All It Takes Is A Little Love

We embarked on a four thousand five hundred mile round trip journey early one August morning. Knowing our limits for sitting inside a car we broke the trip down into five hundred mile increments. Our final destination lay far up the east coast in Maine where we had long ago traveled with our friends, Egon and Marita. Later we would begin a return trip that would lead us to the site of our honeymoon but first our goal was to reach Maine like we had done before with our friends.

On that trip we rode along the eastern coast ultimately ending up in Falmouth just outside of Portland where we visited Egon’s uncle who also happened to be my husband Mike’s favorite professor from college. Even though Dr. Monsen had long before moved from the University of Houston, he and Mike kept in touch via quick phone calls on special occasions and by exchanging Christmas cards and letters each year. It was fun to think that we would actually get to sit with Dr. Monsen and his wife in their quaint New England home near a small lake. We already knew from past encounters how entertaining and enlightening Dr. Monsen would be. Listening to him was like taking a mini course in sociology and life. 

On that long trip with Egon and Marita we indeed had a wonderful time eating lobster rolls from Town Landing and viewing the local sights. Of course we also took a side trip to the LL Beene store in Freeport and marveled at the loveliness of Bar Harbor. I started a Christmas ornament moose collection as well. The truth is that the visit with Dr. Monsen was still the highlight.

Our recent trip was very different. Egon and Marita are gone and so is Dr. Monsen. Retracing the epic vacation of long ago has reminded me of how much fun we had with these three remarkable people. All of them were brilliant, so conversations were rarely shallow. I did more listening than talking when I was with them because I have always enjoyed learning from people who have had unusual experiences. 

Egon from was Bremen, Germany. His mother and father met during World War II when his father was stationed in Norway after Germany invaded that country. To say that he was and his fellow soldiers were disliked would be an understatement and yet love bloomed between him and Egon’s mother who was a Norwegian from a family that was very active in the resistance movement. While her brothers were doing everything possible to wreak havoc for the Germans, she was secretly falling in love with “the enemy.”

When the war ended the two lovers married and moved to Bremen were Egon was born. He often told us about his boyhood adventures in the rubble of the bombed out buildings in his town. He would grow up with a multicultural background that left him speaking many languages with pitch perfect  pronunciation. He ended up coming to the United States and into our world when his Uncle Henry  Monsen suggested that Egon join him to study at the University of Houston. It was Dr. Monsen who introduced Mike to the young man who would like a brother to both of us. 

Eventually Mike and Egon enrolled in graduate school together and met a young woman from Chicago named Marita. She always joked that she sized up the two of them, thought they both looked quite handsome, but realized that Mike was wearing a wedding ring which put him out of contention for her heart. Soon a new love story began with the girl from Oak Park and the guy who mostly thought of himself as a Viking. 

Mike and I were fortunate to call them both our friends and also to spend hours being intellectually entertained by Dr. Monsen who had found his way to Houston by way of universities in Florida, California and Texas where he earned a PhD in Sociology. Along the way he had met a girl from New York City who would prove to be his equal and a devoted helpmate. Houston was too hot for a Norwegian, so when the University of Maine had an opening he applied and left for the kind of climate that he adored. It was as close to Norway as he was ever going to get.

This time around we were journeying with a different purpose. We had a job to do moving our granddaughter to new digs for another year of college. When she reached out for assistance we jumped at the opportunity to travel again, something that we have been unable to do for a year now. Finally we felt comfortable leaving Mike’s father under the watchful eyes of our daughter. We knew that we might be gone for two weeks and he would still be in good hands. 

I suppose that all of us have needed this vacation. I looked forward to all that we would see on the long journey. Getting close to the people and places in our nation ons is always a valuable experience. I’ll be posting my a chronology of how we rocked along. There was so much to see along the way.

Lately I keep encountering stories about “highly sensitive people.” They describers persons who are hyper connected to the sensory aspects of being human. Being a highly sensitive person can be both a phenomenal way of viewing the world and an exhausting way of connecting with sights, sounds and people at one and the same time. 

Highly sensitive people react more deeply to sounds, lights and other sensory phenomena. They are often moved deeply by music and paintings, sometimes to the point of becoming highly emotional. They might cry over a great work of art or think about the implications of words long after encountering a passage in a book. They are also the kind of people who are able to look into the souls of the people they encounter. They have an uncanny ability to know when someone is feeling uncomfortable or sad or anxious. They are often more than willing to stop whatever they are doing to console those that they perceive to be hurting. They make wonderful teachers and counselors because of the compassion that is so much a part of their makeup.

