Ask a busy person

     When I was a kid, maybe about high school age, someone told me that if you really wanted to delegate properly, you neede to assign the most important task to the busiest person.  This made no sense to me, so I asked why you'd want to load more crap into an already full, proverbial one ton truck.
     The answer I received was that people who have a lot going on have to become more organized in order to keep up with anything on their plate. If they don't, everything will fall.  Hmm.  So, they person who doesn't have a lot to keep up with then doesn't know how to handle lots of stuff because it isn't their normal M.O.?  Yes, my teacher explained, that's exactly what it means.
     Lately, I've taken on a lot of new volunteer responsibilities due to the flexible nature of my job and the resultant free time.  However, I've been using a lot of that free time to look for another job... and to catch up on cleaning, doing laundry and walking my neighbor's dog for him.  Does that make me one of those busy people?  Most days, I don't FEEL overly organized.  I always have something going on, but much of it becomes automatic.  I see the hamper and remember to start laundry.  I see the cat (he doesn't make it hard to do, either) and feed the cat and clean his box.  I see that the shower isn't clean and start cleaning it while I'm cleaning me... is that weird, or does everyone do that?
     Recently, a friend showed me an online tip for fighting depression.  The tip, from a blog by someone called Flylady, stated that the way to start organizing was to make yourself care again by shining your sink every night, so that morning would have at least one positive thing for you to look at.  I've tried this, and it has given me a reason to not leave dishes soaking overnight, because who wants to start the day cleaning up yesterday's mess?  And with that looking nice, you do sometimes tend to be more willing to say "Okay, what can I start on today?" rather than "I like my bed, and I may just return to it."
     So, I get ready for each day.  It doesn't always start early, and I don't always get a whole lot done, but there is always something accomplished,, no matter how small.  Maybe this is what was seen by my teacher: if you are always doing something, everything gets done eventually.  Not immediately, but it will be covered.  Everytime you look at a clock, it's time for something new, and the more you can fill that internal schedule, the more likely you are to get something done quickly and say "I have time before A to work on B a little bit, and may come back to it tomorrow."
     So, maybe it makes sense after all.  I don't have to be afraid of taking on new things as long as their are hours available and I remember to make time for me.  And now, I'm about to be busy walking a dog.

My only exception

From Thursday evening...

            It’s hard to remember much of what’s been boinking around the insides of my head for the past two hours, but I am determined to write it down before I make dinner.  So here we go:

            Today, I called and apologized to my boss for not being forthcoming with what’s been going on with me lately.  Truly, it’s not his business, but I haven’t been myself and what’s worse is that I’ve been fudging the truth.  Much worse.  I’d rather be anything but a liar, so I explained to him why I’ve had to turn myself back right-side out.  See, it’s never been diagnosed or medicated, but I’ve battled depression before, and after recent unrest in our company which caused a handful of us to move in a different direction, I’ve found myself not moving much at all.  I’m not running away from anything, but neither am I running toward anything, and that really doesn’t help.  But my rationalization (and am I ever good at that when I want to be!) was that I wasn’t doing any damage this way, standing still, whereas moving the wrong way could actually make things worse. 

            Right.  Worse how?  What was I afraid of?  There was no deep water, I don’t have an issue with storms or spiders or the dark.  I’ve been through childbirth, tornadoes, severe back pain, abuse, copperheads, seizures and acne I can’t control.  Hmm.  But I wanted to be ‘safe’ from some unknown demon or other, which is what slowly let me know that the depression was beginning to control things again.  I told my manager originally that I was getting rid of all excuses for not diving in and beating this down, and I did see the bottom of my hamper for the first time in almost six months, but there was more to it than that.  I was so used to my best not being good enough that I wasn’t pushing like I knew I could anymore.  I was tired of the greed above me and refused to contribute to it.  I failed to remember in all of this that the only one I was really hurting was myself.  Michigan accounts were good income, but really?  How much more could I take of driving five hours before I even started working for the day?  And the physical exhaustion of choosing that to avoid the other made things worse. 

            Once again, I was getting too good at focusing on others and helping them, ignoring myself, and when I had to tackle my own projects again, I focused on one thing: a half a tank of gas.  I was ready to go out and do something simple for work and I felt compelled to go see how much money I had to buy gas with, even though I was pretty sure I knew.  And once I got inside, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the car.  It was paralyzing.  I can’t use that much gas, I told myself.  I went nowhere for several days… hence the high volume of laundry.  And my apology to my manager involved telling him that I should’ve trusted him when he said that things were going to end up okay, because they always had, and he had good plans.  He’d never failed me yet, and I should’ve trusted. 

