Pieces of Paper

Pieces of Paper

It is human nature, or perhaps Jen nature, to think that we are fully in charge of our lives. We plan, we coordinate, we study, we work, we network...all because we know exactly where we are headed and precisely how we are going to get there. And yet, if you really stop to look at the path of our own lives, how often does it really go as planned? Not so often, would be my guess.

I recently had the opportunity to make a new friend, a friendship that as it turns out may be the shortest I have ever experienced. I was out of town on business and, because of my own social inadequacies, sat at the bar for dinner as opposed to getting a table for myself. Because really, let's be honest, if you sit at the bar alone you look like much less of a loser than if you sit at a table alone. Really. Everyone knows that. Duh.

Anyway, the gentleman next to me at the bar, clearly embracing this same "cooler at the bar" mentality, struck up a conversation with me. Over the course of the evening we played a 3 hour verbal game of "I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours." We cautiously, then bravely, then joyfully swapped stories of jobs, families, moms, irritations, passions, falling in love, falling out of love, hopes, dreams and the beauty of a clean slate pursuit. Okay, so maybe it sounds like the beginning of a tawdry novel inclusive of a steamy love affair, or perhaps more astutely as my friend Kim would say "a great way to end up in a Hefty bag on the side of the road." But I assure you, it was innocent, and wholesome, and heartwarming, and a great reminder of the connectedness we can have as human beings if we are just willing, even if only for a moment, to step outside of our comfort zone.

And in talking to this guy--a guy I never knew before and may never know again--I learned something. From him, I learned that a little piece of paper can change your life. Now, I suppose we all can come up with pieces of paper that changed our lives. Divorce papers, sitting on my car seat one dismal April morning six years ago, certainly come to mind. But really, our lives are so inundated with information and papers and posters and flyers and post-it notes and memos and reports, who really pays attention to every piece of paper that crosses their path? But this guy did, and it has changed the the trajectory of his life forever.

As a teacher, my new-found friend noticed that someone had posted a flyer on a door in his school that simply read, "Teach in China." And you know what? He did. For three summers he went to China to teach for the summer, and he said that even though he had been to 45 countries previously, the moment he stepped off the plane in China he felt like he fit in--he knew that he was home. So, after some soul-searching and consulting and worrying and planning and hoping and selling his stuff and breaking the news to his grown children, he decided to spend the rest of his life teaching in China. Boom. Just like that. Picking up, moving on, starting over, building anew. A new chapter, a new adventure, a complete revision of his life story....all because of a flyer that most everyone else would have ignored or maybe used to swat a fly.

I spent the evening enchanted by his courage and wondering if I could ever do the same. Probably not, I surmised, and then when he told me that in previous trips he had eaten things like chicken intestines ("probably not cleaned" mind you) and duck heads, I was certain the answer was no. Nevertheless, I was reminded of the importance of having an openness and an awareness of everything in our lives. A piece of paper--a meaningless, mindlessly placed, graphically lacking, stupid flyer, on white paper and probably typed in Comic Sans or some equally offensive font--can change your life forever. If you let it, that is. Will you?

Dear Mom

In honor of Mother's Day, I am sharing a letter I wrote to my mom for Mother's Day four years ago. Happy Mother's Day to all of you who have the hardest job on the planet.


Dear Mom,

This weekend marks the 20th year that I have endured a motherless Mother's Day. Twenty years is a long time --more than half my life--and a lot has changed since I last saw you and you assured me that everything was going to be all right. I think there are some things you should hear from me.

First of all, I want to say you picked a really shitty time to leave me. Granted, you didn't have a lot of say in the matter, and I know it's not how you expected things to turn out either. But the time you left this earth was shitty because I was in the midst of what was perhaps my most imperfect state. Sixteen, and had it all figured out. Sixteen, and full hormones and stupidity and false confidence. Sixteen, and angry that you had the audacity to criticize my foolish ways. Sixteen, and unable to see that I was turning out to be you.

But I have turned out to be you, in the strangest and most unexpected way, and I think you would either be immensely proud or completely annoyed. I have your wicked and sometimes bizarre sense of humor. I have your thick, stubborn head (unfortunately topped with Dad's fine, lifeless hair). I have your big brain filled with big ideas. I am sometimes misunderstood just as you often were. Like you, I believe in all things just and right, and like you I am painfully aware that life rarely offers hearty helpings of either.

