Have you ever played the introduction game where you have to describe yourself using just one word? I've never entirely understood the point of that game because it seems inherently misleading - any word you pick would surely leave out whole aspects of who you really are, and naturally focus on some aspect of yourself that you really (really) like. And yet, for some reason, I was thinking about it this morning on my way to work and trying to determine what word I would choose, at this point in my life, to describe myself.
Several came to mind (a perfect illustration of the issue with selecting just one) - curious, interested, intrigued. I was definitely focusing on an aspect of myself that I really like: my natural instinct to ask (lots and lots of) questions. To wonder not just who, what, where, when but also how, and why and all the details in between.
But then... as I thought about those words... I realized something else. I realized that they also focus on an aspect of myself that I definitely DON'T like - my seemingly constant position as someone who is acted UPON rather than someone who ACTS.
Think about it - curious. Something outside of myself has made me question. Interested. Something outside of myself has drawn my attention. Intrigued. Something has made me wonder. None of them are acting words - interesting (where I am the source of attraction), intriguging (where I am the one causing the wonder).
It's actually one of those annoyingly accurate 'coincidences' which Freud would have said don't exist because this subject-rather-than-source aspect of my personality has been a trait that I have fought against for a while now. Really ever since I began to understand the propensity I have to allow other people to act on or for me, rather than my acting for myself. I have, far too often, allowed myself to feel obligated to ask for permission and be denied something when I should have just reached out and taken it. Even now, as a working, bill-paying adult... even now I do this.
I'm working on it. I'm taking baby steps - reminding myself of little things that I can, and should, do for myself without asking anyone if I can, or should. I'm trying to remind myself to follow my instincts and not to feel guilty about who I am or what I want. I've been doing a good job lately of taking time back for myself - this blog is a good example, my re-dedication to reading, the soon-to-begin painting class.
But in the end, I'm not trying to change how I naturally see myself. I like that I'm curious, that I get interested in all sorts of random things and intrigued by just about darn near anything I don't initially understand. I just want to take those same passive traits and turn them into actions. From being merely interested to being in active pursuit of the interest, in active pursuit of the intrigue.
From being acted upon, to being the source of action.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Signs of Age
Contrary to potential first impressions, this post is not going to be about finding a wrinkle or a gray hair. It's not about physical aging at all, in fact. It's about a marriage.
Twice now in as many weeks, Colin and I have been asked by complete strangers with dry smirks on their faces 'How long have you two been married?' In the course of both conversations, I have later discovered I am talking to someone who is newly married and they have recognized in our interaction the signs of that patina which comes with putting a few years between yourselves and your wedding day.
I was pondering this morning what it is in our demeanor that presents itself as evidence of our marriage being past its infancy stage. After almost four years now of loving and supporting, hurting and annoying each other, I am guessing it has something to do with the easy, sarcastic, nitpick-in-good-spirits way we speak to each other, which we have inherited from both sets of our parents. The way that we correct each other with knowing smiles or prod each other over long-standing idiosyncracies (as in yesterday when Colin asked the banker 'if we were to ever move - what would we have to do to switch our accounts?' and I poked him in the ribs and said 'watch the OCD over-planning there, bub. Where the heck are we moving to?') Or perhaps the way in which we play off of each other now in official conversations whereas before we would pre-determine who would take lead so as not to step all over each other.
After spending some time yesterday with our nephews (random interjection: Little Lucas has given me a nickname, he can't say Aunt Mandy so instead I am Ah-Mah - ADORABLE), I have decided that our marriage properly reflects our almost-four-year age. We walk and talk with some confidence but we're still relatively clumsy if we get going too quickly and can hurt ourselves easily if we aren't paying attention. We've learned that fire burns and has many forms and we've gained a rudimentary understanding of how to bandage ourselves back up. We also instinctively know that we have a long way to go and we're waiting impatiently for our turn to do big-kid things like go to school and ride the school bus.
It's interesting to see ourselves through the eyes of people we just happen to run into. People who see us for a few moments and yet can identify something about us that perhaps we didn't even realize. We're growing - growing older and growing into our (let's face it, still relatively new) roles as husband and wife. And with a wink, a nudge and a well-placed, kindly, criticism, we're showing our age.
