The year's end is always filled with a host of Top Ten Lists. Top Ten Movies. Top Ten Vacations You Must Take Before You Die. Top Ten Bad Reality Shows You Really Need to Watch. Top Ten Celebrity Mugshots. So my Top Ten list is a day late...but it's still worthy of review.
The Year 2010 has been fun to reflect upon. That is not to say that the whole year was fun. It wasn't. Like any year, it had its ups and downs. But mostly ups, and in no particular order, here are the ten things I remember and cherish most about this past year:
1) Moved on. Almost two years ago now, I had a professional dream dashed. I had "grown up" at a non-profit agency that I treated like my baby. I loved that place. I nurtured it. I worked my ass off for it. I made it my own. I believed with all my heart that one day, and for many days to follow, I would lead that agency. But then something happened. Our Board of Directors made a decision to merge with another company. I went with it at first, but the fit just wasn't right. Without assigning blame, I will simply say that I lost my bearing. Not only did I leave in 2009, I left with a broken heart. And it took me a really long time to get over it, because things didn't work out as I had planned. But you know what? I did get over it. I have a totally kick ass job, that is the same in some ways but also really different, and I have learned a gazillion new things that I never would have learned at the old job. I am grateful. Finally.
2) Spent a day honoring Honest Abe. That's right--Abe Lincoln. My sister Jess is a huge fan. She dreams of stovepipe hats and log cabins. So this year, Jess and I took the day off on Abe's birthday and celebrated it right. We drove to the Land of Lincoln and engaged in some good old fashioned consumerism at Ikea. We carried around an Abe Lincoln figurine with us everywhere and laughed about it. We ate at Steak n' Shake--no relevance to Abe but we just like it. Then we went to the Admirals game, where we got Abe Lincoln bobbleheads and did fist bumps with someone dressed up as Abe Lincoln. It was a really fun day. It was ordinary stuff with a twist. And it is those ordinary days with a twist that are really what life is all about. I have the best sister in the world, and I want everyone to know it.
3) Got into teaching. So this actually started in late 2009, but I furthered my teaching gig in 2010. This just in--teaching is hard! It takes a lot of preparation and a whole lot of energy to pull it off well. But I absolutely love it. It has helped me fulfill a promise I made when I got my own graduate degree to help inspire more young people to see the joy and importance of working in the mental health field. I don't think I'll ever stop. That's how much I like it.
4) Went to the National Archives in Washington, D.C. So I was there on business, but what good is a business trip without a little fun too? I wasn't prepared for how emotional the National Archives would make me. The Declaration of Independence. The Constitution. The Emancipation Proclamation. All right there for us to see. All that history. All that love, and sacrifice, and hard work. I am so lucky to live in this country, flawed though it may be. I was reminded, and happily so.
5) Saw a friend fall from grace. My very long-time friend and mentor recruited me to come work for Milwaukee County in 2009. Then, during a highly political year, the winds changed suddenly and he made a difficult decision to step down from his job in August of this year. In short, it sucked. I mean like it really, really, really sucked. A lot. I stood by this friend and did my best to walk with him through the valley. I never stopped believing in him and I never will. And as a true homage to him and his brilliance, I picked up the pieces, waded through the rubble and regained my focus at work. His legacy will live on for a very long time, and I will make sure of it.
6) Saw another friend arrive where she belongs. Not everybody has a friendship that has endured their whole lifetime, but I do. OK, so I didn't meet Mindy until I was 5. But in all fairness, I don't remember a whole lot about my first five years. (Dropped a rock on my toe, had my bicycle stolen, got a puppy. Yep, that's about all I remember.) I met Mindy in kindergarten and we went to school together all the way up through college. We weren't best friends all those years, but we have been for many of them and the history speaks for itself. We have seen each other through a lot, and laughed at the absurdity of it all every step of the way. We have made a lot of bad decisions (bad decisions are my favorite!) and sometimes we made them together. On Christmas Eve, I got to see Mindy marry a fantastic guy who loves her and her boys in all the ways they deserve. It's awesome, and it warms the cockles of my heart. (Yes, I said cockles).