I know there are a lot of things about my life that would make you proud. I've made a life for myself that is filled with laughter and selectively chosen loyal friends. I have been called and have risen to a life's work that is more meaningful than almost any other I can imagine, and have made an immense difference in my corner of the world. I am responsible in ways you would have never thought possible. Really and truly, I am.

And one of my proudest accomplishments, one that I know would warm that sometimes steely heart of yours, is that your baby--my baby sister--has become one of my most trusted, cherished and sacred friends in life. The same baby sister I loved the first day she was born, and by the second day figured out she shamelessly stole my spotlight. The same baby sister who I resented for choosing the same cereal as me every morning, and the same baby sister who was the inspiration for the limited-time, one-act melodrama, "Stop Playing With My Makeup You Fucking Little Brat!" The same baby sister I couldn't comfortably relate to until I could safely assume she'd had her first beer. The same baby sister I look at now and think, "Damn, how did she get here from there?"

You have every right to look me in the eye and confidently state, "I told you so."

Even if your sudden departure wasn't expected, it turns out the cosmos were right. Right in the wrong sort of way, right in the way that makes you say, "What the fuck?" and then strap on your cajones and confidently trudge forward to unknowing greener pastures. Right in that, I was afforded the lesson early on that I have the capacity to rise above even the most miserable of circumstances triumphantly. I've carried that lesson with me everywhere, and have used it over, and over, and over again.

The truth is, Mom, you may have left the party too early, but before leaving you left many gifts behind. Trust that each gift has been accepted and used in the spirit with which it was intended. And know that even though your stay at the party was too short, it was really great that you were able to show up at all.

Love,

Jen

Grandma Swearingen

I believe it was Mahatma Gandhi who said, "The best way to find yourself, is to lose yourself in the service of others." For years this quote was carefully placed on the bulletin board above my desk at work, and the meaning behind it has undoubtedly been a guidepost for my career. But truth be told, I didn't need a spiritual leader from India to teach me this. I had Grandma Swearingen.

Kathryn Pflederer Swearingen was my dad's mom, and was the epicenter of our family. She passed on much too soon in 1981 when she lost her short but brave battle with pancreatic cancer. Even so, to this day, every Swearingen family gathering eventually results in the warm embrace of fond Grandma Swearingen memories. We really can't help ourselves.

Grandma was tireless in her efforts to take care of the people around her. She embodied the notion that a stranger was merely a friend she had not met yet. But to her family, her service was unrelenting. Much to Grandpa Swearingen's delight ("Fox" as she loved to call him), her kitchen was a virtual pie factory. But not just any old run of the mill pie factory--the kind that phoned you ahead of time to inquire about your particular pie requests. (Peach, thank you very much.) There is no question that Grandma took tremendous joy in the little things she could do for the ones she loved. She would wash your hair (even her adult sons lined up for this special treat), make you a fresh lemonade shake-up with real lemons (just like the ones at the Tazewell County fair), and loved to scratch the back of whoever was sitting next to her (hence the constant vying of myself and my cousins for this premiere seating opportunity.) My favorite Grandma Swearingen memory, however, were the hours upon hours we spent playing the board game "Payday." At the end of each game, I exclaimed, "Again!'" and if her enthusiasm ever waned, I surely never knew it.

I look back now and I know that there was no way Grandma and Grandpa had much money. Grandma was an elementary school lunch lady and Grandpa was the janitor at the bank. But everytime they made the trek to our farm, Grandma came armed with a gift of some sort. A stuffed dog, that I promptly named Puffy and carried with me everywhere for years. A butterfly pin she found that reminded her of me, because she knew I loved to collect butterflies. Something fashion forward, like my first pair of clogs. And, even though she had never heard of Harriet Tubman, she had gotten wind that I was obsessed with this particular historical figure and she searched every bookstore in central Illinois until she found a book that fit the bill--no small feat, I am sure.

Grandma loved to laugh--most often at herself, and even in moments of confrontation her ways were as gentle as a warm summer wind. I remember a time when my mom requested I go to the basement to retrieve some canned goods for the approaching dinner hour. Being the self-centered brat that only I could be, this somehow enraged me and I proceeded to huff, puff and loudly stomp down and back up every rickety step to that basement. Grandma paid no attention to my bad behavior, and calmly looked at my mom and said, "Well, she might have a hard time doing it sometimes, but that Jenny sure can be a good helper." Her words stung and startled me to attention. I was keenly aware that I had let her down, and that it was time for me to grow up and learn to serve my family just as she had done for her whole life.