Twice now in as many weeks, Colin and I have been asked by complete strangers with dry smirks on their faces 'How long have you two been married?' In the course of both conversations, I have later discovered I am talking to someone who is newly married and they have recognized in our interaction the signs of that patina which comes with putting a few years between yourselves and your wedding day.
I was pondering this morning what it is in our demeanor that presents itself as evidence of our marriage being past its infancy stage. After almost four years now of loving and supporting, hurting and annoying each other, I am guessing it has something to do with the easy, sarcastic, nitpick-in-good-spirits way we speak to each other, which we have inherited from both sets of our parents. The way that we correct each other with knowing smiles or prod each other over long-standing idiosyncracies (as in yesterday when Colin asked the banker 'if we were to ever move - what would we have to do to switch our accounts?' and I poked him in the ribs and said 'watch the OCD over-planning there, bub. Where the heck are we moving to?') Or perhaps the way in which we play off of each other now in official conversations whereas before we would pre-determine who would take lead so as not to step all over each other.
After spending some time yesterday with our nephews (random interjection: Little Lucas has given me a nickname, he can't say Aunt Mandy so instead I am Ah-Mah - ADORABLE), I have decided that our marriage properly reflects our almost-four-year age. We walk and talk with some confidence but we're still relatively clumsy if we get going too quickly and can hurt ourselves easily if we aren't paying attention. We've learned that fire burns and has many forms and we've gained a rudimentary understanding of how to bandage ourselves back up. We also instinctively know that we have a long way to go and we're waiting impatiently for our turn to do big-kid things like go to school and ride the school bus.
It's interesting to see ourselves through the eyes of people we just happen to run into. People who see us for a few moments and yet can identify something about us that perhaps we didn't even realize. We're growing - growing older and growing into our (let's face it, still relatively new) roles as husband and wife. And with a wink, a nudge and a well-placed, kindly, criticism, we're showing our age.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Virtue of a Small Life
Courtyard of the Victoria and Albert Art Museum, LondonDuring my trip to London with Mom in June, I developed a (completely romanticized) fascination with Queen Victoria and Albert, her Prince Consort, after we spent several lovely hours meandering through a Queen's Gallery exhibit of their extensive art collection. Despite knowing that the exhibit was being displayed by an institution with a vested interest in making a grand story of their lives and love, I fell hard for the unconventional beauty of the adoring couple in Winterhalter's portraits.
So, as I do whenever I come across something intriguing, I sought out a book about them two days later in Brighton (it seemed important that I find one before I actually left the UK - buying a book about them in America would've seemed somewhat disingenuous). I've been slowly reading this 'personal history' of Queen Victoria, that's mostly pieced together from direct quotes out of her own letters, and of those around her, as well as other historical sources, ever since.
My overwhelming impression? Thank the Lord I live a small life and there will never be any reason whatsoever for someone to put together a 'personal history' of me.
As the book has progressed, I have gotten the distinct impression that the author is striving to make Queen Victoria real and human by clearly illustrating her, apparently voluminous, faults as detailed in the various sources he's using. He makes a great deal of the negative letters of her children (what teenager does not say/write disparaging comments about their parents at some point?) and those of her staff. Occasionally he'll throw in something positive stated by those same individuals but his focus, at least to me, is on the negatives.
I realize that I have lots of faults. And some of them will come through here naturally because I can't always quell them and others will come through because I don't (yet) see them as faults. (Someday future-Mandy will probably read certain of these words and think 'uuuuugggggghhhhhhh....') But I can pretty much know without a doubt that the majority of my downfalls will stay unpublished to general society unless I myself choose to lay it bare and they, for whatever reason, choose to find it interesting.
Queen Victoria, on the other hand, had no such self-censure luxury. Every word she wrote has been hunted down and retained and printed in some bound format. Thousands of letters still exist between herself and just her eldest daughter - and every one has been saved and put together in a book and published for the world. Every catty thing she ever said has been dissected, turned around and used to knock her off her Royal pedastal.