6) Fell for somebody. Though not widely publicized, I fell for somebody this year. It's not widely publicized, because the other half of the equation didn't exactly fall back. But you know what? No regrets. I put myself out there, I took a risk, I gained a friend and I learned a lot about myself. Mostly this: There is still love in this steely old heart of mine, and someday I will find it. And when I do, well, they may just be the luckiest person in the world. Here's to not looking, but finding it anyway.
7) Took a road trip to St. Louis. Admittedly, I slept a good portion of the way there. But my travel partner Steve packed us some fantastic snacks and let me pick the radio station part of the time. We connected with two of my college friends and went to see the Brewers (lose) at Busch Stadium. We laughed ourselves silly. We got in a stupid little spat. We ate too much. We slept too little. And we wouldn't change any of it. Road trips are the best.
8) Found some old friends. People can say what they want about Facebook, but I have had some amazingly positive experiences because of it. In May, I spent a night out with two very long-lost friends. One was from college and I had not seen him since 1988. The other I met right after college and I had not seen him since 1992. Both met me out for a night of cocktails and bad bar food in Minneapolis. It was quite a walk down memory lane, and I loved it. Thanks, Facebook! You're the best. Forget about all the haters.
9) Returned to the birthplace of Jen Wittwer. Little known fact: I was born in New Mexico. So when I had a chance to take a business trip to Albuquerque, I did not hesitate. New Mexico is amazing. I hadn't been back since I was 13. It really is the Land of Enchantment--they're not just making that up. At the end of my conference, my friend Colleen met up with me for a long weekend. We went swimming in the middle of a thunderstorm (Colleen's famous quote: "One more bolt of lightning, and then we'll head inside!"), taunted the unsuspecting doppelganger of my ex-husband, saw the mass ascension of hot air balloons, drove to Santa Fe in true Thelma and Louise style and met the most handsome, charismatic and perfect artist ever, and laughed until we could not breathe while singing to Andy Gibb and eating sopapillas. My cheeks hurt for days upon my return from all the laughter. This trip was credited with my funniest moment of 2010--no small feat.
10) Made a whole bunch of new friends. I have had years that were devoid of meeting anyone new or really all that interesting, but 2010 was not one of those years. I have made some amazing new friends. People who are interesting, thoughtful, bright, clever, energetic and full of chutzpah. People who are willing to challenge me and inspire me to be better. People who are just downright funny. My life is richer on the other side of 2010, and that's just cool.
So thanks, 2010....it's been real. And here's to hoping that my list in 2011 will be equally grand. I can't wait to see what you have in store.
About Me
- Jen
- A girl who rose from the ashes...and now is trying to make sense of this complicated world through her writing.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Princess Buttercup
The emails had gone back and forth for some time, and my college pal Angela and I eventually confirmed our long-awaited plans. A road trip to St. Louis was in order, and a chance to see the Brewers play the Cardinals at Busch stadium over the 4th of July weekend would soon be mine. Somewhere along the way in the chain of emails, Ang made note: "Don't forget, the 4th of July is Princess Buttercup's first birthday, and we will need to celebrate." Nevermind that the 4th of July was also my travel partner's birthday, or America's birthday, for that matter--this day was going to be dedicated to a furry little friend that I in no time had dubbed "P.B."
Princess Buttercup is a special little kitty...heavy on the special. To be honest, she has a face that only a mother could love, and a forehead the size of a frying pan. She came home with Ang after one night of many spent volunteering at the animal shelter, with strong cautions that she probably had hydrocephalus and probably wouldn't make it. Turns out, they were probably wrong. Princess Buttercup may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but a year later she is thriving. She chases the tails of her other feline friends (noted by Ang to be "approximately a million years old"), gladly snuggles up on the couch with a willing partner whenever the opportunity presents itself, and looks up at you with her alien-like, watery but ever so sweet eyes. She is a keeper.
She's a keeper because Ang decided she was. And really, that's all it takes. One living being to look at another living being and proclaim, "You are mine. I will take care of you." All too often in life we get bogged down with all the stuff--the errands, the chores, the work, the over-commitments and obligations we eventually come to resent. In reality, if we just slowed down for a minute and took note, we could all find our own Princess Buttercup. Maybe it's our elderly neighbor or a co-worker or a kid who needs a mentor. Whoever it is, just imagine what a little time, attention and love from you could bring. In my estimation, that's how we change the world. We don't need to donate a million dollars or feed an entire starving country to make a difference. All it takes to make the world a better place is to pick one living creature and decide to treat them like they are somebody really important. I'm going to be on the lookout for my Princess Buttercup, starting now. Care to join me?
