I have decided to reread this book. I read it the first time about 2007 or so, and remember being very inspired, but I did not actively put the book to practice as it so clearly recommends. Nonetheless I found my life improved by it. Maybe not drastically so, but improved.
Now I want to try again. As the book recommends, I am reading each chapter twice. I hope I have the perseverance to finish this way of reading it. I have a tendency to let things go, and not in a good way!
The first task I am working on is to not criticize people. This is a hard one for me. Although I am a kind and friendly person, I criticize people all the time. Not to their faces, of course (...cuz I am kind and friendly, remember? I just said that, geez, get it together!) but in my head. It's pretty constant, too. Depending on my environment, it's a cacophony of seething, relentless, spiteful and degrading commentary. "You're such a brand snob," "You're not really working, you are just on FB," "No one cares about that band," "You don't like that style of pants because you have no ass," "Wow, you really are not that intelligent."
Yeah. It's bad. I have my work cut out for me. See the things is, although Dale Carnegie talks about verbal criticism, (and I do this as well, but not nearly as often) it's clear to me that ANY type of criticism is toxic, and my ability to develop sincere appreciation for the people I come into contact with (which is the next chapter of the book) is severely hampered when I am constantly criticizing them in my head.
Why do I do this? Why does anyone? Do we really pay attention to our inner dialogue, do we ask ourselves where that inclination, that habit of judging really comes from? Do you look at people, strangers and friends, and judge them all the time, or do you compare yourself to them and find yourself lacking? I am working on finding the root of my own tendency to do this, and in the meantime, I am going to practice eradicating criticism from my heart, mind and from my dialogue. I will let you know how it goes.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Wednesday, September 03, 2014
Laterblog: Torture of Smell
To the right of me, a woman eats delicious smelling pastries filled with gluten. My mouth waters. I long for the feel of moist (yes I said it), flavorful muffins and toasted bagels with cream cheese.
To my left, a man who keeps stepping out for a smoke.
These are my smells for duration of this conference. Stale cigarette smoke on a man's hands and clothes, and fresh pastries. This is a new form of torture.
I used to eat pastries and smoke cigarettes with the abandon of a teenager. Heck, I was a teenager for some of the time.
Now, in my 30s, both are forbidden to me, and one is stinky and gross and the other smells like heaven.
Sigh.
When will this conference be over?
To my left, a man who keeps stepping out for a smoke.
These are my smells for duration of this conference. Stale cigarette smoke on a man's hands and clothes, and fresh pastries. This is a new form of torture.
I used to eat pastries and smoke cigarettes with the abandon of a teenager. Heck, I was a teenager for some of the time.
Now, in my 30s, both are forbidden to me, and one is stinky and gross and the other smells like heaven.
Sigh.
When will this conference be over?
Things I find interesting
I lived in Minnesota for 18 years. I have now lived in Chicagoland for 18 years. Interesting!
During my time here, several people I know have moved from Chicago to Minnesota. Interesting!
Many of these people have, at one time or another, been a decently good friend of mine, but at the time of their move, the friendship had drifted (amicably) apart. Interesting!
Every once in awhile, I go home to Minnesota to visit family. Not so interesting. When I do, these people come out of the woodwork. "Let's hang out for old time sake!! It will be soo fun!!"
I have to say no, because my very short calendar is already full with family events, and speedy catch-ups with childhood friends. I think in my mind, "Too bad, that would have been fun!" I even feel a little guilty. One of these friends in particular tries really hard to make me feel guilty and sad for saying no to her.
Then, inevitably, some period of time later, I see on Facebook that they have been visiting Chicago. Having all sorts of fun. Hanging out with friends, visiting family. I have not been asked by them to hang out. (Their calendar is full!) But why then, do they work so hard to make me feel guilty for doing the exact same thing when I come home?
Hmmmm. Human nature. The nature of lack of perspective. The nature of forgetting. The nature of self-centeredness. The nature of humans. Interesting.
During my time here, several people I know have moved from Chicago to Minnesota. Interesting!
Many of these people have, at one time or another, been a decently good friend of mine, but at the time of their move, the friendship had drifted (amicably) apart. Interesting!
Every once in awhile, I go home to Minnesota to visit family. Not so interesting. When I do, these people come out of the woodwork. "Let's hang out for old time sake!! It will be soo fun!!"