When you see her, hair undone and falling around her shoulders, in the Prince's favorite protrait of her, you can't help but think 'what a beautiful thing to be Queen...' But when I read this book... *shiver*
I would rather live, and love, in my small life than have to live, and die, knowing that I will be talked about forever.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Positive Assessment (but...)
As most of you know, this year I have been working on improving my health - eating better (I wouldn't say 'right' because it's certainly not always right) and being more active. It's been fun to see my pants become too loose (although not fun having to replace them) and I've enjoyed watching my face slowly morph as my cheeks lose some of the fullness they had gained and my chin loses its twin. But this week, it was truth time. All would be laid bare by a biometric screening at work.
Nerdy, I know, but I was completely looking forward to it. I know myself well enough to understand that I thrive on a good hardy 'job well done!' and the screening seemed like a perfect opportunity to get just that. I forced my protesting-right-to-the-scale husband into accepting an appointment as well, (hoping they would tell him something that would make him overcome his fear of all things green) and waited impatiently for the day to arrive when I could go down the list of health factors and see myself prominently in the 'HEALTHY!' category on every last one.
So Wednesday rolls around, I dress myself in my lightest outfit (how annoying is it that the only time someone else will see the number I have to be two pounds heavier than I KNOW I am?) and we went. My weight - healthy (albeit on the high end of the range). BMI - healthy. Body fat percentage - healthy (and four percentage points lower than my scale at home!). Move onto the blood pressure station... healthy. WHOOP! One last cold-handed nurse - a simple finger prick and some basic blood work. I rub my hands together... looking forward to the big red A+! on my paperwork and the pat on the back.
But.
When she handed over my results and asked me if I had any questions, I happily read down the list - healthy, check, healthy, check. Until I got to what they call 'good cholesterol'. Hmm. That's not healthy. That's too low.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
So I ask the nurse what can be done and she tells me that to increase the good cholesterol number you have to eat more fiber-rich foods such as fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains.
I barely concealed the smirk. More fresh fruits and vegetables? I want to point out - but a year ago, I didn't eat anything fresh except white potatoes! Don't you understand?!? I now keep a fresh salad in my fridge at all times, I eat veggies at every meal, fruit every day for breakfast. But no - you want MORE. Ugh.
It's like a greedy employer. Great job. Now go be awesome at something else.
Sigh. I dutifully came home and made another fresh salad and ate additional fruit with my breakfast the next day. I am determined that by the time I get a fresh screening next year that impertinent little number has jumped (at a minimum) the last four points into the healthy range. I will not be held back I tell you!
As much as I love my new (smaller!) pants, this healthy stuff can be so demanding.
Nerdy, I know, but I was completely looking forward to it. I know myself well enough to understand that I thrive on a good hardy 'job well done!' and the screening seemed like a perfect opportunity to get just that. I forced my protesting-right-to-the-scale husband into accepting an appointment as well, (hoping they would tell him something that would make him overcome his fear of all things green) and waited impatiently for the day to arrive when I could go down the list of health factors and see myself prominently in the 'HEALTHY!' category on every last one.
So Wednesday rolls around, I dress myself in my lightest outfit (how annoying is it that the only time someone else will see the number I have to be two pounds heavier than I KNOW I am?) and we went. My weight - healthy (albeit on the high end of the range). BMI - healthy. Body fat percentage - healthy (and four percentage points lower than my scale at home!). Move onto the blood pressure station... healthy. WHOOP! One last cold-handed nurse - a simple finger prick and some basic blood work. I rub my hands together... looking forward to the big red A+! on my paperwork and the pat on the back.
But.
When she handed over my results and asked me if I had any questions, I happily read down the list - healthy, check, healthy, check. Until I got to what they call 'good cholesterol'. Hmm. That's not healthy. That's too low.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
So I ask the nurse what can be done and she tells me that to increase the good cholesterol number you have to eat more fiber-rich foods such as fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains.
