss it! She pins down the blame point: Dr. Brené Brown on Blame.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
Remembering Rainbows
This Swarovski glass crystal hangs in my kitchen window. For over twenty years, I’ve kept a crystal in that window. For over twenty years, many mornings start with rainbows.
Before some of my children could walk or say mama, the morning light would crash through the crystal and splash rainbows on the cabinets and floors. My children learned to follow the bursts of color through the air, capturing little rainbows with tiny hands.
I remember the rainbows.
The nest is long empty, but I keep the crystal in the window.
Crystals are fun. Science. Fractured light. Folklore. Memories. Magic. The simple joy of chasing rainbows in our tiny kitchen.
Mama! Rainbow! I got the rainbow!
But rainbows are impossible to hold. The sun floats up through the morning, indifferent, and the colors follow, fading from the kitchen.
Those tiny hands are long grown, their adventures and journeys like arcs. I stand in the wellspring of rainbows and look up. On some mornings, as the light shatters through crystal in the window, I dance among the tiny rainbows. And remember.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
Congratulations! It’s a hernia!
I realized a few months ago that the chunk at the top of my belly seemed to be independent of my belly. For years I’ve made self-deprecating jokes about my “kitty litter belly,” shaped like a litter box, but maybe just a belly full of kitties.
The chunk grew a bit. I ignored it a long bit. Until I realized I was trivializing when I shouldn’t, and perhaps my cavalier disregard for this growth might even be disrespectful of friends who had dealt with the discovery of dangerous bodily growths.
When I finally mentioned it to people in my life, the response was mostly alarm and that tilted-head, raised-brow look.
OK!! I’ll go to the doctor.
And I did. The diagnosis took mere minutes.
A gigantic umbilical hernia!
Happy the Hernia
He didn’t actually say gigantic or use an exclamation point, but it is big, and . . . (exclamation point please) I am so happy!!!! It’s a hernia!! I’ll name it Happy. I don’t have a square belly! I don’t have a tumor! I have a Happy Hernia!
I didn’t think it would be any more serious than a lump of fat, but, what do I know? Sometimes the odd things that appear on our bodies are not only serious, they are life-snuffing. I’ve been on that journey with more than one friend.
This is not one of those journeys.
I’m grateful. I’m grateful for my health. My knees are wrecked, my back is a little crooked, and I have regular bouts of IBS. But, my heart rate is low, my blood pressure is impressive, I don’t take a single medication, and that lump on my belly is just a hernia!
I’m also grateful for my friends and family. They’re the ones who will make sure I sit still long enough to heal after the hernia extraction. If you’re the praying type, pray for them. Sitting still is not listed among the skill sets on my résumé.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
Nanowrimo: Stop Thinking and Write
Next month I’ll participate in Nanowrimo for a second time. Last year was touch-and-go, especially since I was only home for eleven of the thirty days of November. My biggest challenge, however, was not the writing days I lost to the road, but rather shutting myself up. I’m an editor by trade, so it’s not surprising that I have trouble turning that off. Maybe the best way to shut up the editor is to stop thinking.
I’ll stop thinking . . . soon.
In nine more days, I’ll stop thinking for a few roaring writing minutes a day. In the meantime, I’ll obsess! What to write? A tortured love story?
Just before Terry and Pat forked paths to their cars, they turned to each other, as they had done for 935 days on their way to work: peck on the lips, Have a great day! / You, too! I love you. / Love you too! Today, Pat’s eyes lingered on Terry a little longer, realizing, I don’t, really. I don’t love you. That was the last kiss, the last time they would see each other.
Or maybe a child in a suspense/horror story?
Ophera sat quietly in the back, the mumble of her parents’ conversation indistinguishably mingled with the roar of the engine. Ophera wasn’t sure how she knew, but she knew. She didn’t feel sad. It was the textbook knowing. The first element on the periodic table is hydrogen. Hydrogen and oxygen are the two elements that make water. Her mother’s heart beat 113,889 times a day, but her dad’s 100,352 (on average). The car would veer as it entered the bridge. Moments after plunging into the icy water of the roaring river, her parents’ hearts would stop. Ophera knew hers wouldn’t.
Maybe I should go with SciFi?
Darian shut down thoughts as she pushed her ship to warp speed. No one ever said it, but they all understood. She wouldn’t be back. Even if she managed to find her way back, she wouldn’t find anything or anyone she knew at this station. She closed her eyes through the hum of the changing pressure. Darian knew it was an impossible mission. No one believed she could find the crew that shot through this hole twenty years ago. Darian’s proposal and plea were strong and compelling, finally convincing the commissioners to grant her this last-ditch mission.
Nine more days until Nanowrimo and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Maybe I’ll write about that!
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
I know nothing.
The stories I want to tell are inevitably intermingled with other lives, lives I don’t truly understand. Honestly, I know nothing I need to know to tell the story well.
The more I know the more I know I know nothing.
I’ve been reading. I’ve been listening. But the more I know, the more I realize I know nothing. Nothing about black lives. Nothing about brown lives. And honestly, not enough about white lives economically, religiously, and politically removed from my experience. The little bit I almost had right is just enough off center to be misleading at best, but mostly, just wrong.
I want to be an advocate and an ally. I want to tell a story. But how to do it well? How do I do it in a way that honors my experience and their truth?
I felt dismay then just as quickly hope when I listened to Justina Ireland weigh in on the controversy surrounding the young adult novel American Heart.
