"What really matters to you? What is the difference that you really want to make [in life], for whom and why"? Apparently, answering these questions are the key to helping me down the pathway, my pathway. At least so says, Eric Russell, my lifework coach and personal performance strategist extraordinaire.
Indeed . . . if they remain unanswered or, even worse if, I cannot answer them, I will not be able to get myself off "the dock". You know, the dock of life, the same one I'm so comfortable hanging out on. It's hard not to panic even as I transcribe these questions for this entry from the sheet of yellow lined paper used to hastily scribble my homework onto during our last session. These questions feel weighty, too weighty. Honestly, I've no idea how to begin to tackle them.
My what feels nebulous. What really matters is not a precise what, for whom and a why but, simply a desire for making a difference any sort of difference at all. It's a feeling of wanting to be a Miss Rumphius of sorts and "make the world a more beautiful place". To leave a noticeable mark, a positive stamp, or footprint that may be remembered, felt or carried on into the future. It's not about fame. There are no delusions there. Just Google making a difference and you'll find tons of information on individuals that have made a difference who are not rich or famous. The Christian Science Monitor has a whole section devoted to acknowledging this "unheralded community". Those are the people I admire. I'm interested in being one of those guys. They've found something that they're passionate about. That seems to be the key.
And, therein might be the problem.
For much of my life I have felt bereft of a passion. Surrounded by multi-talented sisters and brothers who could sing, play musical instruments, be top athletes, write and draw had a crippling effect on. I didn't compete and wouldn't compete. For me, the "competition" was over before it began. I became an expert at giving up. My best game was being loud, annoying and acting goofy. Driving my family up the wall or cracking them grabbed their attention. It made me stand out. No one else in the family was doing that.
It wasn't until my thirties and motherhood that a fortuitous stumble into the world of picture books ignited a tiny flame. To be fair, Isaac --my son, born ready to explore and curious beyond all imaginings, is entirely responsible. Besides contributing to a blissful whiling away of the hours, books satisfied two essential needs. 1. respite for a weary mother and 2. "food" to placate an insatiable young brain. Trips to the library could not be frequent enough. We regularly liberated the town library of large portions of their picture book collection. No pile was too large for my Isaac. He had the patience of Job and the attention span of a scholar when it came to sitting and listening to stories. Needless to say Isaac is the sole reason I became a school librarian. Getting paid to read picture books and have summers off to be with my kids was the best ruse I'd ever conceived.
Truthfully however, the trick is on me. Those endless hours of reading to Isaac, then Mary Clare and the bundle of sweet students that followed, became the kindling beneath a growing pile of brush, the brush I'm so fond of gathering. My pile is high and it has been lit.
So, I'd be a bold faced liar if I claimed to be passionless. When it comes to reading I'm like a Born Again Christian, saved by an almighty and a rabid enthusiast about spreading the word.
That's my seed for sowing, my passion to be channeled. Which direction will it take, The Early Bird Cafe, Putney Central School's seasoned Librarian, America's next budding picture book author?
Just how far off the dock will I leap?
Friday, January 25, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Twenty Dollar Question the color aubergine
An old idea surfaced as I was driving down Kimball Hill in Putney last week. The idea (inspired in part by renewed wonderings of what the
heck I could do for a living besides being a school librarian) swam back to the forefront as I was swinging through town.
That morning my eyes were drawn to the wrapping paper shades slipping off the windows of Penelope Wurr's former and now empty gift shop. That space is begging to be a tiny coffee shop and it's tenant free. The facade is half brick, half clapboard and appealing in an old world way. Its windows facing the street are made for staring out of while sipping a perfectly made cup coffee, my coffee. The building is dilapidated. It would need work, probably lots of it. But, dilapidated places are my favorites. On a drive through any town, small or large, searching for the coolest most run down building has become a favorite past time. This habit is annoying to my family but, most especially to my daughter, who refers to me as a bobble head driver. The looking never stops, even on the most familiar of roads.
On this particular bobble head morning, right then and there I decided to find out about "my coffee" place. The plan was simple, I'd ask Elisa (owner of Florali and inhabitor of the building adjacent to my coffee shop dream) a few questions about it. I'd stop in on a feigned shopping trip --resisting a purchase for post-Christmas and post-unemployed reasonings.
