All It Takes Is A Little Love

We are not all crazy on the same day.  —Anne Lamott

We all endure those days when the world feels crazy and then we ask ourselves if we are actually the ones who are unhinged. Self doubt is a natural human trait and the more we stew alone with our worries the more likely we are to feels as though something is terribly wrong with our entire lives. Billions of words have been written about long suffering people who become victims of their own fears and thoughts. We see ourselves in King Lear and Don Quixote and wonder if we have finally gone around a bend from which we may never return. That is when special friends swoop in to reassure us that our discomfort is only a phase.

I have been an educator for well over fifty years. Sometimes my title was official and other times I offered tutoring or work with homeschooled children. At the beginning of my career in public schools I encountered a world of young people who were enduring unimaginable cruelty and want. I became obsessed with helping them to feel the comfort and security that was the hallmark of my own childhood. In the process I lost sleep at night and worried to the point of feeling overwhelmed. It was in that moment that one of my dearest friends and her husband rescued me with an intervention at a Tex Mex restaurant while we sipped on margaritas and munched on salsa and tortilla chips. 

She and her husband had noted how entwined I had become with the difficulties of the children who were in my care each day. They realized that my concern for them was eating away at me. They saw that the situation was driving me crazy and so they interceded to help me see the futility of my ever present worries. Their dedicated friendship saved me from feeling a need to abandon my career for self preservation. 

Our friendship was mutual. They had not been crazy on the days when I was allowing my emotions to rule me but there would be times later when I would be the healthy one who helped them through incredibly difficult times. I suppose that is the way friendships are. We went back and forth looking out for each other and overlooking the flaws the lead us to crazy moments. Like firefighters and doctors in emergency rooms we are on call twenty four hours a day for the people that we had learned to trust and love. We can be crazy with the special people in our lives and they will not hold it against us. 

I suppose that my husband and I have that same kind of special bond. Events can lead me to obsessive worries that either leave me brooding like a slug or hyperventilating with indignation. My spouse knows when to listen and how to bring me back to earth. We read each other so well that our crazy moments become outlets that allow us to emote and then return to sanity. 

I know who to call when the world becomes too much with me. The good friend who helped me long ago is no longer on this earth but I have found others who seem to understand my crazy moments. Her daughter has become like a member of my family. She and I can rant as needed that then just hug and love each other. I have found a childhood friend that I had not seen for decades and now feel the same comfort with her that was so ever present when we were children. I have connections with so many people who are as human as I am in dealing with the stresses of life. Sometimes I am the one who needs a calm ear to vocalize my frustrations and sometimes I am the person who listens to them. 

Friendships and family relationships are not measured by how much we agree with each other but how willing we are to understand when any of us are feeling crazy. Life is daunting and nobody is free of anxieties. Even stoics come undone now and again. Having people who are not crazy on the same day that we are is a blessing beyond measure. Knowing that we can mess up and still be loved helps us to recenter ourselves time and again. 

We are all crazy at one time or another. Thankfully we are rarely all crazy at the same time. The world fluxes and flows and we find the special people who will let us cry or rant. The humanity of it all keeps us focused on what is important. 

I do not generally like the word crazy. My mother was overwhelmed with a medical condition that altered her brain resulting in symptoms of bipolar disorder. Her emotions would go haywire now and again but she was not sick every single day. Her wisdom and kindness fought its way through the fog of her illness with the help of good doctors and certain medications. She learned the hard way who would accept her just as she was. Some who had seemed to be friends abandoned her and others were so courageous that they literally saved her. 

Ann Lamott understands the nature of all humans. We stress and become anxious and find ourselves feeling crazy. Luckily it does not usually happen to everyone on the same day. That is when we learn who the special people in our lives really are. Without judgement they come to our aid remembering that we one day will come to theirs. 

I was cleaning the kitchen and grumbly about the duty that takes my daily attention. The most used room in my house is constantly in need of mopping and wiping up spills. Keeping the heart of our home sanitary sometimes feels like a hopelessly repetitive and onerous task. I grumble at how often I find myself completing the same work over and over again and then I feel a terrible sense of guilt as I realize how incredibly fortunate I am to have a large and modern kitchen that would have impressed even the royalty of old. 

I take my refrigerator for granted with its spacious racks and freezer filled with the ingredients of future meals. I turn on my stove without worrying that smoke from burning wood will overcome me. I polish and clean my microwave oven that prepares my morning breakfast in under two minutes. I load the dishwasher that eliminates so much of the labor that I must provide to have clean dishes and pots and utensils. I end up chiding myself for grumbling because in the entire history of the world few people have enjoyed the convenience that I take for granted. 