Dismay because at first her words seemed to convey that I could never tell a story that included color. But then that nugget of hope:
“If your good intentions fall short of the reality the first time and that just kind of puts you off the sauce, then why were you here in the first place? I mean, if I’m trying to run a marathon, I’m not going to stop because I had one bad run day. It’s a lifetime.”
I’m here in the first place because I want to stand up and use my privilege and voice to connect and encourage empathy. I’m here for the lifetime, for the marathon. I’ll listen harder, lean in deeper. I’ll see myself. I’ll see you. I want to tell our story well.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
We All Drop Dead
As I tidied my website a bit, I realized I needed a new subcategory in my menu: dead.
Dead.
I already have several relevant posts. Sooner or later we all drop dead. I don’t obsess, but perhaps I’m at the age when I don’t block the thought completely. Consider, for example, my purple folder, my dead cayenne, my body donation, what we learn from pets that die. Arguably the most important is “Are you ready?”
I have to confess that, despite my intentions to be prepared, I’m not. I think about it more, but I don’t do more, at least not “as more” as I should.
It’s easy to make light of our plans, our check-out tickets. our sunset. But filling that purple folder with proper information and making sure everyone knows exactly what’s in it and where it is? It’s challenging. I hope I don’t drop dead before I’m done with it!
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
Even the Weeds
I’m leaving my rural office until November in the morning. I’m grateful for this place. Even the weeds. And the butterflies and bees that are drawn to the weeds.
I think I’ll get some beehives.
Shut up! Now you’re complicating things!
But, it’s just . . .
Stop it. Just be here. See the beauty before you.
I’m grateful for these weeds. For the beautiful things that are drawn to them. But mostly for the time with my parents. Yes, those folks will might mow down these weeds from time to time.
But not these weeds at this moment.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Right Reserved, 2017.
Prep Work
—I have to do what first?
—The prep work.
—Ugh.
Why is prep work important?
When I finally decide to do something, I just want to jump in and get down to . . .
painting the bedroom.
tiling the floor.
planting the garden.
Yet, almost always, just jumping in is not prudent. Sometimes it’s not possible.
Before painting, clear and wash down the walls, fill the holes, tape the edges and windows, and, unless you’re also replacing the it, protect the floor.
Before tiling, remove the old flooring (even if the last owners didn’t!), then clean, clean, and clean. Over there, clean a little more.
Before planting the garden, pull the weeds, turn the soil, make the rows, and feed the soil.
In school, prep work is attending class, studying for the test, reading before writing a research paper. At work, similar.
But what’s the prep work for creative work?
Sometimes it’s just staring into the space before you. Sometimes it’s getting a good night’s sleep.
Just do it. It nourishes the work you’re about to take on.
Good night! I have prep work to do.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
The Parish Fair
I took a few hours this morning to go with my parents to the Washington Parish Fair, purportedly the largest free county/parish fair in the country and the second-oldest fair in the state.
A Creek Runs Through It
My dad is proud of this fair. When my kids were young, we spent the bulk of our time on the carnival rides. Today, however, my folks and I spent the morning winding through the craft booths, the blue ribbon displays, the 4-H barn, and the Mile Branch Settlement, a pioneer village, with authentic cabins and structures, and “pioneers” in period dress.
One of the best decisions the organizers ever made was to put the carnival rides on the other side of the creek.
Dad’s not opposed to carnival rides, but he’s proud that, at this fair, they are secondary to the “main” part of the fair. The creek that separates the two parts, he believes, has helped keep the emphasis on the slice of Americana displays and competitions.
I had forgotten that most fairs were primarily capstones for those who worked the land and livestock. These days, “Let’s go to the fair” is more likely to excite images of ferris wheels and ball and bucket toss, not historical displays, the steer a teenager raised, or jars of canned goods draped in blue, red, and white ribbons.
This fair is primarily organized, operated, and imagined by people from the parish and nearby communities, not by “outside,” disconnected businesses that drop in to make a buck. That is special.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
Renewing Ritual
Moon Ritual
When my first-born was a toddler, her favorite book was Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown. We read it every night, until we were reciting it. We both loved our ritual.
When I realized we didn’t need the book for the words, I recreated the images from each page on construction paper, and tacked them to the wall of her bedroom, circling the room from left to right. (GM fans will appreciate that her room was dark green.) We could fall back on her pillow, nestled in a Goodnight Moon room, and let our eyes skip from image to image as we recited the words. The words morphed here and there over time, but this ritual worked its way deep into my heart.
Calendar Ritual
I haven’t been practicing any positive daily rituals of note since around the time we drifted away from the green room. My yearning for more ritual probably drew me to the calendar commitment. I didn’t begin the thirty-day commitment with ritual in mind, but as I crest my fourth month I realize, these are tiny rituals. Some are more mundane than others (so far, movement, tea, clear table, write . . .), mostly things I felt I didn’t have time to squeeze in.
When I mark off each day after I complete the commitment, if I have also completed a commitment from a previous month, I note that month’s number. It’s usually all of them. I’m changing my habits, my routine. I’m allowing myself time for positive, indulgent moments.
Bath Ritual
This evening, a flock of bluebirds swooped in for bathtime. I have more work to do tonight. But I allowed myself the time to enjoy them. When they lingered, I took a little more time to take photos. I took them through a window so they’re not great, but they are an affirmation, the ripples of ritual, of allowing these moments.
I’ve never seen twenty plus bluebirds in one place. Today I did. And bird watching is not even on my commitment calendar.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.