Starting a conversation with Elisa involves no effort. All it takes is a hand on the doorknob and the chatter ensues. On opening the door she quickly announced that everything was 20% off, even though a large sign on the door at eye level clearly advertised it. I perused the store, examining various sweaters, admiring some necklaces and trying on scarves all the while listening politely to her prattle. Eye contact and proximity to Elisa are irrelevant when it comes to conversing. Discomfort grew in my chest when she talked at length about business being unusually slow. Sure it was a weekday but, her store suddenly seemed eerily empty and this sole customer had no intentions of spending a dime. Guilt kept me from grilling her. This is silly, I thought. Ducking into the dressing room with a plum colored sweater, I made a new plan to only ask for the landlords number and make a quick get away. The sweater fit perfectly. It was just my style too; simple and plain. I took it off an examined the tags. Carol Rose, aubergine sweater, size medium, $28.
"What's the name of the man that owns the building next door?" I asked, handing Elisa the sweater and the remainder of my cash.
That morning my eyes were drawn to the wrapping paper shades slipping off the windows of Penelope Wurr's former and now empty gift shop. That space is begging to be a tiny coffee shop and it's tenant free. The facade is half brick, half clapboard and appealing in an old world way. Its windows facing the street are made for staring out of while sipping a perfectly made cup coffee, my coffee. The building is dilapidated. It would need work, probably lots of it. But, dilapidated places are my favorites. On a drive through any town, small or large, searching for the coolest most run down building has become a favorite past time. This habit is annoying to my family but, most especially to my daughter, who refers to me as a bobble head driver. The looking never stops, even on the most familiar of roads.
On this particular bobble head morning, right then and there I decided to find out about "my coffee" place. The plan was simple, I'd ask Elisa (owner of Florali and inhabitor of the building adjacent to my coffee shop dream) a few questions about it. I'd stop in on a feigned shopping trip --resisting a purchase for post-Christmas and post-unemployed reasonings.
Starting a conversation with Elisa involves no effort. All it takes is a hand on the doorknob and the chatter ensues. On opening the door she quickly announced that everything was 20% off, even though a large sign on the door at eye level clearly advertised it. I perused the store, examining various sweaters, admiring some necklaces and trying on scarves all the while listening politely to her prattle. Eye contact and proximity to Elisa are irrelevant when it comes to conversing. Discomfort grew in my chest when she talked at length about business being unusually slow. Sure it was a weekday but, her store suddenly seemed eerily empty and this sole customer had no intentions of spending a dime. Guilt kept me from grilling her. This is silly, I thought. Ducking into the dressing room with a plum colored sweater, I made a new plan to only ask for the landlords number and make a quick get away. The sweater fit perfectly. It was just my style too; simple and plain. I took it off an examined the tags. Carol Rose, aubergine sweater, size medium, $28.
"What's the name of the man that owns the building next door?" I asked, handing Elisa the sweater and the remainder of my cash.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Sanding the roads
At the rate I'm going, it would only take a split second to lose control. That thought was enough for me to lightly touch the brakes and consciously bring the car back to the right side of the old dirt road. It's a good thing it had been thoroughly sanded. The first few treks out on snowy roads are the trickiest. How easy it is to forget the difference between snow covered and dry dirt roads. Never the less, I continued my modified hurtle praying not to cross paths with an oncoming car with the driver sure to scowl at my speed. I was kicking myself for forgetting the crucial part of the day's cross-country ski plan. My car keys. We had parked my car at the end of the best sweeping downhill, locally known as Eddy Road, and driven the other car to the top of the network of trails on Dusty Ridge. I had absentmindedly tossed all my belonging into my friend's car and happily leapt out and onto the trails without another thought of my pocketbook, or the keys dropped into the side pocket and hastily plopped on the floor of her car, until just prior to the coveted descent.
Our plan was to ski all the trails before heading over to Eddy road and the reward of the long restful ride down to our getaway car and lunch. We took our time. It was Basha's first trip of the season to Dusty, and she was dealing with her inner chicken on the downhills. It was my third. I had cooked my chicken in the days prior.
While skiing, we admitted the biggest fear was the loss of control. Truly there's nothing worse than heading down a steep hill and suddenly gaining too much speed. Speed that the best of snow plows cannot break. For Basha and I, facing the inner chicken is an annual winter event. Eventually though, depending on the snowfall and the number of times out, it gets better. Fortunately, there are lots of ups and downs on these trails to practice on. Life in Putney has given us lots of opportunities to practice.
As the new year approached, an inner chicken of another sort fluffed its feathers in my chest. I felt the pecking begin with the number of people inquiring, with renewed interest, in my plans for next year. Fantasies of being clonked over the head with the perfect alternative to my secure position, income and schedule seem to be shattering, like the drinking glass that slipped from my hands this past week.
