Who's In Charge?

Boss, chairperson of an organization, head of household, committee president; these are all positions of authority.  They direct or delegate, make the unpopular decisions and have the "big picture."
They're in charge.

Being in charge definitely has its advantages.  Deciding on vision, direction and goals, and being the delegator, rather than the "delegatee" are just a few of them.  The Big Cheese gets the first compliments when things go well.

That said, within any hierarchical group I've belonged to, there's often a measure of grumbling that So-and-So isn't doing his/her job.  S/he's inept.  Doesn't follow directions.  Tries to tell others what to do, instead of doing his/her job.  (As I say at our house, "Don't be like Henry Ford, who had a better idea.")

At which point, the boss/chair/HoH/president has a choice.
Either, make it clear the underling in question has no moral authority to weigh in on anything and should be ignored, or find out why they do what they do...and bring them around.

All this really isn't important, until suddenly it is.
Anyone who's witnessed an older sibling babysitting a younger sibling has seen this.
The Number One question is:
"Why should I listen to YOU?"
("Because Mom/Dad said so" never is an acceptable answer!)

I suspect this happens because the younger child, being nobody's fool, observes the older child being disciplined, hears the parent(s) grumble about the older child's behavior and remembers these instances, either as "Note to self, don't do that" or as "moral ammunition" to use later.

Now "the boss" is in a tough spot.  Having eliminated all comers to the position of authority, there's no one left to take the reins in an emergency, or, in the case of an organization, to take up the torch.

When I was in graduate school, I was at odds with my initial advisor, as well as with the program in general (great program, bad fit).  But...I also remembered I needed letters of recommendation for an internship and possibly for my first job.  At that time, it didn't make sense to burn bridges or sacrifice good will from the faculty.  I was the "underling" looking up, but in a similar way, if I'd let the people  whose recommendations I needed know they didn't have moral authority to weigh in on my ability...I would have been outta luck.

If this sounds a little calculating, it needn't.  In fact, I believe this used to be called good manners!  I tell the children if they want to create a "cult of personality", where they, and only they, can be in charge, that's fine.  But, if their family/business/class project needs to tootle along in their absence, it's wiser (kinder, and better leadership!) to grumble in private and lift up a replacement or three as they go.

That way, there'll always be a good, clear answer to "Who's in charge?"

The Missing Link

"The missing link" is a common phrase evolutionists use to explain gaps in the fossil record.  Here is fossil A and here is fossil C.  They have some similar characteristics, but it looks like there should be a transitional fossil B in between them.  It's difficult to see how A could lead to C without the existence of B.  Therefore, the reasoning goes. B must exist somewhere.  It simply hasn't been discovered yet.

I was contemplating my lack of overt, worldly "success" this week.  No national or Olympic sports career, no home-based-business fancy car, no publishing contract, no weekly paycheck even.  And then...I thought of Mary.

Mary, mother of Jesus.  Don't worry, this is historical, not spiritual. 

There's not much recorded about Mary, and nothing about her ancestors.  They're lost in the mists of time. So are mine, if I go back a thousand or so years.  They definitely existed, or I wouldn't be here.  In fact, each one of them had to exist. 

Along the way, as with Mary's ancestors, it's statistically likely there were some unhappy relationships, some bad decisions, some "failures", and definitely no knowledge of who this particular 21st-century descendent would be.

Mary hit the world stage big time, with everything in her background working toward that moment.  Remove any "link" from that chain, and she wouldn't have existed. 
Just like me.  Or my children. 

Maybe my life will be a culmination of some sort (hey, it's never too late, right?) or, more likely,  I'm "just"a necessary link, either genetically, to a great-great-great grand, or through love and influence.  There's more than one way to participate in destiny!

From that perspective, everyone's a necessary link in at least one chain.  "Success" doesn't make any link more important or necessary than any other.  I hope the children understand they don't have to be the "best" or "brightest" to participate in something great, and that their lives are not in vain, no matter where circumstances lead them.  They're precious, valuable links in a thousands-year-old chain.  Pretty cool, when you stop to think about it.

The Precarious Nature Of "Want to"

Being considered a kind, thoughtful, compassionate person is a good thing.  I imagine a few people don't want themselves described that way, but it seems likely that at least fifty-one percent of folks wouldn't object.