I have to say no, because my very short calendar is already full with family events, and speedy catch-ups with childhood friends. I think in my mind, "Too bad, that would have been fun!" I even feel a little guilty. One of these friends in particular tries really hard to make me feel guilty and sad for saying no to her.
Then, inevitably, some period of time later, I see on Facebook that they have been visiting Chicago. Having all sorts of fun. Hanging out with friends, visiting family. I have not been asked by them to hang out. (Their calendar is full!) But why then, do they work so hard to make me feel guilty for doing the exact same thing when I come home?
Hmmmm. Human nature. The nature of lack of perspective. The nature of forgetting. The nature of self-centeredness. The nature of humans. Interesting.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Already halfway?
It's been a busy year, dear interwebs.
I have a new job. I have a new pair of sunglasses. I have a new perspective. I also have coffee breath.
Which is funny because I don't drink coffee.
I have a new job. I have a new pair of sunglasses. I have a new perspective. I also have coffee breath.
Which is funny because I don't drink coffee.
Chomp Chomp!
I have a co-worker who chews with aplomb. Because I love my job, and I
like the people sitting in the general direction from which this noise erupts, instead of frustration or irritation, I merely find the loud chomp chomps mildly amusing. On a day like today, after a week with little sleep, a trying train commute that involved lengthy delays, and a canceled fun weekend hanging with a friend, I am on the verge of slaphappy belly laughter. Make me laugh...it will feel like the release this body needs. More than crying, I want to laugh.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Sing like no one is listening
As I sit outside the practice room listening to the lesson going on inside, I wonder what others will think when it's my turn, when I am the nameless, faceless voice on the other side of the door.
She sounds like an angel as she aahhhhs and alleluhas her way to the heavens, a true operatic professional. When I first came here about 10 months ago, I was terribly dismayed by the lack of sound proofing in this place. You can hear everything! I thought. What if someone hears me and hates it? The realization that I wouldn't have to see their faces out here in this hallway as I belted and cracked inside was a little comfort at least. But then again why am I even here? Certainly not to become some amazing singer who'd one day undoubtedly have a top selling album. I am here to fight my demons. Moments from now, I will enter that room to battle fear of judgment, I will battle the fear of failure and I will battle myself, my own cruelest judge and worst enemy. I come here to get stronger. I come here to remind myself that life is too short to get bogged down by being worried or scared that someone will realize or assume I'm flawed, or not good enough. The truth is, I am flawed, and at many things, I am not good enough. But that is no reason not to try and certainly no reason not to be happy doing things that bring me joy, like singing.
She sounds like an angel as she aahhhhs and alleluhas her way to the heavens, a true operatic professional. When I first came here about 10 months ago, I was terribly dismayed by the lack of sound proofing in this place. You can hear everything! I thought. What if someone hears me and hates it? The realization that I wouldn't have to see their faces out here in this hallway as I belted and cracked inside was a little comfort at least. But then again why am I even here? Certainly not to become some amazing singer who'd one day undoubtedly have a top selling album. I am here to fight my demons. Moments from now, I will enter that room to battle fear of judgment, I will battle the fear of failure and I will battle myself, my own cruelest judge and worst enemy. I come here to get stronger. I come here to remind myself that life is too short to get bogged down by being worried or scared that someone will realize or assume I'm flawed, or not good enough. The truth is, I am flawed, and at many things, I am not good enough. But that is no reason not to try and certainly no reason not to be happy doing things that bring me joy, like singing.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Ode to Monica, or, Why I am happy to be cycling again
It's interesting, isn't it, how the things you remember from childhood sear the insides of your brain well into adulthood, but when spoken aloud to a friend or stranger, those things never sound as dramatic as they felt at the time? As you try to convey your past trauma to a listening ear, you wonder why their faces don't reflect the horror of your story, so to elicit a stronger reaction you begin to use more and more drastic descriptors, until you realize that the story you are telling no longer in any way reflects reality, or truth, but you soldier on because what is important is that the person you are telling your story to realizes that YOU HAVE SUFFERED.