I am an ordinary soul. I have not found the names of wealthy people in my background. I worked as a teacher making an average salary as far as those things go. I have become educated and worked hard in a world that accepted me as a woman. I didn’t have to fight for the privileges that I have. I walk through life living in a way that few humans have enjoyed in the long history of civilization. My kitchen is but one piece of evidence of my good fortune. 

I have a robot that vacuums my floors every day except Sunday. I have cool air in the summer and warmth in the winter. After the chores of my day are done I am able to sit in front of a large screen and watch movies, sporting events, and the latest news. The marvels that are at my fingertips would have felt miraculous only a few decades ago. So why do I sometimes forget to be grateful for the bounty and ease of my life? Why am I often wishing for more or forgetting that even in the present day not everyone enjoys the comfortable life that is mine?

It is so easy to only focus on the horrific aspects of life. Of course we still become ill. People that we love still die. We are constantly challenged but we have tools that make our duties so much easier to tackle than at any time in history. We would all do well to quit allowing politicians to rant in attempts to make us believe that our lives are somehow horrific. We fall too easily for attempts to make us afraid of each other or to be envious of people who seem to enjoy favors that are not granted to us. 

Most of the problems of the world exist not so much because of ordinary people but because bad powerful people want to manipulate us into helping them become even more powerful. They spread fear to make us think that only they have the answers to keeping us safe and thriving. They stir the pot and suggest that we should be very afraid and that taking away the freedoms of others will somehow make us more free and prosperous. 

I have to remind myself now and again that I somehow fell into a much easier life than much of the world’s population. Fate challenged me with the death of my father when I was very young but my family’s situation was made bearable from the simple fact of where we were born and the color of our skin. I do not know what it is like to be judged as inferior because of aspects of my life over which I have no control. I won the American lottery so to speak without any special effort on my part. I had a head start in life because I lived in a nation of growing opportunities and from my birth my white skin gave me entrance to aspects of America that were not allowed for those of other shades of complexion. 

I know these things to be true and yet I take my good fortune for granted. I have never been shunned. I walk quietly through life barely being noticed which is actually a very good thing. Nobody is wondering if I am living here illegally. Nobody questions by citizenship or even my rights and I did nothing other than being born in the right place at the right time. Unlike many in my situation who brood over the possibility that their luck of the draw is being somehow diluted by people who do not deserve a share of what we have always had, I totally understand why they just want life to be more fair. They don’t want to have to fight for what was automatically given to me.

I have a friend who writes the most beautiful porch pondering that comes to her mind as she sips her coffee or tea in the early morning. I find that my own musings often occur when I am engaged in the labors of keeping my home in order. I don’t really have to think to mop the floor so my mind drifts off to considering how incredible it is that I live as well as I do. Then I begin thinking about those who have had to work so very hard to acquire even a semblance of my good fortune. I truly wish that we would all consider such things before we allow horrific and incredibly wealthy people to turn us against each other. We would do well to consider that if they can take away the freedoms and opportunities of some, they can take away the freedoms and opportunities of all. 

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When I was in high school I had the same English teacher for all four years. Luckily he was an incredible educator who opened so many horizons for me that it would be impossible to fully explain his influence on the trajectory of my life. I think of him often because he changed me from a little girl whose reading habits only included Nancy Drew mysteries and stories of pioneer families. He nurtured my creative bent and introduced me to a wider world than I had ever imagined. 

One of the weekly tasks that he gave us was to write a short theme based on a word or phrase that he posted on the blackboard each Monday morning. I would have seven days to complete the assignment but more often than not waited until Sunday evening to put together two hundred words that felt coherent enough to submit. Most of the time my offerings were rather dull but now and again I would feel the fire of creativity that produced an opus worth reading. 

Back then writing was a chore, something that had to be completed before the deadline. There were times when I sat staring at a blank piece of paper panicking that my lack of originality would finally cause my downfall. Sometimes I ended up writing something so banal that even I would have given myself a disgusting grade. Luckily my teacher was a bit more gracious in using those themes mostly to help us become more and more comfortable about writing. He wanted us to improve, not become instant geniuses of the pen. 

Much of the terror that I felt about writing involved having to use a typewriter to do so. My mother had insisted that I learn how to touch type before I even entered high school. She saw that skill as an important bridge to completing the assignments of higher learning. I happily learned how to tap the keys with all ten of my fingers without looking down to note whether or not I was actually performing well or creating a page full of mistakes. 

When there was no pressure I performed well on a typewriter but somehow creating text that would be assessed by someone other than myself sent my fingers to all the wrong letters. It would take me hours to complete a coherent document. Even then my work would be dotted with so much white out that it looked as though something had leaked on the page. The art of writing became a task fraught with terror as I tried mostly without success to quickly post my ideas on a blank sheet of paper. 