The thing about Grandma Swearingen was, everybody felt like they were her favorite. The fact of the matter is, I think everyone was. Almost 30 years have passed since I last saw her, but her presence is always with me. I can't imagine the woman I would have become without having known her. I just can't thank her enough, and know that my service--to my family, my friends, and people with mental illness--is a meager tribute to the greatest woman I ever knew.

Loose Change

A colleague of mine owns a number of rental properties, and over the years has postulated an interesting theory. Whenever possible, he makes an effort to meet with prospective tenants at their current residence, and if he sees loose change laying around, he believes they are careless with money and therefore at a greater likelihood to default on rent payments. He's been testing this theory for over twenty years and swears by it. He's even declined renting to people as a result of his hypothesis. He calls it the "loose change theory." I can't say I agree with it, but I find it intriguing nonetheless.

Life would be easier, though presumably less interesting, if we could so precisely categorize people based on their simplest subconscious behaviors. But the reality is, we all have a little loose change in our life. Not the silver or copper kinds of change we have in our pockets, but the kind of change that has to come from the heart and soul. The kind of change that can be difficult to approach, let alone achieve. The kind of change most of us need to make on one level or another.

What is my loose change? Well, that's an easy one to answer, but one I won't answer for just anyone. Like most people, my loose change is a closely guarded secret, shared only with those I trust the very most. It is the demons I have lived with for many years, the insecurities that still haunt me as I approach my very, very late 30s, and the things I just really think could make me a much better me. My loose change can be as obvious as the sun glinting off of a glass building, or as subtle as the breeze on a warm summer night. Who gets to see it is up to me and only me; who gets to challenge it and set forth a chain of motion in a better direction is a different story altogether.

I've got some loose change, but I will say this: I've got a whole lot less than I used to have. I've still got a ways to go, but I believe I now have every resource I need to get there. Most importantly, I have love. Love for myself, and love from another who matters. Love that won't allow me to be complacement and continue to ignore the loose change in my life. Love that cares enough to take note, identify, and get me headed in the right direction.

We should all be so lucky. Lucky enough to have a little loose change laying around, and lucky enought to have the gumption to do something about it. Lucky enough to have somebody who is willing to make the investment in you, and lucky enough to have the chance to get there in the end.

Grilled Cheese

I love grilled cheese sandwiches. A lot. They are kind of like my version of penicillin. Except for the part about accidentally discovering them compliments of post-nasal drip in a petri dish. That part clearly does not apply. But in every other way, they are my pencillin, for they are capable of curing all that ails me.

You see, grilled cheese sandwiches are always there for me. There has rarely been a time in my life where I didn't have the three necessary ingredients required to make myself a delicious, melty, warm and toasty grilled cheese sandwich. They are so simple, yet so delightful--so basic, but so rich. They are an enigma, wrapped in a shroud of mystery, tied up in a bundle of joy.

I also love grilled cheese sandwiches because they have never let me down. Grilled cheese sandwiches would never harshly criticize me for getting one A minus on my report card (when the rest were all A's, no less!) Grilled cheese sandiwches would never call me a slut for merely kissing a boy in the driveway. Grilled cheese sandwiches don't tell my family that I am stealing from my sister's college trust fund. Grilled cheese sandwiches have never betrayed me by giving my cat away to their ex-girlfriend in Minnesota. Grilled cheese sandwiches don't send hate mail to my Uncle Tom just because he's gay. Grilled cheese sandwiches might add on some extra pounds over time (if you eat too many), but they would never, ever point out the extra pounds.

The fact of the matter is, people let us down Most of the time they are great, and usually we want them in our lives. But other times, they just downright suck. They are human, and they are inherently flawed, and therefore sooner or later they are probably going to disappoint us. Sometimes to a degree that we just can't understand, sometimes to a degree we assuredly do not deserve.

When this happens, I think it's best to just say the hell with people, and go straight to the fridge for some butter, some cheese, and some bread. Three simple ingredients, and no more than three minutes, and you've walked right into a little slice of heaven. The world is pointed toward right once again.

Godspeed to you, and your next grilled cheese.

Jump Start

Being the independent gal that I am, I am a long-standing member of AAA. This is because I know just what the AAA website claims: "Each year, millions of motorists are stranded due to a dead battery." That's right, millions of them. (Now that I read that, it occurs to me they may be exaggerating just a bit.) Anyway, I don't want to be counted amongst those purported millions, because stranded just isn't my gig.