On the other hand, activities that are fun and exciting for most people can be physically and psychologically draining for highly sensitive people. They can endure loud music and strobing lights for only so long before they have to leave. They will attend big parties but are often the first to retire for the night. They literally have to be alone after too much immersion into sights, sounds, chaos. They get anxious when forced to perform too many tasks at once or when their routines are changed without warning. Most of them have a quiet place where they go to heal from too much stimulation. 

Psychologists use the abbreviation HSP to denote those who demonstrate the characteristics of highly sensitive people. As with anything there is a continuum of just how sensitive these people are. Some only exhibit a few traits and others are almost always feeling stressed by the demands of being so attuned to sights, sounds, smells, tastes and even the texture of things. The vast majority of those who are HSP are also introverts and many are often made to feel weird because of their needs to turn off the constantly running reactions that are an integral part of their interaction with the environment. 

As long as those who are HSP are fee to recharge their batteries they tend to be some of the most empathetic people they anyone encounters. They really do see and hear the people they are with. They are the artists and philosophers who continually think about issues and how to confront them. 

As I read about this interesting group of people I could not resist noting the similarities between me and highly sensitive people. I have always felt deep connections between both the people that I know and complete strangers. I can simply pass by someone and feel that I know what they are thinking just from body language and facial expressions. I do indeed notice when someone is struggling. My awareness of the pulse of my classroom served me well as a teacher. I was able to literally see and feel pain and suffering among my students and my fellow teachers. I never quite understood why there were times when nobody else was able to be as observant as I was. I thought that everyone felt things as deeply as I do, but learned that some actually think that I am strange and even a bit naive or silly because of the deep level of my empathy. I’m that person who cries in a movie theater or becomes breathless at a concert. 

I have always preferred a quiet mountain retreat hidden in the woods to a sojourn at the beach. I love to dance, eat good food and drink wine with friends, but always become Cinderella needing to leave before midnight. Then I want to spend time in the quiet on the following day. 

Many members of my family are like me as well. I’d say that it was product of our DNA but for the fact that some of those people married into our family. I have a nephew who in an incredible cook and a dynamic interior designer. He has been an actor as well. Nonetheless he eschews the big family parties, preferring instead to have small dinners with no more than four guests. He also has an uncanny ability to know when someone needs to have his friendly ear. Many times he has called me when I was feeling blue. It is as though he possesses some special form of ESP.

Both of my daughters tend to find quiet rooms at raucous parties. They are literally exhausted by noise and too many people talking at once. Now I know that there is nothing wrong with any of us. We are simply different from the average soul. Our minds are filled with deep thoughts. We think everyone wants to solve the problems of the world. It’s okay with us if they don’t because we are busy attempting to make the world a calm and happy place that accepts everyone. 

I suppose that each of us has felt a bit different from others from time to time. It’s really difficult not to think that we are somehow defective when we fall into a category of people who only represent a small slice of humanity. It’s good to know that i’m okay and you are okay. Each one of is simply our own special kind of persons with traits meant to serve society in a special way. We need those who quietly contemplate and those who make the world fun with their joyful sounds. We are all quite wonderful.

When two people are almost complete opposites they rarely connect beyond polite but brief encounters. When those two people are in a situation that forces them to interact regularly their relationship can be fraught with misunderstandings. It takes creative measures to prevent a clash when personalities and cultures are so different. 

We’ve all found ourselves in situations that force us to use our diplomatic skills at work or in personal challenges. Unless we hide ourselves away from the outside world we are bound to find our personalities or beliefs in conflict with someone whom we cannot avoid. When that person is a coworker, a boss or even a family member inherited by marriage it can be crushing to have to deal with a situation that literally feels toxic, especially if we are not in a position to simply ignore the controversy. 

I have a tendency to confront people and ideas that I find to be contrary to my core beliefs. Sometimes this trait brings me the admiration of friends, family members, coworkers or my students. At other times it leads me open to intense criticism and misunderstanding. Most of the time I know how to control my windmill tilting, but sometimes I lose my perspective and come across as a nagging control freak. Finding the balance for my vocal commentaries, knowing when to speak my truths and when to stay silent is a tricky challenge. 