            I should’ve trusted myself.

            I saw a post during one day of doing nada but computer crap.  It said that it was time get out of bed, dig in your heels and empty your cup of crap so that it could be filled with good things.  It had a prayer asking God to go ahead and do the good things that had been promised, because the time had come to stop denying that it could really happen.  

            That was it.  I looked down at the workout clothes I had slept in and got up, pulling on my running shoes.  Enough.  Physical activity will help, so help me, even if it kills me, and without even putting in contacts, I went to run.  I ran until it hurt and kept going.  I slowed to a walk out of sheer physical necessity and kept stumbling forward until I got to a cornfield.  It was unplowed yet, but under my feet were tiny corn shoots.  What the hell?

            Then I realized (once oxygen once again made it to my brain) that last year had seen a few cobs half eaten by raccoons that had floated along the swampy, flooded field, and that some of them had done what farmers call ‘going to seed’.  They were defiantly poking their heads up, and didn’t care that the forthcoming plow was going to obliterate them.  This was their day in the sun, damn it.  And maybe I needed to be more like those seedlings.

            No.  I need to be more like the field.  Oh, hell no. 

            There have been enough things that have happened to me in my short life so far that being willing to lie still and wait for the plow isn’t a strong suit of mine.  I want action, but if I depend only on the remnants of last year’s throwaways, I won’t have enough to sustain anyone except the raccoons that left the half eaten cobs in the first place.  As I began running again, I could feel the strength the earth under my feet had, pulsing like a wild animal.  At once I both craved it and shunned it.  The earth has energy, and it’s out there for the taking, as long as a person is ready to channel it properly.  The universe is generous, but only if you are an open and willing recipient… the cup has to be empty to be filled with good things.  You have to trust that those you have never failed you will not fail you now, and that you are strong enough to handle anything, and I mean anything, that is given to you.  Because, you see, I have never doubted that I was competent to handle the crap flung at me by the other monkeys.  Bring it on.  I am Sisyphus, mighty enough to roll a giant boulder to the top of a hill.  I’ve got the push and rest and shove down pat.  But suddenly as I slowed to a walk again, feeling my racing heart trying to beat its way out my temples, I wondered if he let it roll back down on purpose each time.  What if you have no idea how to handle the good because you have handled so much bad that you don’t know any other way?  My mind screams ‘selfish!’ when I dare to think of something for myself now that I am healed from some of the things I’ve recently brought myself through.  Is it wrong to keep taking the good things that are given freely? 

            So after a shower and two bottles of Gatorade, I sit and decide on an answer.  I must be the field.  The energy I need to succeed is out there and I can feel it, sometimes literally, but I have refused it, not wanting to throw myself into that river.  But what I do is a good thing, of that I have no doubt, and therefore sharing it is also a good thing.  I might make it at this.

            Really?

         I was paralyzed because I figured if I went nowhere, it was to be expected.  There was nothing supporting me, except me.  Who can do that?  Well, we shall see.  Because the far more frightening prospect is true success.  If failure is entirely my fault, then so is knocking it out of the park.  Does that mean that more will be expected of me from then on?  Damn skippy it does, and maybe that is the real problem.  The lingering ghost of the man who thought my best was never good enough had come to hover over my head, telling me that even if I did better than I’d ever done before, someone was going to ask me to juggle another ball with the ones already in the air. 

            But if the one doing the asking is me… I can stop asking when it’s enough.  I can receive the gifts that are out there, because I’m NOT the selfish one, and I can give the extra to those I choose to help, like I do now.  I can do this.  And by ‘this’, I don’t mean be awesome, I mean actually allow the awesomeness to flow through me.   I’m ready for the plow.  Usually I’m reluctant to let anything or anyone use me, but this is different.  This time, it’s the only way.  So I pick one foot up, and put it down, something to stand on as I lift the other foot.  Not running away, or toward anything.  Just running, and letting the road unfold beneath me.  For once, the exception has become the rule, the I will keep pace and trust that the earth beneath my feet knows where I’m supposed to go.   

             Because it does. 