I barely concealed the smirk. More fresh fruits and vegetables? I want to point out - but a year ago, I didn't eat anything fresh except white potatoes! Don't you understand?!? I now keep a fresh salad in my fridge at all times, I eat veggies at every meal, fruit every day for breakfast. But no - you want MORE. Ugh.
It's like a greedy employer. Great job. Now go be awesome at something else.
Sigh. I dutifully came home and made another fresh salad and ate additional fruit with my breakfast the next day. I am determined that by the time I get a fresh screening next year that impertinent little number has jumped (at a minimum) the last four points into the healthy range. I will not be held back I tell you!
As much as I love my new (smaller!) pants, this healthy stuff can be so demanding.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
To start, an explanation.
In order to start out on the right full-disclosure note I have to explain the title I have chosen for this little venture of mine and properly give credit where credit is truly due. A Merry Recluse is the title of a collection of essays by Caroline Knapp - one of my favorite authors. I discovered her work in college (through her book Appetites) and immediately devoured all of her published works that I could get my hands on. It was as if all of the thoughts in my head had suddenly appeared in print (and I was initially more than a bit indignant that I wasn't receiving any of the royalties).
The appellation A Merry Recluse is the title of a particular essay in the collection in which Caroline (at that point 38, single and loving it) realizes she has forgiven herself for her love of solitude. In her kitchen, making dinner for herself, preparing for an evening alone, she realizes that she is 'a merry recluse', quite contrary to all of the connotations of sorrow, loneliness and despondence which that term normally holds. She is happy to be by herself in her apartment and decides to quit apologizing to society-at-large for enjoying her own company.
I have been thinking about this essay lately as I have tried to rediscover myself in moments of solitude. I find that I am the best version of myself when I have been able to spend copious amounts of time alone. I love my husband and enjoy his company but I have decided that in these early years of my marriage, I have too often neglected, or even felt guilty for, my need for seclusion.
As he prepares to return to school this week, I find myself in great anticipation of evenings spent at home alone while he is on campus, reveling in the freedom from having to be worthy to be someone's company (a self-inflicted expectation I tire of). I have signed up for a painting class, and joined a book club, but I am most excited about those times when I can be alone in the quiet, painting, reading or writing.
I decided, then, that this would be a fortuitious moment for my long-contemplated reappearance as a member of the blog nation. I want to give myself a reason to spend time writing, as well as a reason to truly direct my focus to discovering all manner of things worth writing about. When I think back on the years when I was dedicated to my previous blog, I realize that those were years where I truly honored my need to spend time alone cultivating myself and I hope to regain my ability to do exactly that, without guilt.
It's time that I remember I am worthy of being someone's company - namely my own.
The appellation A Merry Recluse is the title of a particular essay in the collection in which Caroline (at that point 38, single and loving it) realizes she has forgiven herself for her love of solitude. In her kitchen, making dinner for herself, preparing for an evening alone, she realizes that she is 'a merry recluse', quite contrary to all of the connotations of sorrow, loneliness and despondence which that term normally holds. She is happy to be by herself in her apartment and decides to quit apologizing to society-at-large for enjoying her own company.
I have been thinking about this essay lately as I have tried to rediscover myself in moments of solitude. I find that I am the best version of myself when I have been able to spend copious amounts of time alone. I love my husband and enjoy his company but I have decided that in these early years of my marriage, I have too often neglected, or even felt guilty for, my need for seclusion.
As he prepares to return to school this week, I find myself in great anticipation of evenings spent at home alone while he is on campus, reveling in the freedom from having to be worthy to be someone's company (a self-inflicted expectation I tire of). I have signed up for a painting class, and joined a book club, but I am most excited about those times when I can be alone in the quiet, painting, reading or writing.
I decided, then, that this would be a fortuitious moment for my long-contemplated reappearance as a member of the blog nation. I want to give myself a reason to spend time writing, as well as a reason to truly direct my focus to discovering all manner of things worth writing about. When I think back on the years when I was dedicated to my previous blog, I realize that those were years where I truly honored my need to spend time alone cultivating myself and I hope to regain my ability to do exactly that, without guilt.
It's time that I remember I am worthy of being someone's company - namely my own.
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