Over time I have learned how to defend myself, but mostly to defend others. I’m generally able to quietly work around criticism of my work or my personality, but I become like an enraged mama bear whenever someone for whom I care is being abused. Because I tend to stir up the most trouble when I blurt out my concerns without aforethought, I usually carefully craft a response to the issues that seem to be the most in need of attention. I measure my words with an eye to diplomacy because my goal is not to hurt anyone who disagrees with me, but rather to hopefully nudge them to see my differing points of view. When all goes well, we find mutual compromises even if we do not totally adjust our individual preferences for how to live. 

Now and again I’ve had some clashes that severed any hope of reconciliation because of my bluntness. We all have red lines that define just how much accommodation we are willing to give. When the red lines are crossed we have to be bold in defending ourselves and others. I’ve only had a few such battles and they certainly took their toll on me and the persons whom I had to confront.

This happened many times over when my mother was particularly ill with her bipolar disorder. I could not simply stand back and watch her devolve into psychosis because I was afraid to force her to accept the help that would restore her mental health. I despised those moments and the chasm that they sometimes created between me and my beloved parent. Nonetheless I learned that the bitterness would pass and my mother would survive another bout with the most horrid kind of health issue.

I had to do battle for my students and my fellow teachers as well. Some of those encounters left me bloodied and seemingly defeated, but I kept my honor in tact. On one occasion I became a spokesperson for an entire school when a principal behaved like a tyrant and morale was so low that I expected a rebellion to begin at any moment. I endured the ire of the school leader when I outlined that issues that were creating the mounting discontent. My hope was that my honesty would be viewed as a supportive attempt to create a positive climate for everyone. Instead the woman became downright deranged in a day long interrogation of me that was one of the most unnerving encounters of my lifetime. 

While the school leader would eventually be fired by the school board for all of the reasons that I had attempted to help eliminate, in that moment I was left with no alternative but to protect myself by finding another job and leaving the toxic situation. I have never forgotten how alone and frightened I felt as I realized that the principal was so set in her ways that she was willing to abuse me simply for pointing out her flaws. It was one of the few times that my honesty and diplomatic skills totally failed me. 

I am quite aware that I can be confusing to many people. I am mostly quiet and agreeable. I am highly sensitive to the needs of others, so much so that I often fret over what I might do to help them. I am generally somewhat shy, a person who travels through life mostly observing rather than connecting. I prefer sitting on a bench watching people to walking into the middle of a crowd to converse with strangers. I need lots of space and quiet time but I am also willing and able to stand at a podium and address a crowd without nervousness. I can spend hours conversing one on one, seemingly unable to take a breath between my words. I love parties, but only for so long and then I must rush away like Cinderella or I will surely turn into a pumpkin. I am an enigma to the extraverts of the world and yet I have a kind of connection and understanding of them that they may never have with me.

 I see people’s souls. I feel their hopes and dreams and suffer along with them in their disappointments. Sometimes the weight of noticing makes me weary and I have to back away for a time until my energy and determination returns. I use my writing to be a voice for those who cannot speak. Along the way I am often misunderstood. People wonder why I am not more private in my thoughts. What I know is that there always has to be someone willing to defend truth out loud. 

Each of us is unique. We have individual talents that we offer to our families and friends and sometimes to the world at large. Mine is to see and hear truths that I believe must be spoken. I know this is so because I was once so afraid to reveal what I knew I had to do. I have developed a voice through my experiences. I am battle weary but still standing. Somehow I know that I am exactly who I was meant to be. 

Nineteen eighty eight would become a momentous year for me and my family. I would officially enter my forties in November, but before that my eldest daughter, Maryellen, would graduate with honors from high school and be accepted to the University of Texas in Austin. Younger daughter, Catherine, would enter high school and I would accept a job at the intermediate school where both of the girls had studied. Change was doing its inevitable thing.

For this Mama who had cut her teeth on Texas A&M lore it was a bit shocking to learn of Maryellen’s decision to forge her future at the arch rival UT campus. She had wisely studied the business schools at each university and had come to the conclusion that the University of Texas was better suited for the course of study in Finance that she had chosen to pursue. I had to quickly toss aside all of the stories about Texas that had been ingrained in me from the time I was born, so I decided to enroll in a parent orientation to find out for myself what the school was all about. 

Luckily the parents of one of Maryellen’s high school friends were both planning to attend one of the sessions and they suggested that I accompany them. Danny McSpadden was a University of Texas alumnus and almost as rabid a supporter of the school as my father had been with Texas A&M. I knew it would be good for me to get his perspective about the place and I was already good friends with his wife, Jackie, who was an incredibly wise and gracious woman. The two of them helped me to navigate the world of University of Texas and its dominian over the Austin scene. 