Guardian Angel

So, yesterday was a hell of a birthday, in many ways, and I got to spend it with two of my favorite people: my precious daughter and the man I love. Due to the vast improvement the weather experienced over recent past weeks, frisbee lasted four hours and I was actually footsore. That's rare... but as Jason pointed out, there was a lot of birthday left after that. Cake, singing, presents, lots of Mongolian barbecue and a movie... if you've not seen Frozen yet, I highly recommend it even to adults.

                Now, we were celebrating about an hour from home, so when we left I kept the radio down so Roo could sleep on the way home... the problem was, though I've not had it as a problem for a while, I was having a horrible time staying awake while driving. Slapping myself until my face burned, shaking my head, finally just chanting over and over to myself: please, let me stay awake for her, don't let my fatigue hurt her, please, for her, for her...

                Route 59 turned into 55 south and I considered calling someone, but I couldn't think of anyone who I was positive would be up and didn't need the sleep if they were already getting it. 12:30. I can do this. I'm on 80 now and slapped myself so hard the sound alone nearly woke Becca. Just let us get home safe. Move your legs around, focus on the words to the songs since they are so quiet... would total silence be better? No. Easter comes early and Becca needs the sleep on the way home, but I have to drive, so I drank no caffeine because I did actually want to participate in the sleep part once I got into my own bed.

                Finally, my patience ran out about ten miles from home on route 6. A guy on a Harley was riding in the far right side of the lane in front of me. I love sharing the road with bikers and I do my best to keep them safe, but I was tired and scared and just wanted him gone. I wanted him at the very least to get into the middle of the lane so I could see him better. No such luck. In fact, this moron was waving an arm like he was motioning me to move right. What the hell, dude? Are you trying to end me up in the ditch? I hung back, trying to stay awake and really wanted him to drive properly. Motion over. Slow down. Speed back up, motion right again. Is he drunk?

                Suddenly, the biker swerves way left, and comes to a dead stop sideways. Terrified I'm too late, I crank the wheel right and see a bright light... followed by a horn blaring at me. I was wide awake now, and pulled over to the right shoulder. My exhausted brain registered several facts:

                The bright light had been headlights, and I was nowhere near the ditch. The horn was from the driver I'd drifted in front of in the opposite lane. If I hadn't shifted right, I'd quite possibly have hit him head on with at least the driver side of my car. Also, the biker had disappeared, flat out. He was gone. Shaken, I pulled out into the road again and began making the mile or two drive the rest of the way home. Had I been completely asleep?

                Wait a damn minute. There was the biker again. Same bike, same guy, middle of the lane now, matching my speed, escorting me all the way to the easy to miss driveway for our apartment complex. As I arrived, he slowed and turned, and though it was pitch dark, I saw his face. Familiar, yet someone I never got to meet. I heard a voice in my head like an older version of someone I know quite well: Keep her safe. I blink, he gives a half wave and literally vanishes.

                So, as I go to bed tonight, as the rattled night before and what will be many after, I speak a prayer of thanks to the guardian angel I wish I could thank in person. You saved my daughter's life, Richie. And nothing could be a better birthday present than that. I owe you much. But somehow, I get the feeling you're already calling it even.

Blowing in the wind

            How many times, the song asks, must a man look up before they call him a man?  I've never really understood what they were talking about until today.  They want the man to think himself less and look up to another person for permission to feel like a human again.

            Everything we do, in the eyes of some people, is watched and measured and scrutinized until we can hear the gears grinding in the mind of our tormentor.  This person could be a family member, boss, supposed friend, coworker, etc.  Either way, they are a generally selfish person and want to look good no matter how we look or feel.  Perhaps it is desperation which causes them to act this way.  Maybe they are falling and we are rising, and they want to salvage what they have by making us look bad... or perhaps they want to ride our coat-tails, or take credit for the efforts of others so their own demons will leave them alone for the day.  So, the tormentor gathers the data and finds something to complain about, and we wonder: how many days do we have to beat ourselves up over this?

            We do well at X, they complain we have not been doing Y.  Okay, we spend a whole day, at their request, doing Y.  Good, right?  No, now you aren't doing enough Z, and you aren't allowed to do X... which was a task, but is now being billed as a privilege.  My head is spinning, and believe me, when you add in the proper words for what's going on instead of letters, it doesn't make any more sense than that. 

            Who am I, and who do I work for? 