There is an irony that I now write every single day as a kind of relaxing meditation. The beauty of being able to correct mistakes that I make on my laptop with ease has freed me to concentrate more on my words and ideas than on the mechanics of creating a manuscript. I have reached a point in my life when writing is fun and I imagine my English teacher providing me with a daily prompt that will challenge my creativity rather than my ability to create a readable document.

Words and ideas and grammar all come together in a coherent unity when I write all because of the English teacher who showed me the power of reading and crafting ideas with words. Because of him my home is overflowing with beautifully bound volumes and magazines. Thanks to the internet I am able to find even more to read and I widen my horizons even more than my teacher showed me how to do. When I went to college my professors wanted to know who had mentored me so well. I was proud to tell the stories of time in his class listening to poetry and plays and words put together so beautifully that they drew pictures on my heart. 

I often wonder if I would find so much joy in writing each day if I had never met my wonderful English teacher. I ask myself how I was so fortunate to encounter such a person during my becoming years. His vision of a world without limits fit so well with the early love of reading and learning that I received from my father. Somehow the influence of those two men became the foundation of the person that I would ultimately become. 

Some people take walks or go to a gym each day to insure their physical and mental health. I write for the same reasons. It may be a vanity project but it is also a way to be myself. I am not a quick thinker. I have to ponder ideas before speaking of them. Writing allows me to give voice to the many thoughts that race through my head. It calms my soul and provides me with a kind of superpower that my dear grandmother Minnie Bell so longed to have. In only two generations I have progressed from ancestral women unable to either read or write to holding a graduate degree. My father and my English teacher accelerated my sense of power over who I am by showing me how to use stories and poems and editorials to form my own beliefs and then speak of them to others. Theirs has been a gift that I cherish each time I sit in my recliner with my laptop balanced on my legs. The whole world comes to me in those moments.

Courage isn’t loud or fearless. It is the quiet decision to try again tomorrow. Author Unknown

When we are young if we have been lucky enough to grow in a safe and loving environment we see our future as a straight line heading for the fulfillment of all of our dreams. Soon enough we learn that life rarely unfolds without problems and challenges that take us in directions that we never imagined. It can be daunting and confusing when the world impedes the progress that we planned for ourselves. It can be disorienting to find ourselves lost in a situation that we never imagined.

Those of us in the later years of our lives have so many stories to tell of failures and stolen promises. We have endured the serendipity of living often with a weariness that feels unremitting only to survive again and again. The true history of humankind is bound in both successes and disappointments. As our lives unfold we realize that we have never lived in isolation. The whole world is constantly challenging our beliefs and our determination. It is the way it has always been since the beginning of time. 

We too often forget that we do best when we live in harmony with nature. We are but one aspect of life on planet earth. Every single thing that we do affects the world around us. We all too often hurt nature without considering the consequences of our actions. We like to believe that the harsh weather disasters that befall us have nothing to do with how we have treated the ecosystem in which we live. We pretend that tearing down forests and excessively using water has no repercussions but evidence shows us the folly of such beliefs. We are dependent on each other and on the entirety of nature and yet we assemble in tribes and fight with people that we do not wish to understand. All of these things change the reality of our lives whether we choose to believe it is so or not. 

If we are truly honest we will admit that we humans have done both good things and bad. If we continuously learn from the evil that people have perpetrated in the past we can try to be better tomorrow. Ignoring mistakes only insures that we will keep making them over and over again. it is only through a willingness to keep trying to be better that our true courage shows its power. 

Twenty twenty six was slated to be a celebratory time for the United States of America. Our nation has survived for two hundred fifty years since the brave but imperfect men signed the Declaration of Independence. From that moment many mistake have been made. Ignoring them insures that they will happen again and again. Addressing them with total honestly insures us that tomorrow will be a bit better than the day before. Progress in our individual and national lives has always been incremental. We move slowly forward with deliberation. Breaking everything all at once only creates chaos. Lying to ourselves hides the truths that will set us free. 

If we study history and our personal stories we know that it is in the very moments that were about to break us that we have so often found ourselves. In most cases our journeys have not been alone. Along the pathways we have encountered others who helped us to be our best for a moment or a lifetime. Isolating ourselves from people and situations that frighten us has rarely worked. It is when we come together in a spirit of compromise and good will that we leap forward.

I will be seventy eight years old in November. My life has never been a bed of roses but it has always been filled with people who comforted me in my darkest days. I have moved slowly from the isolation of my childhood to becoming a true citizen of the world. I understand the importance of looking beyond the borders of our homes, our neighborhoods, our states and our nation. Learning about the beautiful tapestry of our differences has shown me that most of us long for the same things no matter how separated in time and space and culture we may be. We are born. We learn from our families. We walk out into the adult world. We do our best to create good lives for ourselves and each other. We have good and bad days. We enjoy success and feel the pain of defeat. We go to bed each night feeling satisfied or broken. With luck we arise the next day and begin our individual hero’s journey once again. 