I had to admit that I was impressed with the campus and with its open, freedom of speech vibe that I sensed immediately. It seemed to be a place where everyone was encouraged to be themselves. It was also home to some of the best learning opportunities in the country. I found myself feeling more and more comfortable with each session designed to help me understand the goals and culture of the school. Danny’s stories and enthusiasm about the place assuaged my misgivings as well. 

By the end of the orientation I was certain that Maryellen had chosen the right place to continue preparing for her future as an adult. In many ways the University of Texas seemed to be in line philosophically with my own education at the University of Houston. At the end of the proceedings when we were all asked to hold up our fingers in the “Hook Em Horns” salute and sing “The Eyes of Texas” I reluctantly stood with the other parents hoping that my Aggie father was not looking down from heaven wondering if I had lost my mind. As a parent I knew that I need to wholeheartedly support her and Danny and Jackie had helped me to overcome any fears that I may have had.

Meanwhile Catherine gingerly began her studies at South Houston High School. She became even more enthralled with science when her Biology teacher proved to be a masterful educator. It became clear to me that Catherine had a both a gift and a passion for science and under the tutelage of outstanding teachers at the school she would soar academically, but to my horror her Algebra teacher was a dud. Maryellen had immediately warned me to insist that Catherine be switched to another teacher or she would be ruined. I laughed at the hyperbole and decided that it would be best for Catherine to learn how to navigate difficult situations.

I sensed that Catherine was struggling with Algebra immediately but she was working hard to overcome the problems that she had. Each afternoon she sat at our kitchen table completing her homework while I prepared dinner. Sometimes she would ask me questions about a particular problem but when I offered to check her homework and give her additional tutorials she insisted that it would not be fair to the other students in the class if she used my knowledge when they were unlikely to have an Algebra teacher at home to assist them. I honored her wishes even though my instincts told me that she would have benefitted from additional tutoring. 

Just before Christmas Catherine became very ill and a trip to her doctor confirmed that she had scarlet fever. She was unable to attend school for well over a week, but she managed to return to classes shortly before the Christmas break. to her horror the Algebra teacher gave her a major test on her first day back in class and demanded that she turn in any homework assignments that she had missed. I was livid because I knew that the school district rules were clear that students who had been absent for legitimate reasons were supposed to have time to ease back into the situation. They were certainly not expected to return armed with homework and ready to take tests on material they had not even been taught. 

Soon after I received a failing notice from the Algebra teacher. Catherine had bombed the test and had received zeroes for the homework that she had missed. I had to calm myself enough to sound reasonable when I contacted the teacher. I presented myself as a professional just as I knew she was. I pointed out that Catherine had been very ill and that she had not been given sufficient time to make up all of the work she had missed. The teacher was unmovable in her resolve, insisting that the grades would stand. 

I was so livid that I abandoned my politeness and spoke to her not as mother but as an educator hoping to push her to see my point of view. Things only got worse. That’s I when I learned about the teacher’s grading system which was bizarre to say the least. She would assign a certain number of homework problems each day. When the students turned in their work she randomly chose two problems from the twenty or thirty that the students had completed to provide a grade. If the students missed one of the two problems they received a fifty. If they missed both of the problems they got a zero. Never mind that they had worked on as many as thirty problems. The only way to get a passing credit for doing the homework was to get both problems correct. 

At this point I had lost patience with the teacher and had already decided to contact the principal to have Catherine changed to another teacher for the spring semester. Nonetheless I had to shoot across the teacher’s bow before letting her off the hook. I demanded that she automatically put one hundreds in her grade book for Catherine’s future homework because as an Algebra teacher I would check her work each evening going forward and she would never again miss a random problem. I also told her that I was calling the principal and that she should be ready to retest Catherine on the material that I had taught her once I saw that she was not making any effort to help. 

The long story short is that the principal admitted that the teacher had been a problem for years but he was happy to report that she had begun filling out the paperwork to retire at the end of the school year. I nonetheless insisted that it was time to sever Catherine’s ties to this teacher and he complied. He also commanded the teacher to provide Catherine with another test and to remove all of the homework zeroes from the time that she was so ill.

Catherine ended up doing well in Algebra when she moved to a new teacher, but there would always be a little ding on her transcript that she and I both knew was undeserved. We both learned the importance of speaking up right away rather than holding back when we knew that something was wrong. Catherine especially became a warrior who to this very day insists on justice whenever she witnesses wrongs. In 1988 we were schooled in how real the world can be.