Looking for answers I Skyped my close friend and confident Ellen and immediately broke into a sweat when she asked. "So, what are you going to do, are you going to go back"? My heart froze then plummeted. "I don't know", I whined. At my insistence, the subject shifted. We ran through the gamut of topics eventually focusing on Kario, Ellen's stepson, and his quest to become an actor. Here was a beacon of inspiration. A young person who forges ahead without hesitation, without visible fear. "Clearly a guy driving with his foot off the brakes" remarked Ellen.
Brakes. My foot hovering over the brakes ballooned into head. The image is now firmly etched in my brain. It's been following me down the thickly sanded winding back roads that lead me home on these snowy afternoons.
Growing up in rural Vermont, I despised the sand the trucks dumped on the roads after a storm. It took a few days, but they always came sprinkling sand over the pristinely plowed roads. The nerve of them ruining our sledding I'd fume. When it snowed, we couldn't wait to dash outside with a sled and drag it up the hill, all three knolls of it. At the top my sisters and I would swing our sleds around with a quick pivot and push-run them over the edge for the fastest trip back down the hill. Sailing down on the edge of control, the rush of the cold wind stinging our cheeks was exhilarating.
And, where's that nerve now? The nerve that inevitably gets covered with the sand of life. The same sand that reminds us to slow down, not to go so fast and put a foot on the brake. Yet it's becoming clear that I'm no longer comfortable in this car --called my life, with a foot not just hovering over the brake but, planted firmly on it. My nerve is there, I've experienced it. I'd like to think that these thoughts will be enough for me to remove my foot and make a run for the top of that hill. They may just may be.
I hear the first couple of runs are the scariest.
Our plan was to ski all the trails before heading over to Eddy road and the reward of the long restful ride down to our getaway car and lunch. We took our time. It was Basha's first trip of the season to Dusty, and she was dealing with her inner chicken on the downhills. It was my third. I had cooked my chicken in the days prior.
While skiing, we admitted the biggest fear was the loss of control. Truly there's nothing worse than heading down a steep hill and suddenly gaining too much speed. Speed that the best of snow plows cannot break. For Basha and I, facing the inner chicken is an annual winter event. Eventually though, depending on the snowfall and the number of times out, it gets better. Fortunately, there are lots of ups and downs on these trails to practice on. Life in Putney has given us lots of opportunities to practice.
As the new year approached, an inner chicken of another sort fluffed its feathers in my chest. I felt the pecking begin with the number of people inquiring, with renewed interest, in my plans for next year. Fantasies of being clonked over the head with the perfect alternative to my secure position, income and schedule seem to be shattering, like the drinking glass that slipped from my hands this past week.
Looking for answers I Skyped my close friend and confident Ellen and immediately broke into a sweat when she asked. "So, what are you going to do, are you going to go back"? My heart froze then plummeted. "I don't know", I whined. At my insistence, the subject shifted. We ran through the gamut of topics eventually focusing on Kario, Ellen's stepson, and his quest to become an actor. Here was a beacon of inspiration. A young person who forges ahead without hesitation, without visible fear. "Clearly a guy driving with his foot off the brakes" remarked Ellen.
Brakes. My foot hovering over the brakes ballooned into head. The image is now firmly etched in my brain. It's been following me down the thickly sanded winding back roads that lead me home on these snowy afternoons.
Growing up in rural Vermont, I despised the sand the trucks dumped on the roads after a storm. It took a few days, but they always came sprinkling sand over the pristinely plowed roads. The nerve of them ruining our sledding I'd fume. When it snowed, we couldn't wait to dash outside with a sled and drag it up the hill, all three knolls of it. At the top my sisters and I would swing our sleds around with a quick pivot and push-run them over the edge for the fastest trip back down the hill. Sailing down on the edge of control, the rush of the cold wind stinging our cheeks was exhilarating.
And, where's that nerve now? The nerve that inevitably gets covered with the sand of life. The same sand that reminds us to slow down, not to go so fast and put a foot on the brake. Yet it's becoming clear that I'm no longer comfortable in this car --called my life, with a foot not just hovering over the brake but, planted firmly on it. My nerve is there, I've experienced it. I'd like to think that these thoughts will be enough for me to remove my foot and make a run for the top of that hill. They may just may be.
I hear the first couple of runs are the scariest.
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