Princess Buttercup is a special little kitty...heavy on the special. To be honest, she has a face that only a mother could love, and a forehead the size of a frying pan. She came home with Ang after one night of many spent volunteering at the animal shelter, with strong cautions that she probably had hydrocephalus and probably wouldn't make it. Turns out, they were probably wrong. Princess Buttercup may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but a year later she is thriving. She chases the tails of her other feline friends (noted by Ang to be "approximately a million years old"), gladly snuggles up on the couch with a willing partner whenever the opportunity presents itself, and looks up at you with her alien-like, watery but ever so sweet eyes. She is a keeper.
She's a keeper because Ang decided she was. And really, that's all it takes. One living being to look at another living being and proclaim, "You are mine. I will take care of you." All too often in life we get bogged down with all the stuff--the errands, the chores, the work, the over-commitments and obligations we eventually come to resent. In reality, if we just slowed down for a minute and took note, we could all find our own Princess Buttercup. Maybe it's our elderly neighbor or a co-worker or a kid who needs a mentor. Whoever it is, just imagine what a little time, attention and love from you could bring. In my estimation, that's how we change the world. We don't need to donate a million dollars or feed an entire starving country to make a difference. All it takes to make the world a better place is to pick one living creature and decide to treat them like they are somebody really important. I'm going to be on the lookout for my Princess Buttercup, starting now. Care to join me?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Billy Joe
In short, he was the coolest cat I ever met, and while most of his family called him "Billy Joe," I was lucky enough to call him Dad. There are so many things I admire about him, that I am not sure I can put them all to paper. He was funny and patient and tolerant of the most trying of circumstances--far beyond anyone's comprehension.
Born on October 1, 1941 to Harold and Kathryn Swearingen, Billy Joe was the baby of his family. (One of his all-time favorite jokes: "They named me Bill because I came on the first of the month.") There is something about being the baby of the family that lends to a special brand of charm, and he had oodles of it. He just had an easy way about him, and was always the life of the party. Need a spot-on impression of one of the locals in our small Iowa town? Bill was your man. Want to feel better about your own circumstances, compliments of some serious self-deprecation? There he was again. ("How tall are you?" someone once asked. "Depends," said Dad, "if I am on my good leg or my bad leg. I am either 5'10 or 6'0.") His life was tragic, and charmed, and as far as I can tell, truly one-of-a-kind.
In 1971 just months before his 30th birthday, my dad was diagnosed with kidney failure and was given two weeks to live. But here's where I developed a sense that there indeed is a plan out there greater than ourselves: Bill's brother Alan was completing his medical residency at the University of Iowa hospitals who just happened to be some of the pioneers in the field of nephrology. So in a race against the clock, my family packed up and moved from New Mexico to Iowa so that Dad could get what was then state of the art treatment.
From there, and for many years to follow, my dad and our family experienced a whole lot of medical ups and downs. I look back, and I realize that all of my formative years were shrouded with worry of losing this most remarkable man. But here comes lesson number two, compliments of Dad: All the worrying in the world doesn't change a thing. And, in fact, it just might make things worse. He showed us.
Dad went through a couple transplants that didn't last long, but he spent most of the rest of his life on dialysis. Twenty-five years, to be exact, which put him in something like the top one thousandth of one percentile of life expectancy of people on dialysis. He had a point to prove.
If his onslaught of medical problems wore on his nerves, he surely never showed it. Every night for many years, we played Nerf basketball in the kitchen while Mom cooked dinner--sometimes to her chagrin and more often to her delight. Every night sometime after dinner, Dad would grab the guitar and sing his silly made-up songs. He thought and planned and dreamed about ways he could improve our little hobby farm for the quarter horses he so passionately raised on it. Maybe it was because he had the keen sense that life is short, but Dad really knew how to live.