I've heard the whine of toddlers and teens, "But I don't WAAAAANT to" often enough to think there may have been a flaw in my childrearing practices.  Instead of asking "Do you want your sweater or your sweatshirt?" (and hearing, "I don't want either one") I should have asked, "Will you wear your sweater or your sweatshirt?"

Now, the "neither" option has come home to roost, and the desire to do something seems to be a necessary prerequisite for actually doing anything:  Practicing music...putting away laundry...writing a thank-you note...trying to gin up a warm, fuzzy feeling for any of those is slow going.  But, they still need to be done.

In fact, true kindness and compassion are facets of self-discipline, and antitheses of emotion-driven behavior.  It's not necessary to delight in writing a thank-you note in order to do it.  Ever.
Internalized kindness and compassion simply respond to the need in front of them, without pausing to ask "Do I really want to?"

Feeling inspired toward acts of kindness and actually being a kind person seem to be slightly different animals.  I'm not sure one can say, "I'm a kind person," any more than one can say "I've been a blessing to Susie." (Would Susie agree?)  There's a calculated-ness to that statement, the impression of impression-management.  True kindness and compassion simply respond to the need in front of them, without pausing to ask "Do I really want to?"

The precarious nature of "Want to" is that it's impossible to be consistent, day in and day out, based on emotion.  Sooner or later, the streak has to end, leaving confusion in its wake.
"You've changed."  "You're not the person I thought you were."
A compassionate person IS compassionate.  A person who wants to appear compassionate can't keep it up forever.

I hope my children will see the value of "be" over "want to."

The Little Tree and The Long Good-Bye

I anthropomorphize things.  Drooping houseplants (“Don’t worry, little plant, help is on the way!”), ornaments in need of new thread loops for hanging (“Don’t worry, little ornament, help is on the way!”), the children’s stuffed animals, especially Baby Star, who still occupies my son’s pillow, but no longer occupies his heart (“Baby Star, how did you come unwrapped?”).  If I accidentally see a copy of “The Velveteen Rabbit,” I start tearing up.  The children have heard the story, just not from me.  I know it ends well, but that bit in the middle…

Years ago, in a collection of children’s Christmas stories, I read "The Fir Tree" by Hans Christian Andersen.   It recounts an old-fashioned Christmas celebration,  from the tree’s perspective.  The trip from the woods, the bright ornaments and candles, the dancing children, then the attic, the woodpile and finally, the bonfire.  I was distressed enough to skip over that story ever since.  I also feel a tiny bit sorry for the post-Christmas trees I see at the curb.

My maternal grandparents had live Christmas trees while I was growing up, although I mostly “remember” this from pictures.  When I was in early high school, my grandfather began his slide into increasingly poor health.  Eventually, he was completely bedridden and barely functional for several years.  It must have been around that time my grandmother purchased a little artificial tree.  It had a sturdy metal base, a beautiful triangular shape with a righteous spread at the bottom (this was way before slim-line trees), and it sat on top of the atlas rack.  Festooned with tinsel, colored lights and ornaments, this little tree was a constant at Christmas, no matter who gathered around it.

My grandfather passed away the year I graduated from college.  Grandma stayed in their house another twelve years, but the time finally came for the household to be broken up and Grandma moved to a nursing home.  The little tree went with her, or at least was put up in her room at Christmas. 

When Grandma passed away in 2003, the little tree worked its way to our house, where I made it my “skater tree” and gave it pride of place near our big Christmas tree.  A few bits of Grandma's tinsel still clung to the branches, wound tight by time, and the colored lights still glowed.  It was a bit awkward to place, with the wide spread, but we made it work. 

"The skater tree"

Years went by.  As the bottom branches drooped ever more alarmingly, we stopped trying to fold them up, and simply drew up a large trash-bag over the tree for storage.  Then, the wires in a few branches broke, so they would not support ornaments at all.  “I’ll get you another tree after Christmas,” my husband said.
“Not yet,” I said.  “Maybe in another year.”

This past spring, I found another three-foot Christmas tree at our church rummage sale.  The lights seemed to work, so I took it home, also in a black trash bag.  This new little tree obviously had some history, although I didn’t know what it was, but I was happy to give it another chance.