That is how it generally goes with my childhood stories of woe, especially the one about the time I failed to learn how to ride a bike until the ripe old age of 8, or was it 9? All drama aside, my brand new adopted family thought it was very strange that I did not know how to ride a bicycle. Though the details of how I actually learned to ride are hazy, I remember a couple of key points. One, I was significantly older than my twin was when he learned, and two, I learned that MOST children learn at the age of 6, so clearly I was well behind the curve. That said, my parents set out to teach me with determination.
Learn I did, and thankful I was, when that yellow and red banana bike carried me solidly down the block and back again without the aid of training wheels or Dad's arms pushing me along. I could now be just like everyone else. When, at some short time later, I was given the lovely yet used 3-speed bicycle as my very own, I was pleased and honored. I was shown how to adjust the speeds and sent on my merry way for an inaugural ride around the block.
Pedaling was hard, though. I pressed down with my legs and still did not move very fast or go very far. I lived on one of those blocks that no matter which direction around it you biked you would have to go uphill at least once, and that first trip around was really exhausting. Different, I remembered, from the banana bike I learned to ride on. I actually stopped to catch my breath several times when I was on the other side of the block, but not before glancing around in fear. If my brothers saw me I would not hear the end of it. When I came around the corner and insight of the family again, I pushed on, with every muscle in my legs straining, and I was determined to not let them see me struggle.
I suspected there was something wrong with my bike, and I said as much to my parents but I was dismissed immediately. "She's just unused to riding, is all," they said.
We went out on a family bike ride and the whole time I struggled and puffed and pushed and still could not keep up with them. I felt humiliated and ashamed and unfit. I think I may have suggested again that there was something wrong with my bike, but I was dismissed and ignored. It got so I did not want to ride any more. I was told that I was lazy and the general consensus seemed to be that there was something wrong with me since I did not like to go outside and play and ride like everyone else in the family.
Finally, a couple of years later, someone else tried riding my bike and realized that it was broken. Had been broken the whole time.
Then, for my 12th birthday, I got a brand new red 10-speed, I jumped on it with glee and instantly became the world's most avid cyclist. I went everywhere, fast, and I loved it. I became defined by my bicycle. We went on a 50-mile bike trip once, and I was so proud. She came with me to college and we spent many a lovely year together, that is, until some thieves decided to have their way with her. They were not successful in stealing her because they couldn't bust the lock, but they vandalized and tore her apart. I was devastated. For graduation later that year, my parents kindly donated my Mom's old bike. I never told them this, but I refused to ride her at first. I was too loyal to my red beauty, though she'd been months in the grave.
But soon pride turned into acceptance, and need pushed me back on the bike seat. I was again biking everywhere. Fast. It got so I was biking downtown CHICAGO to and from my job at the restaurant. Even on Saturday nights when the drunks were out. Now that I am typing this, I realize what happened next was bound to happen. I lost my fear. I became comfortable. Then I was hit by a car while biking. Luckily for me it was not serious. A big bunch of bruises and a bent bike frame is what happened. I think the young lady and mother who caused the accident probably ended up suffering PTSD given how traumatized they seemed after it happened. I guess I would be too if I were behind the wheel of something that essentially is also a murder weapon. But gosh, all this was in 2002 or 3. It's literally been that long since I have owned a working bike.
Certain things kept me from moving forward, from buying a bike. Sometimes it was money, sometimes seasons, timing....but mostly I think it was fear. Not the fear of dying or something like that, but fear that I would find something had changed, been lost. You see, for me, biking, being able to ride, is like my own personal victory from childhood. It was the shame I overcame in order to learn to ride at a "late" age, it was the validation and vindication I received when it was realized that I was not too weak or lazy to ride, that my bike was simply broken. It was my escape and it was the part of my identity that taught me I had more ability and capacity than I thought I had. And in adulthood, it still stood for freedom..being able to ride.
So I guess I was afraid of having lost myself, ironically, by not moving forward, buying a bike, I did lose myself. But now, I am found again.
Monica is my beautiful, used, Trek road bike. She goes with me places. She let's me fly again! I am so grateful to have her in my life. We came together late summer/early fall of 2013, when I began to write this post. I had to give her a winter hibernation, but today was our first 2014 trip together and it was lovely. Tomorrow I think I will bike to the forest. I am so happy.