When Dad's body finally gave out on him fourteen years ago, clearly long before his will dared to do so, my sister and I were there with him. I have always felt it was a privilege to share this most amazing moment with him as he danced on the delicate line from one world to the other. And though he had been in a coma-like state for two days prior, he awoke on his last day and was as lively and as funny as I could ever remember him being. And you know what he said? He said the most astounding thing, considering that he was in the last hours of his life. He looked us in the eye and said, "I am not going to lose levity today." There came lesson number three out of a gazillion that I got from him. I thought it every day he was alive, and I have thought it every day since: I am lucky to have known this man.
Life has all kinds of twists and turns. Nobody is guaranteed anything, and if you think you are then I say you're a fool. Just ask Billy Joe: Our charge, if we can, is to live. Not just to breathe, but to live. Find your passion, surround yourself with quality people, seize every opportunity to try something new, make a new friend or for God's sake, laugh.
Happy Father's Day, my sweet dad. Thanks for shaping me and above all else, for letting me live in your light. Wherever you are, I will meet you again someday, and when I get there I know one thing that I can count on for sure: We won't lose our levity.
Born on October 1, 1941 to Harold and Kathryn Swearingen, Billy Joe was the baby of his family. (One of his all-time favorite jokes: "They named me Bill because I came on the first of the month.") There is something about being the baby of the family that lends to a special brand of charm, and he had oodles of it. He just had an easy way about him, and was always the life of the party. Need a spot-on impression of one of the locals in our small Iowa town? Bill was your man. Want to feel better about your own circumstances, compliments of some serious self-deprecation? There he was again. ("How tall are you?" someone once asked. "Depends," said Dad, "if I am on my good leg or my bad leg. I am either 5'10 or 6'0.") His life was tragic, and charmed, and as far as I can tell, truly one-of-a-kind.
In 1971 just months before his 30th birthday, my dad was diagnosed with kidney failure and was given two weeks to live. But here's where I developed a sense that there indeed is a plan out there greater than ourselves: Bill's brother Alan was completing his medical residency at the University of Iowa hospitals who just happened to be some of the pioneers in the field of nephrology. So in a race against the clock, my family packed up and moved from New Mexico to Iowa so that Dad could get what was then state of the art treatment.
From there, and for many years to follow, my dad and our family experienced a whole lot of medical ups and downs. I look back, and I realize that all of my formative years were shrouded with worry of losing this most remarkable man. But here comes lesson number two, compliments of Dad: All the worrying in the world doesn't change a thing. And, in fact, it just might make things worse. He showed us.
Dad went through a couple transplants that didn't last long, but he spent most of the rest of his life on dialysis. Twenty-five years, to be exact, which put him in something like the top one thousandth of one percentile of life expectancy of people on dialysis. He had a point to prove.
If his onslaught of medical problems wore on his nerves, he surely never showed it. Every night for many years, we played Nerf basketball in the kitchen while Mom cooked dinner--sometimes to her chagrin and more often to her delight. Every night sometime after dinner, Dad would grab the guitar and sing his silly made-up songs. He thought and planned and dreamed about ways he could improve our little hobby farm for the quarter horses he so passionately raised on it. Maybe it was because he had the keen sense that life is short, but Dad really knew how to live.
When Dad's body finally gave out on him fourteen years ago, clearly long before his will dared to do so, my sister and I were there with him. I have always felt it was a privilege to share this most amazing moment with him as he danced on the delicate line from one world to the other. And though he had been in a coma-like state for two days prior, he awoke on his last day and was as lively and as funny as I could ever remember him being. And you know what he said? He said the most astounding thing, considering that he was in the last hours of his life. He looked us in the eye and said, "I am not going to lose levity today." There came lesson number three out of a gazillion that I got from him. I thought it every day he was alive, and I have thought it every day since: I am lucky to have known this man.
Life has all kinds of twists and turns. Nobody is guaranteed anything, and if you think you are then I say you're a fool. Just ask Billy Joe: Our charge, if we can, is to live. Not just to breathe, but to live. Find your passion, surround yourself with quality people, seize every opportunity to try something new, make a new friend or for God's sake, laugh.
Happy Father's Day, my sweet dad. Thanks for shaping me and above all else, for letting me live in your light. Wherever you are, I will meet you again someday, and when I get there I know one thing that I can count on for sure: We won't lose our levity.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
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
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
Sunday, February 21, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
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.
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.
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