            Only I can decide the answer to this question.  I know who I am, and I am no longer a person who will work until I drop.  I cannot make myself sick, nor can I constantly apologize for having human limitations.  I have evaluated what I do and what its true worth is.  And I work for myself and those I love.  If Becca needs me, I am there.  I make money to keep her safe and well and fed, to keep me fed and healthy and sane, to give me enough gas to play frisbee and travel for the work I do and to transport Becca.  Period.  I am no longer going to pretend that I am doing this for anything other than those reasons. 

            I don't need to look up anymore, because I am seeing the tormentor eye to eye now, seeing the spade for the spade they truly are.  Take a deep breath, spade, because I'm about to knock the wind out of you, and not apologize for it.  You can have me on your team, helping you, fighting beside you, working toward a common goal and making a sizeable dent in the problem at hand.  Or, you can treat me this way, and watch me and all of my skills walk away from you.  I'm not afraid of you... or failure.  Because I've done just enough to learn that I can make it on my own. 

            How many times?  Just this one last time.

Who am I kidding?

She just sang in the concert I mention here...

            Driving home with Becca today, I was thinking about how I miss spending time with her when she’s at her Dad’s house and wondered if there was still any influence of mine on her.  She’d just gotten her report card, and though she is doing very well and is even reading above grade level much like I was at her age, some of that is genetic, and sometimes I still wonder if enough Williams is getting into this Lynch. 

            So, I turn out onto the main highway and as I go to turn on the CD player, Becca asks if, instead of listening to the radio, we could practice the songs she has to learn for her choir concert on the seventeenth of March.  I paused.  Sure, why not?  She hands me a piece of green paper with the words to four songs typed on it.  I inform her that she’s going to have to sing them to me.  One, I don’t have the notes on this piece of paper.  And two, if it’s dangerous to text while driving, it’s probably equally hazardous to try to learn the lyrics to “Boris, the Singing Bear” by reading them while driving up I55 at about sixty five miles an hour when it’s windy… you get the idea. 

            This seems logical to her, fortunately, so she begins singing about the bear, whose absence is noticed in the animal chorus during his hibernation season.  Cute, all five or so verses of it.  We try again, and slowly I learn the song by rote, the best way I know how to learn a song.  Then, she jumps to another song.  Fiddle-dee-dee, apparently, a fly married a bumblebee.  Lovely.  Also a cute song.  She keeps changing keys as she sings, and I am left wondering if the song is like that, or if it’s set in the wrong key for her and she’s trying to find a comfortable one to sing in.  I remind her we need to sing the first one again a few more times as this is the first time I’m hearing them and I don’t have it down quite yet. 

            As the long miles pass, we sing together, learning that song and another about the happiest street in the world, and how it’s never far away when you need it.  I lose the urge to switch to the CD.  I am taken back to the days of short but sort of long car trips in my childhood when my family would sing to pass the time.  Because that’s what we were; a family of singers.  A Williams learns to sing before they learn to talk, and this little girl is not shy about it.  When told to sing out, or slow down, or redo a line, she immediately does.  In fact, she even learned a song I began singing which I’ve always called “Whither Shall I Follow”, which is a round (a canon, in musical terms).  Much prettier than “Three Blind Mice”, and she was ecstatic when she could finally sing her part without my help AND against my singing the same thing at a different time… And then we got to the final song on the green missive from the music teacher. 

            It sounded familiar.  “I know a tropical island where the mango moon and banana sun shine, and on this tropical island there lives a cousin of mine.  Sometimes he lives in the water, sometimes he lives on the land…”  Wait a minute.  Go back to early science lessons for a moment.  What lives both on land and in water?  An amphibian. 

            Does anyone else hear “Caribbean Amphibian” and see Kermit singing with a couple geckos on Sesame Street in their head?  This is not a new song.  And I am singing at the top of my lungs now, in my best imitation of a Jamaican accent, and she is laughing and singing along.  We sing all four songs, especially that one, all the way home for a two hour drive.  At dinner, her first non-song words are “Mama, I love you.  Daddy didn’t know the songs like you did.  I’m glad you sang with me.  Can we sing them on the train tomorrow for Jason?” 

            Yes, world.  She may live the first twelve out of every fourteen days with someone else, but this little child is MY daughter.  Descendant of the Welsh who, legend says, drown the babies who can’t sing.  There can be no mistake.  And I have never been more proud of her.  And yes, sweet Roo, I will happily sing about a frog in a coconut tree on the green line tomorrow… if it makes you smile.  Crazier things have happened in downtown Chicago, and they’ll get over it long before I forget the look on your face as you fall asleep humming tonight.