That is how it generally goes with my childhood stories of woe, especially the one about the time I failed to learn how to ride a bike until the ripe old age of 8, or was it 9? All drama aside, my brand new adopted family thought it was very strange that I did not know how to ride a bicycle. Though the details of how I actually learned to ride are hazy, I remember a couple of key points. One, I was significantly older than my twin was when he learned, and two, I learned that MOST children learn at the age of 6, so clearly I was well behind the curve. That said, my parents set out to teach me with determination.
Learn I did, and thankful I was, when that yellow and red banana bike carried me solidly down the block and back again without the aid of training wheels or Dad's arms pushing me along. I could now be just like everyone else. When, at some short time later, I was given the lovely yet used 3-speed bicycle as my very own, I was pleased and honored. I was shown how to adjust the speeds and sent on my merry way for an inaugural ride around the block.
Pedaling was hard, though. I pressed down with my legs and still did not move very fast or go very far. I lived on one of those blocks that no matter which direction around it you biked you would have to go uphill at least once, and that first trip around was really exhausting. Different, I remembered, from the banana bike I learned to ride on. I actually stopped to catch my breath several times when I was on the other side of the block, but not before glancing around in fear. If my brothers saw me I would not hear the end of it. When I came around the corner and insight of the family again, I pushed on, with every muscle in my legs straining, and I was determined to not let them see me struggle.
I suspected there was something wrong with my bike, and I said as much to my parents but I was dismissed immediately. "She's just unused to riding, is all," they said.
We went out on a family bike ride and the whole time I struggled and puffed and pushed and still could not keep up with them. I felt humiliated and ashamed and unfit. I think I may have suggested again that there was something wrong with my bike, but I was dismissed and ignored. It got so I did not want to ride any more. I was told that I was lazy and the general consensus seemed to be that there was something wrong with me since I did not like to go outside and play and ride like everyone else in the family.
Finally, a couple of years later, someone else tried riding my bike and realized that it was broken. Had been broken the whole time.
Then, for my 12th birthday, I got a brand new red 10-speed, I jumped on it with glee and instantly became the world's most avid cyclist. I went everywhere, fast, and I loved it. I became defined by my bicycle. We went on a 50-mile bike trip once, and I was so proud. She came with me to college and we spent many a lovely year together, that is, until some thieves decided to have their way with her. They were not successful in stealing her because they couldn't bust the lock, but they vandalized and tore her apart. I was devastated. For graduation later that year, my parents kindly donated my Mom's old bike. I never told them this, but I refused to ride her at first. I was too loyal to my red beauty, though she'd been months in the grave.
But soon pride turned into acceptance, and need pushed me back on the bike seat. I was again biking everywhere. Fast. It got so I was biking downtown CHICAGO to and from my job at the restaurant. Even on Saturday nights when the drunks were out. Now that I am typing this, I realize what happened next was bound to happen. I lost my fear. I became comfortable. Then I was hit by a car while biking. Luckily for me it was not serious. A big bunch of bruises and a bent bike frame is what happened. I think the young lady and mother who caused the accident probably ended up suffering PTSD given how traumatized they seemed after it happened. I guess I would be too if I were behind the wheel of something that essentially is also a murder weapon. But gosh, all this was in 2002 or 3. It's literally been that long since I have owned a working bike.
Certain things kept me from moving forward, from buying a bike. Sometimes it was money, sometimes seasons, timing....but mostly I think it was fear. Not the fear of dying or something like that, but fear that I would find something had changed, been lost. You see, for me, biking, being able to ride, is like my own personal victory from childhood. It was the shame I overcame in order to learn to ride at a "late" age, it was the validation and vindication I received when it was realized that I was not too weak or lazy to ride, that my bike was simply broken. It was my escape and it was the part of my identity that taught me I had more ability and capacity than I thought I had. And in adulthood, it still stood for freedom..being able to ride.
So I guess I was afraid of having lost myself, ironically, by not moving forward, buying a bike, I did lose myself. But now, I am found again.
Monica is my beautiful, used, Trek road bike. She goes with me places. She let's me fly again! I am so grateful to have her in my life. We came together late summer/early fall of 2013, when I began to write this post. I had to give her a winter hibernation, but today was our first 2014 trip together and it was lovely. Tomorrow I think I will bike to the forest. I am so happy.
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