Over the week-end, while appearing on CNN’s “State of the Union”, Donald Trump, a potential presidential candidate in his own mind, remarked that he was a better businessman than former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney, the leading GOP hopeful.
“I have a much, much bigger net worth,” he said, with modesty, “I mean my net worth is many, many, many times Mitt Romney.”
Following that program I remembered these two quotes and thought they were worth sharing.
“Never confuse your net worth with your self-worth.”
“The balance in your life is more important than the balance in your checking account.”
The English first invented the term,” to kick the bucket” in the late 18th Century. Hollywood later adopted and galloped away with it…….Rope. Bucket. Hanging. In 2008, actors Freeman and Nicholson were cast as two terminally-ill characters and hospital roomies. As the plot thickened, the two hatched up their end-of-life laundry list of to-dos, and “the bucket list” became a part of American pop culture. Today there are numerous websites devoted to bucket lists. No kidding.
Not in a million years have I ever dreamed of being ahead of Jack Nicholson’s curve in anything, but, today, may I just strut my stuff? Seven years ago, before Jack and Morgan even thought of it, I was doing it. In all honesty, I borrowed the idea from Evelyn, a friend of a friend. It had nothing to do with the before-I-die issue, which seems morbid to me. Every year, on her birthday, Evelyn lists what she would like to accomplish, experience, see, learn, and know in the coming year. And, get this, her Everything List matches, in number, her age. Holy One-through-Sixty.
For her, it’s not about slowing down but gearing up. Evelyn, I salute you.
Seven years ago, on my October birthday and still in my 50s, I created my premiere list. First, however, I set the ground rules:
1)Every item must be new, something I wasn’t doing or hadn’t done.
2)No pie-in-the-sky entries. Everything must be possible or probable. (Climbing Kilimanjaro went off the table when I turned 50.)
3) My list would remain private (until today) and reviewed quarterly.
The miracle of this birthday exercise is apparently what it represented to me. That, despite the seismic disturbance and shock of my husband’s illness, I still was determined to keep driving through life with our lights on bright. Although his might have dimmed over the past seven years, mine, thankfully, have not. In fact, Evelyn’s idea not only launched this blog but birthed the title.
My List, like every other, has been blessed with hits and cursed with misses. On an early list was Learn French, which brought forth my first rule revision. Now, if necessary, items can be carried over from year to year. I have been at this Learn French-business for seven years. Despite my serious study and having become acceptably proficient in reading, writing, and understanding, conversation is slow and limited to three running sentences. C’est tout! But, I can buy bread, book a hotel, reserve a table and am very, very courteous. Merci.
I’ve flunked Doing the New York Times Crossword Puzzle in Pen and have totally failed Learn Sudoku.
After moving to Nevada, having never gambled, I listed both Play Bingo and Play Poker in a Casino . Done. Although I won $50 playing Bingo, I lost $20 playing Poker. From that experience I learned you do not take to the poker table a cocktail napkin on which are handwritten the ascending order of poker hands! Entertainment Icons who perform in Las Vegas often go on my list. Cher. Elton John. Barry Manilow, Celine Dion. Bette Midler. Reba McIntire. Seen. This year it will be Donny and Marie. Surely, I jest. Not at all, they are selling-out their showroom at $200 a seat!
Although I possess a 20th century-brain, I intend to utilize every 21st-century hi-tech toy. Every year I list a must-buy and then attempt to make it work. iPod. iPod Touch. MacBookPro. iPad. I hold tenure in Apple’s One-on-One program, a teaching tool to assist customers with new products. Although there’s a two-year limit, I’ve whined my way into Year 5. This year it’s an iPhone 5, I cherish. Take a deep breath.
Eating healthy is a constant challenge. Eating alone, not particularly pleasurable. Last year, in the healthy department, using Deborah Madison’s “Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone” as my text, I tackled Vegetables. Still wanting to expand my limited repertoire and since her classic tome is 723-pages in length, I continue to slice and dice this year.
I find it difficult to savor a home-cooked meal, no matter how delicious, by myself. While I still cannot celebrate the pleasure of cooking for one, I have been helped immensely by reading “The Pleasures of Cooking for One”. It’s written by Judith Jones, the legendary editor of some of the world’s greatest cooks, Julia, being one. Written more than a decade after the death of her husband, Evan, this recipe book, not only honors his memory but encourages me to keep trying.
My cooking buddies from afar, MarySue, who operates a cooking school, and Judy, a wonderful cook who does enjoy her solitary meals, as well as Michelle, my neighbor and professionally-trained chef, who practices law, have all taken me under their culinary wings, sharing friendship through tips and recipes.