During ridiculously cold weather like this, the number of stranded motorists due to dead batteries increases exponentially. It's easy to get frustrated by these little annoyances in life, because it feels like they slow us down, throw us off track, delay us from our goals. Afterall, we have places to go, and people to see! But I think it's worth reflecting on this a bit, because everybody needs a little jump start once in a while.

Nobody ever got a jump start when things were running fine, or if they did that was really stupid. When things are running according to expectations, it would seem obvious that there is no need for a jump start. But in fact, over time our battery may be ever so gradually dwindling in power, slowing down and losing its charge without us even taking notice. And it takes a really significant event to grind things to a complete halt. It's then, and only then, that we seek out that jump start.

Once we get that jump start, it's like, "Wow!" There is a new sense of appreciation for what was temporarily lost, but there is also a burst of energy that results. It's like you didn't even pay attention to how poorly things were running or the preventative maintenance that was needed until the catastrophic event came along. Once that happens and the jump start is completed, it becomes ever so clear how things were really intended to run all along.

Batteries aren't the only thing that need the occasional jump start, life needs them too. Sometimes we trick ourselves into thinking that we are fully charged and right on track, when in fact we are not. That's complacency, and everybody does it sometimes. It is usually then that it takes something getting in our path, hitting us up side the head or even taking us down for a minute before we realize what we really need. A jump start, of course.

AAA offers a full menu of services for its members to help keep things running smoothly. For those of us who are lucky enough, our lives have an equally valuable array of resources available to us. We have big brains to identify solutions, financial resources to fund the results, friends and family who will fill the gap until we make those solutions a reality. And let's not forget...we also have the patience and wisdom to help us transcend the current set of circumstances when we need to.

I've got my AAA card, and I've got everything else I need for my road trip of life. Do you?

Little Lessons on the Prairie

The Wisconsin prairies have entered my consciousness in recent years compliments of a friend who is a self-proclaimed prairie enthusiast. You might think such folks are few and far between, and perhaps they are, but they are a committed group of folks who have a vision for their contribution to the world. The prairies, which once covered nearly all of our midwestern states, are now sparse and rare to find. Prairie enthusiasts know that a return to this form of sacred land has much to offer our world and our future generations. Not only is it preservation of history, it enriches our environment and raises our human understanding of days that long preceded us.

The prairie is a place of peace and harmony, life and vitality. The tall grasses sway gracefully in the wind, and the plants bloom all throughout the season like a perfectly synchronized symphony of color. The birds make serene yet sturdy home, and the grasshoppers, crickets and cicadas sing joyfully, as though the prairie is the stage built just for the opera they themselves composed. The butterflies breeze in and out and all around, abundantly surrounded by the nectar produced by the wildflowers, willfully carrying pollen to our Creator's intended destination.

And while this scene is placid, rich in nourishment and even definitively divine, it is actually much more complicated than that. By way of God, the prairie has had to learn over and over again that the only way its beauty can be attained is through the occasional burn to the ground. By history and by chance, prairies often started on fire from lightning. As man has made efforts to restore the prairie to its natural state, it has become understood that this ceremonious spring burn is in fact essential to the health, vibrance and longevity of the prairie. The burn chokes out the weeds, and the rich, blackened ground adds to the nutrients in the soil to replenish the plants. This welcomes the sun to drench the earth in a warm blanket, inviting and encouraging the grasses and plants to grow back in the quickest, most robust and healthiest way possible.

It is interesting that such beauty must be tormented by such searing pain in order to truly thrive. It seems this is perhaps symbolic of the human experience, and what we need to thrive as well. Often in life, things are humming along beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, that we may not even take notice of the abundance with which we have been blessed. Taking it for granted, it is often called, and it is something that seems to be inherent to the human experience.

Grief has been the spring burn in the prairie of my life. I've had my share of loss, and at times it has been the source of incredible pain. Death of my parents, loss of friendship, failure of a marriage. Most recently, it was having to make the decision to euthanize a cat who shared her life with me for fourteen years. Regardless of the loss, the experience and the outcome has always been the same. It has been pain so blistering that it forces me to revisit every bout of loss that predated the one I am currently experiencing. That being said, it has also provided me with a cleansing of sorts. A way to feel the burn, and really let it dig down deep in my soul. A way to let my tears wash over me and drive the cumulative toxins out of my soul. A way to remember that I am human, and only human, at the end of the day. And at the conclusion of each new milestone of grief, I am able to brush myself off and move on triumphantly with life...with a renewed reminder of all that really matters.