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

Punishing Caution

A year or so ago, I met a young man with a dream.
He wanted to be a world-champion ice dancer.
So, he left college, found an excellent coach, and started working hard on his dream. 
Admittedly, "Nick" was getting off to a late start, but he was unfazed.

His enthusiasm was contagious!

We talked about training, testing, competing and the mental game that overshadows all that.

I didn't see him again for several weeks.

When our paths crossed again, Nick greeted me enthusiastically and said,
"Thank you so much for your advice!  I wrote it down and stuck it on the mirror."

"What advice?"

"You said skating punishes caution.  It's true."

And it is (especially for jumping), but the same holds true for all of life.
Not "throwing caution to the wind" (aka being stupid),
but committing completely to whatever you want to accomplish.

It doesn't have to be a life-time commitment, or even a five minute commitment.
Just long enough to execute correctly the task at hand.

Fortunately, most things in life don't have a broken wrist or twisted knee as possible consequences
of hesitation or second thoughts, "just" opportunities missed or more time spent correcting mistakes.
But...who wants the regret of "If only I'd gone for it, flat out, I wouldn't be in this situation"?

Or, as I sometimes tell my coach, "Are you videoing this?  'Cause either way, it's gonna be epic."

The Estate Sale, The Sliver Tea Service & The Mink Jacket

Earlier this year, I helped a friend with her estate sale.  They were severely downsizing, so the sale was a big one.  Everything remaining in the house (excluding a few items left in place for "staging") had a price sticker on it.  Every.  Single.  Thing. 

I had an inkling of the hours and hours spent sorting, packing, moving and "staging" what remained, prior to the sale, but trying to imagine the amount of time and psychic energy involved in assigning a price to everything else had a profound effect on me.

Starting with, "We gotta get rid of half our stuff!"

And moving on to, "What if I/we had to determine a price and affix a sticker to everything in the house?"

If something has sentimental value ("Price it higher!"), yet HAS to be sold that day ("Price it to move!"), what does one do?  Unless all your furniture is pristine Mid-Century Modern and all your knick-knacks are retired Limoges figurines, the prospect of aligning the sentimental value with what the market will bear is not promising.  And it's just so...wrenching...to know a new owner will never understand the sentimental value of their purchase.

As I was reflecting on this conundrum in the following weeks, two things happened.

A friend, who loves attending and serving afternoon tea (complete with cucumber sandwiches and scones), came to visit.  We went to visit a local consignment store, and my friend remarked on a silver-plate tea service. 

"I have one!"  I exclaimed.  "It was my grandma's.  My mom tried to donate it to church, and they took it, but later told me no one really uses those anymore, and they needed the space, so would I take it back?  I did, and didn't tell my mom.  She thinks they're using it.  You should take it."

My friend was skeptical.  She offered to buy it ("No!") and suggested that one of my teen sons might want the set in the future. 

"Leave it to me or them in your will."

In the end, she took the tea service and posted pictures a week later of the tea service in use--representing a 100% increase in the times it had been used in the last twenty years. 
And...I'm told the tea service is on display when not in use, instead of being wrapped up in a drawer.

Sentimental value honored! 

Several weeks later, the same thing happened with a mink jacket...except I was the lucky recipient.  A friend of my parents' generation had her aunt's mink jacket, and no younger family living where the winters are cold.  Would I wear the jacket and send her a picture?  As with the tea service, we both were delighted to have the sentimental value recognized and honored. 

I'm looking at my possessions (especially family heirlooms) through a different lens now.  If someone will honor the sentimental value of a vase, a carving, a necklace or a dress, I'd rather they have it now.  Drawers and closets (and a garage) full of things that "might be worth something" are worth exactly nothing, and are of no use to anyone, as long as they stay in storage...

...waiting to be "priced to move."

"My Happiness Depends On You"

My father's birthday was yesterday.  I noted earlier in the week that we don't need birthday cards for him until tomorrow, when we actually celebrate, but that we should call him on the day. 

Between my mom and him making the rounds of various "seniors eat free on your birthday" establishments, and our after-school activities, I figured evening was the best time to make the call.

He'd be back home, and our entire family would be in one place, to do one of our (in)famous, everybody-pick-a-key renditions of "Happy Birthday."

Late afternoon, I received a phone call.  Thankfully, I let it go to voicemail.
It was a family member:

(Stage-whispered)  "Hi!  This is (name).  I stepped outside so your dad wouldn't hear me.  I just wanted to remind you that it's his 85th birthday today, and it would mean a lot to him if you would call him and say 'Happy Birthday.'"

I reacted to that message as I react to other similar "suggestions" from this particular person:
Strongly and poorly.

But why? 
I assume this relative thinks I'm an idiot and a social Neanderthal; not great, but not fatal.
I also have a juvenile flash of anger at being "told what to do" at my advanced age.