We pulled the Christmas things out of the Christmas closet this past week.  I brought the new tree up from the basement.  I took Grandma’s tree out of its bag and fluffed it into shape, but on the floor this time.  It wasn’t going up on the table this year.  I sat on the floor and turned the tree around slowly, searching for those last strands of tinsel, placed there by Grandma so many years ago.  I unwound them all and laid them on a pillow.  Then, I took off the lights and coiled them up,  marveling that they still work.  I unscrewed the sturdy metal base, hoping it would fit the new tree.  It didn’t, so I put it back in the Christmas closet.  I put the now-bare tree back in its trash bag.  With the base gone, I could tie the top mostly shut.  I set the bag inside the back door, waiting for someone to bring the trash bin back up from the end of the long driveway.  Once…twice…the fourth time I walked past the bag, I picked it up and brought it back in the living room. 

“Here,” I said.  “You can watch and see it will be ok.”  I probably was reassuring myself.  I carefully wound the dozen or so pieces of tinsel into the new tree, set it on the table and plugged it in.

As it turned out, only half the lights on the new tree worked.  And, they were white lights. 

“Would it be easier for me to just take all the lights off and put the colored string on, rather than replace all those bulbs?”  My husband shrugged.  “It’s going to be hard to get those wires off.”  (Pro tip:  Don’t try to unwire a pre-lit tree.  It’s extraordinarily hard on the thumbs.)

I did get the white lights off, eventually.  I wound Grandma’s colored lights into the tree. 
“There,” I said.  “You see?  It will be ok.”

Three days remained until trash day.  To their credit, neither of the children questioned the big black bag propped up on the sofa, even after the new tree was all decorated with skater ornaments.  I had finally settled on a plan:  I would take the almost-empty trash bin back down to the end of the driveway the night before.  Then, on trash day, I would wait as long as I dared before carrying out Grandma’s tree and placing it in the bin, with enough room to keep it upright and close the lid. 

The night before trash day, I had an idea. 
“Wait!  Watch this!”  I reached into the tied-off bag and wiggled off the very top section of the tree, the section containing the absurdly long “angel-impaler” branch and three smaller branches.  I tucked the little section into the back of the new tree.
“Look, part of you will stay here with us.”

This morning, I carried the bag with Grandma’s tree down to the trash bin.  Almost forty years of presiding over Christmas has come to an end.  I’ve drawn the front curtains, so I don’t have to see the truck come and go.

I wonder why it’s so difficult to let go of some things.  Maybe it’s the memories they conjure up, and the fear that, without those physical object as reminders, those memories may disappear.  I don’t know.  I do know this long good-bye to a collection of plastic and metal in the shape of a tree makes no objective sense…but there it is. 

Grab a Seat! No...Not That One...

There's a parable in which a guest arrives at a wedding banquet, chooses to sit at the place of honor and is forced to do the "walk of shame" when a more eminent guest arrives to claim the seat of honor.  The lesson is to take the lowest seat, so the possibility of being honored with an invitation to take a higher seat exists.  If one starts at the top, there's no place to go but down.

If that scenario played out in real life, I wonder what the disgraced guest would do in the future.  Would he decline all invitations, recalling his humiliation?  Would he try again, taking care to take the lower seat?

It may be that attempting to prematurely elevate oneself socially, and receiving an embarrassing "correction" is no different from any other tree root sticking out across the path of life.  Maybe a second lesson (not addressed) from this parable could be, "If you DO make this particular mistake, are you able to recover, move on, and learn from the error?  Will you make this particular error again?  Or will you blame the host and eschew further invitations?"

I recently had a front-row seat to a similar scenario, and the participants' responses were interesting:

Basketball tryouts finally arrived, after much anticipation and a week of conditioning drills/scouting by the coaches.  "Sammy" was confident he would easily make one of the teams.  He had played team basketball before, attended a pricey basketball camp, had good shoes and played pick-up basketball almost daily.  "Joey" was not as confident.  He had not played on a team or attended a camp, nor did he have basketball shoes.  Furthermore, he pulled a muscle during the conditioning week and had to dial back his activity.  But, Joey loved basketball, and he wanted to try to make a team.