I can’t really point to a time that my life has been restful, at least not since I was seven years old and I spent my third grade year in six different schools that stretched from Houston Texas to California and back again. I seriously believe that the tumultuous journey coupled with my father’s untimely death at the end of the school year destroyed my adventurous nature. Instead I have tended to proceed from day to day with caution and a sense that all of my best laid plans may never come to fruition. I work hard to be prepared for the worst possible scenario which has kept me able to react quickly to the many challenges that have seemingly blocked my path. I tend to expect the unexpected which adds a bit of anxiety to my daily life but also insures that I am ready for the craziest events that may come my way. 

I sometimes laugh at myself because I am so obsessive about keeping my life on an even keel so that it will not fall apart in the event of an emergency. My life story has taught me that the best laid plans do go awry and more often than we might wish. I’ve learned how to be nimble in my reactions to death, illnesses, and changes that upend my dreams. In some years of my life I have had to fall back on plans from B to Z. So I have learned that the entire trajectory of my life can make a one hundred eighty degree turn in a millisecond, forcing me to use my wits to find my way back on a different route than the one housed in my dreams. 

So far my grit has kept me moving forward even as I have had to circle back from a different perspective. I suppose that my story is far from unique and definitely not as difficult as vast numbers of people who have endured suffering. For the most part there have always been helpers who saw my dilemmas and volunteered to help me recalibrate my compass. 

I have not always been as ready to reciprocate the support for others struggling with their own difficulties. I am one of those clueless souls who has had to actually experience a specific hardship to understand the anxieties involved with it. As I have walked through my life I have had to actually touch and feel the impact of death, family illnesses, mental illness and most recently the challenges of caring for an elder parent. I’m a quick learner but until I have actually experienced a difficulty on my own I do not always understand the depth of determination required to handle it. 

What I do now know is that none of us are immune from life’s tragedies and some seem to experience more than their fair share. Those folks need to have someone let them know that they are not alone. Most of us can weather even the most terrible storms if we see that we have beautiful souls rooting for us and carrying some of the load for us. It is only when it seems that nobody cares that we lose our focus and determination. 

The world is quite busy and its easy to feel lost in it. Fortunately we all know those remarkable souls who show up on our doorsteps like guardian angels just when we need them. Each hurricane season I think of a storm called Harvey that reeked havoc in my city as more than fifty inches of rain fell nonstop over a period of four days. I was terrified in that time because my husband Mike had just had a stroke and the doctors told us that there was a chance that he might have a second one in the weeks afterward. As the rain filled the streets and many of the homes I realized that if he were to have an emergency we might be left to our own resources. That’s when an angel appeared from nowhere.

One of my former students who lives nearby came to our house to check on us. He brought us a pair of rabbit ears so that we might still use our television if the cable went out. He made sure that we had all of his contact information and assured us that he and his brother-in-law would be able to get Mike to the nearest hospital using a big family truck. He had even attempted the journey to be certain that he would be able to navigate the waters. He then continually checked on us via text for the next many days. I was overwhelmed with thankfulness for his loving concern. Then I watched as friends and strangers alike came to the rescue for those desperately attempting to survive the floods all over the city. 

There were no artificial divisions based on politics, income, education, race or sexual preferences during hurricane Harvey. We were all united in a common cause and it was a beautiful thing to see. Sadly we don’t always turn such emergencies into shining moments. Instead we go inward, not making the effort to even notice that someone is suffering and in need of our help.

I am admittedly not the best at setting aside my own anxieties and carving out time to be a beacon of hope, but I have known some of the very best souls who seemed to be attuned to the needs of others and then act on their concerns. I try my best to remember how relieved I was when my Uncle Jack helped so much after my father died. I have never forgotten how Mrs. Barry came to my rescue when I was a young inexperienced woman trying to get help for my mother’s mental illness. I think of the dozens and dozens of times that my dear friend, Linda, has made great efforts to help me when I was adrift with life’s troubles wearing me down. Often my saviors have been people that I hardly knew or someone quite unexpected. Some individuals are so attuned to others that they just naturally show up whenever there is an emergency. They are our angels on this earth. 

I have traversed many tragedies but I am not as brave and wise as it may sometimes seem. I would have drowned in self pity were it not for the good Samaritans who had the compassion to minister to me in my darkest times. They were teaching me how to be a better person and they did so without fanfare. The angels are all around us and hopefully when the need arises we can be angels as well.