Each year, I come up with a fresh, revised, and, yes, longer list. This year, to the astonishment of my family, I’ve already accomplished a newbie, Do One Thing That Scares Me, by getting my ears double-pierced! (Remember, I’m from Iowa.) Travel adventures? The Galapagos, maybe. Intellectual pursuits? Read more Shakespeare (to be truthful, any Shakespeare would be good). And, after subscribing to The New Yorker since 2005, this year I hope to find time to actually read it! Family and friends? Get all the family photos in albums. And, why not stop making my daughter insane by stuffing my granddaughters with junk food. (Although Clara, age 7, reminds me sadly, “Grandma, you know at home it’s vegetables, vegetables, vegetables.) Exercise Routine? Yoga, regularly. And, more, of course.
My favorite addition this year was lifted from a “lululemon athletica” shopping bag: Dance, Sing, Floss And Travel. That, alone, took up four spots!
With thanks to my friend, Ardyth, currently traveling on business in Ireland, for taking the time to stop and smell the heather, sharing it with me today from her iPhone.
A benefit of living alone is that democracy is not an issue. In my house, there is just one vote – mine. Inspired, of course, by a concept created by our politicians, I decided to shutdown myself. Yesterday. At Noon.
The previous few days have been dumpy: for Butler University, the loser X 2 of the NCAA Final; for Congress, unable to reach a spending consensus; for Japan, with its ongoing nuclear disaster; and, for me.
While my problems are minuscule compared to others, they are still mine. I own them. For example, Saturday was a gorgeous, 85-degree day in Nevada. The local University’s extension office was offering a day-long journey through southern Nevada entitled ” From Mining to Hollywood, Southern Nevada History and Stories.” Being a history fanatic and having found these days to be enriching and informative, I signed on.
On Saturday, I was up early, packed a lunch, and on-schedule to arrive at the required meeting place, a museum in Boulder City, by 9am. Now, I admit to being map-illiterate. North, East, South and West have always been a problem for me. Usually, I scout out a location before the actual event, but the week had been hectic. Since the MapQuest print-out seemed idiot-proof, I bypassed the Mary/Map Rule, feeling I was good-to-go.
You know the ending to this story, right? Three days later and I have yet to find the museum nor see the motor coach I was to board! To make matters worse, as I was re-reading the map, charging down a busy Las Vegas highway, I cruised right through a red light, shocking not only myself but the guy, to my right, driving the white Ford pick-up, who thought it was his turn.
Having been the sole driver in my family for the past 15 years, my car is my friend and I’m a good pilot. Since this experience rattled me to my core, I headed home, went back to bed and decided to try the a-beautiful-Saturday-in-Nevada later.
Wait, it gets worse. In the afternoon, after re-rising, re-breakfasting, with a I-Know-I-Can-Do-This attitude, I tried to set up my Wireless Printer, its manual and CD, at the ready. Two hours and twenty-minutes later, I tossed the Printer in the Trash. Call me infantile, immature, childish, I’ll plead guilty. As a woman who tries to stay centered, calm and stable through any crisis, I needed, at this moment in time, to be defiant. And, yes, it felt Tony the Tiger – grrrrrreat.
In the evening, I clicked open my iPad, anxious to play a game application I’d just loaded, called “Angry Birds”. Twelve million copies have been sold. Everyone’s playing it. Except me. It took just 30 minutes to realize it was time to phone-a-friend, a young man who recognizes my technical mis-comfort zone for what it is. He was at my front door by the time the Brownies came out of the oven.
My usual remedy to cure a funk-a-thon is to get-a-grip and go, go, go. Put on a happy face and watch the doldrums disappear. This time, I realized, I needed more. An Adult Time Out. Wiggle room to get relief. Quietness for sifting, sorting, and discarding some unpleasant baggage that’s weighing me down. My good friend and confidante, Paige, who is a psychologist by profession, recognizes this not as a shutdown but a strategy. “You’re quieting your level of action,” she says, “and quieting your thoughts as well. Just softening it up.”
I like that. Not a meltdown, so negative. A softening, inhaling lightness and empowerment.
Poet Emily Dickinson, who led a quiet and reclusive life, gathered not only strength but verse from it. She penned this powerful, mystical poem.
Great Streets of silence led away by Emily Dickinson
Great Streets of silence led away
To Neighborhoods of Pause —
Here was no Notice — no Dissent
No Universe — no laws —
By Clocks, ’twas Morning, and for Night
The Bells at Distance called —
But Epoch had no basis here
For Period exhaled.
“Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
Mark Twain
This quote was shared with me today by Luky Seymour, a tiny albeit plucky Colorado friend of the past twenty-five years. Luky, one of those Rocky Mountain sprites whose generosity of spirit and unparalleled kindness touches so many, has lifted me up and landed me gently, more times than I can count.)
When you’ve lived alone, as I have for the past four years, no chicks, no childs, nor man in the house, I’ve unearthed hours back into my day. Oh, yes, I’ve been overwhelmed with busyness, chores, responsibilities, challenges, and plain, old-fashioned work, but my days have not flown by. In my mind, the statement, “I’m so busy I have no time to think,” no longer holds water.
Maneuvering through each day, I’ve been gifted with Thinking Time. That’s provided me an opportunity to give my brain the space to roll around and ponder notions not perviously permitted by my normal, chaotic American lifestyle. Although this phenomenon is definitely a Martha Stewart “Good Thing”, there is a downside to giving my brain the space to roll around and ponder notions not previously permitted by my normal, chaotic American lifestyle.
There’s the rub.
I am starting to think about my Legacy, an excitedly explosive word with various meanings. For many of my friends, wrapping up illustrious 40-year careers, it’s an achievement or, maybe, many, that will continue to exist professionally after retirement and death. Think, accomplishments. For most, it’s a gift of money or other personal property, a bequest by will, left to others. Think, Rich Uncle. As for me, I’m leaning more personally in dealing with this word. Think, self-reflection. And, I’m feeling there’s still a little work to be done.
Not to be morbid but, in 20 to 25 years, I am going to be a Memory. Death and Taxes, remember? To that certainty, I am committed to being a good Memory. Quite honestly, I am very happy in my own skin. Quite content. Proud. Well, perhaps a little tweaking.
I grew up in a hard-working, solid, Midwestern, no-nonsense Iowa family. No complaints. I feel fortunate to have also raised my two girls in Iowa. My Mother was wonderful, selfless, and loving in so many ways. When the chips were down, she was the go-to gal. She was also opinionated, frank and spoke her mind, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But, my Mom was also a black or white woman, pretty rigid, she knew no gray. She had “sharp elbows”. Growing up, that’s what I knew and that’s what I became.
For most of my life I’ve said what’s on my mind and I’ve been pretty frank about it. I’ve never suffered fools. I’ve believed you have to tell the people you love exactly what you think. Unfortunately, if you’re my friend, I love you. In my world, everyone knows exactly where they stand with me. It wasn’t until the past ten years, with the birth of my first grandchild, that I started to want to still be Me but, a softer version. Kindness, that’s the key. Within my Legacy, My Memory, I want Kindness to stand tall.
I blame my son-in-law, Stephen, for that.
Stephen is a successful lawyer by profession, a splendid athlete by sport, and, kind, by nature. I have known this man for almost 25 years, in his presence probably more than he’d choose, and, his heart pumps kindness. Through watching him, I’ve finally realized that you lose nothing of yourself by being kind. May I still be frank about that fact?
Not that Stephen has had an easy time of it with this family. When my daughter brought him home from college, he was nothing we had ever envisioned for her. The guy had some real defects: 1) He wore flip-flops. Always. With everything. 2) When asked, he told my husband he didn’t know what he wanted to do. The horror of it. My husband knew at birth he was going to be a doctor and never strayed from that path. 3) The worst. He turned down a scholarship to Northwestern to attend a small, liberal arts school in Minnesota. My husband earned three degrees at NU and thought the guy must be nuts.
Reason enough for us to send him packing. Thankfully, we faced resistance from my strong-willed daughter (Yeah. Pot. Kettle. Black.).
My own family was equally dismayed. Soft-spoken. Quiet. Gentle. What was that about? They didn’t lay out the Welcome Mat either.
Fast forward to 25-years later, Stephen’s still around and I know I’m the luckiest mother-in-law in the world. I’ve baked humble pie, many times. His favorite is rhubarb. And, in an America that arguably has its own “sharp elbows”, becoming more mean-spirited, spiteful and, sometimes, downright nasty, he’s refreshing. Not perfect. Not without faults. Not me. He’s Gray.
The lesson of Stephen is that, unwittingly, he has made me, I believe, a better person. Now, I still do not do that “kindness” thing 24/7. Probably won’t get there. Not in my lifetime. But, I am trying. I can see, as well, that living with him has made my daughter a better, more well-rounded person. Most importantly, he is nurturing and raising kind children, not perfect, but, kind.
Those flip-flops. Still. His fashion statement. I am being very kind about that.