These are difficult times for so many people throughout the world. At the same moment many of us enjoy living conditions that are better than those experienced by kings of old. Powerful people may try to frighten us and turn us against each other with canned phrases that hold terrible meanings. If we are wise we look beyond the fear mongering and wake up again and again with hopes that the new day will bring us together again regardless of how imperfect each of us may be. We push forward and look for the goodness that lies in the hearts of people throughout the world.  

I suppose that I have dreamed of being a writer from the time I was a child.  I worked on the school newspaper when I was in high school and vied for job of editor in chief but that was not meant to be. The adult sponsor chose me to be the news editor which seemed to be a rather dull assignment. After assessing whether or not the five Ws of Who, What, Where, When, Why had been properly addressed my biggest job was checking the spelling and grammar and making certain that the articles would fit on the front page. I longed to work on the literary page and I was admittedly envious of the sports editor who seemed to enjoy the most readers of his exciting and hilarious stories. Still, I imagined that our faculty leader had made a mistake and that one day she would see that I was born to write the great American novel. 

I went on to college where I majored in English and minored in math. My professors liked my work but none of it was particularly creative. My main goal was to critique the writing of others or explain the proper way of using the English language. I wrote descriptions of the incredible movements of two of the members of our basketball team that received rave reviews from the professor. I recorded and discussed the oral history from my grandfather and the teacher was over the moon. None of those things were particularly original Nothing demonstrated that I had a unique way of stringing words together. I could see that my best talent involved telling true stories about people that I knew or had taken the time to observe. Like my grandfather I was pretty darn good at describing the folksy aspects of life. I soon realized that perhaps the sponsor of the high school newspaper had been on to something. I was not a creative writer, I was simply a kind of chronicler of what I saw. 

I suppose that there is nothing wrong with the fact that I can’t write the next great American novel since I am able to communicate rather well but my prose stills feel so pedestrian, especially when I see a friend developing into a stunning author. There is such a difference in the way I post words together and the unique ways that he takes those same syllables and weaves a lively tale. 

My high school English teacher often said that we did not all need to become prize winning authors. He felt that there was something rather special in being an appreciator of good writing, a person of good taste. When he chose me to grade the weekly essays of some of his students he urged me to direct them to greater heights than they may otherwise have risen. He said that being a developer of talent was an incredible skill that not everyone has. I suppose that is why I ended up teaching for a living rather than banging away on a typewriter building beautiful dreams from words. 

The funny thing is that almost everywhere that I taught I was commandeered to write the news bulletin for parents. I threw myself into that task knowing that my job was to report just the facts. I soon learned from feedback that many of the parents thought that I was being bit uppity with my vocabulary which I thought was rather dull. I had to rethink how to compose my blurbs so that they would be understandable to anyone who read them. That meant no long winded sentences, only those that got straight to the point. 

I suppose that I still dream of being discovered as a writer. I get my best reviews when I describe someone that I have known and admired. I no longer even try to enter the field of fiction. Instead I am satisfied to write about real people and real topics that interest me. I have accepted the reality that I am one of the world’s greatest appreciators and encouragers because many a student, relative or friend has taken my advice to keep writing because something was really special about the stories that they told. I’m no longer a bit jealous of their ability like I once might have been. Instead I celebrate the fact that I know enough to be discover real talent and sometimes even guide someone who struggled at first to let their minds take them to wondrous places about which we would all enjoy reading.

I write and write and write and write. My hobby is no longer aimed at being discovered. Now I do it daily as a way to relax during times when I am feeling anxious about the state of the world. There is something soothing and perhaps a bit selfish about writing down and sharing one’s thoughts. There is a certain audacity in thinking that what I have to say is important enough that others might actually care about the words and sentences and paragraphs that I put down on paper. I often wonder if mine is a vanity project or something worthwhile. 

I’ve read about other writers and the struggles that they often endured. I remember seeing that F. Scott Fitzgerald nearly went mad attempting to recreate the genius of The Great Gatsby. Some people like Stephen King seem to have endless ideas. Others create that one incredible piece and are never able again to reach the heights of literary glory. Nonetheless it seems to me that there is some kind of gene that literally forces those of us with the writing bug to keep plugging away no matter how far from perfection we fall. 

I am the great appreciator and encourager. My skill has inspired many a soul. Maybe in the long run of things that is a rather incredible way to be. Do I dare use the word, Muse?