As the tryouts loomed, Sammy minutely dissected each person's chances of making the team.  He had confident criticism ("He's no good") for most of the hopefuls, three in particular.  His own confidence never wavered. 

And...neither Sammy nor Joey made the cut.  The three boys who had incurred Sammy's harshest assessment of their skills, did make the team. 

Joey was disappointed, but philosophical, and resolved to try again next year. 
Sammy shifted blame to his grades and stated he was finished with basketball.
Joey still has a chance for the "seat of honor." 
Sammy (unless Time, the Great Healer changes his perspective) does not.

Choose your seat wisely...but if you do not choose wisely, learn from it.

The Value of Things

Disclaimer:  This post is very similar to another recent post, but with a slightly different twist.  I'm not recycling material (yet)


We have a used-car problem in our family, if one defines "problem" as "a repeat situation, after the family member in charge swore up and down he HAD learned his lesson."

When it came time to sell our elderly station wagon, we were all sad, as there could never be a newer replacement.  We had the most recent vintage (which wasn't terribly recent.)
The family member in charge of selling the car set a price, listed the car on the relevant websites and...

Two years later, when the car no longer would start, it was towed for scrap.

What happened?

In a nutshell, the way he valued the car determined the price set, and that price was just too high for an 16-year-old, gas guzzler.  There were no takers.
No problem, except the designated seller refused to lower the price.
"It's worth that much," he insisted.

Sentimentally, that old wagon was priceless.  Practically speaking, it was priceless too.  With the seats down, I could carry two seven-foot folding tables, two wooden children's tables, four wooden children's chairs, two folding chairs, and still get the rear gate closed.

Monetarily speaking, it wasn't worth much.  Maintenance was a killer.  Before the station-wagon, I had not known motor oil came in gallon containers.

Here's the kicker:  The exact same thing happened when it came time to re-home another car.
The price was too high, the car languished for over a year, and was sold for a small fraction of the initial asking price.

Why did this happen AGAIN?

I don't know for sure, but I believe the common denominator is two opposing measures of value, applied to the same object.  If you've ever seen a piece of furniture or a large rug at a garage/estate sale, which seems overpriced, it might be the same effect:

Sentiment versus utility.

I recently noted (and wrote about) the reverse stumbling block, when something of actual monetary value but no practical use anymore languishes, because there is too much sentiment to sell it to just anyone.

It's a balancing act, to be sure, determining the value of things when it's time to thin the herd.
Is sentiment the higher value?  If so, "free to a GOOD home" honors that.
Is monetary gain the higher value?  Determine what the market will bear...and don't look back.

The Voices in Your Head

Who can you trust, really?
The loving spouse who says, "That was an amazing dinner", or the Voice in Your Head saying, "The meat was dry."
How about the best friend who says, "I don't think that person has your best interests at heart" versus the Voice in Your Head, who counters, "Of course s/he does.  You just don't understand."

If the voices in your head are anything like the voices in my head, they're opinionated, confident and sometimes, even correct.

But, not all the time.

They sure are compelling, though.

Compelling enough to get between a person and excellent advice from a friend.
Compelling enough to block and turn away compliments. 
Why?  Why do people assume the internal messages are correct and accuse otherwise trusted friends and loved ones of "just trying to be nice" or "being jealous" rather than being honest or helpful?

I think it comes down to four words:  Keeping the Narrative Alive

Everyone's life has a personal narrative arc, whittled into shape over time:
"I'm an extrovert."
"I'm not good at foreign languages."
"I don't like hamburger."
"I'm a great cook."
"I give good advice."

Gradually, our personal narrative and life-direction take shape, thanks to those internal voices constantly supporting the narrative and sounding the alarm if something "doesn't fit."

Like a compliment, if you don't think highly of your skills, or a fit of indignation, if someone suggests your great idea has some practical flaws.

In short, the voices in your head are a feedback loop, selectively perceiving and interpreting events to reinforce what you already believe about yourself. 
Which is fine, right up until self-messages clash with reality, and you have to choose between ignoring the evidence or taking a deep breath, stiff-arming pride and listening to the voices OUTSIDE your head...

...and give the voices in your head some fresh material.
Listen
Consider
Change
Grow
Repeat