I think though, my real beef is the implicit message
"My happiness DEPENDS on you." 
(Or, in this case, my father's happiness)

That's an enormous responsibility to hand anyone.
Now, I like to think I'm a generally kind person and motivated to do whatever I can to make people happy, but this reminder seemed to imply otherwise.

I hope I don't make that same inference to my own friends and family. 
I hope my default belief is my family and friends are kind people (or at least I act like I believe it!)

And, I'll take responsibility for my own happiness, even if it means the children forget my birthday. 
They're kind people.  It's ok. 

How To Be Extraordinary

How to be extraordinary

 What can you wish for, and have your wish granted more quickly that you ever dreamed possible?

"I wish to be more humble, less full of myself."

And Life says, "DONE!"
(The variety of ways one can be taken down a peg or two is mind-boggling).

Perhaps you've known someone who started life in the back of the pack,
worked hard, rose to a higher position, acquired some of the finer things,
became a "success story"

...and morphed into a completely different person.

Maybe you were friends or coworkers, celebrating each other's
successes, and commiserating about the vagaries of life. 
Now, you're just a dot in their rearview mirror. 

That transformation isn't extraordinary.
It happens all the time, when the line between
"amazing accomplishments" and "my personal
awesomeness" becomes fuzzier and fainter.

Personally awesome people aren't extraordinary.
There are simply too many of them.

In fact, a successful man or woman
insisting that luck, connections or accident of birth
had nothing to do with their success is perfectly
ordinary.

What's extraordinary (because it's difficult and needs
constant vigilance) is rejoicing in success, while also acknowledging
that success is never completely free of luck, circumstance or generosity
of others. 

Humbleness (not to be confused with low self-esteem) is unusual enough
by itself, but coupled with prestige, social status, wealth or other trappings
of success…it’s extraordinary

Your Good Name

It’s cage-match time:
Socrates vs teen-age wisdom, (aka “Why you should care” vs “Who cares?”)

I came across this quote from the Master Philosopher, and I really, really, really want the children to embrace it, beginning immediately, and let it inform a large percentage of their behavior.

Here it is: 
“Regard your good name as the richest jewel you can possibly be possessed of... The way to gain a good reputation is to endeavor to be what you desire to appear.” (Socarates)

Selling this as a good thing is an uphill climb, especially as “your good name” is subject to personal interpretation.  Some might say having a “good name” means having lots of social media “likes” or a having large following.  It could mean fifteen minutes of fame, starring in a viral video. 

But a good name isn't any of those.

What I would like my children to understand is a good name is what others say about you...not what you say about yourself.  And what others say about you is based, just a little, on what you SAY, but most of what others say is based on what you DO. 

Take any person you know only slightly.  Now, what do you know about this person's reputation?  Reputation words are behavior words.  It's not what they say (you might not even have heard them speak directly), it's what they do.

I've always wondered about people who seem eager to introduce their credentials into a conversation as early as possible; sort of a "Head's up, you should listen to what I have to say, because I'm X,Y and Z."  It feels a bit forced, as if to say, "I tell you, I have a good name and a good reputation, so no need to exert yourself deciding if I'm the real deal."

"Who cares?" any teen (and some adults) asks. 
"Aren't we supposed to not care what people think?"

Well, none of us can control what others think.  Ask any exhausted people-pleaser, whose efforts never seem to be enough.  Or the critical micro-manager.  Regardless of what others think or say, consistently doing things to make one's own corner of the world more pleasant, peaceful and predictable for all DOES matter, in a way the simple pursuit of fame (or infamy) does not. 

What words do you want to come to mind when people hear your name?
Go do those.  It's slow going at times, but at the end of your hard work is the richest jewel you can possibly be possessed of:  your good name.

Second Chances

There's an egregiously pot-holed stretch of road near our house, on a route we frequent frequently.  (Some might say all of Michigan is egregiously pot-holed, and that would also be accurate).  It's been that way for some time, slowly getting worse with each freeze-thaw cycle.  Now, no amount of cold-patch will fix it...which is not to say the township won't keep applying that particular "remedy."

It's finally gotten so bad, even with the patches, I'm sucking up some of the precious minutes during the school drop-off/pick-up run and taking a different route.

Last spring, another stretch of nearby road was in the same condition.  It just could not be patched any further, but it's low-lying, with swamp up to the edge on either side.  The township couldn't find a contractor to fix the road under those conditions.  Finally, they did!  Not only did this contractor grind off the top layers of asphalt (standard for resurfacing), they went all the way down to the gravel, built up the roadbed well above the swamp and put a smooth, crowned surface on it.  It's like the road got a second chance.

Some life situations seem like the two roads--too damaged to be traversed safely, and only a complete, from-the-ground-up do-over will make things better.  Simply applying more patches isn't enough.

I have one of those situations right now.  I've been patching away like mad, but it's time for something more drastic.  The choices are to just avoid that particular "road", or grind it down to the gravel and start over; in other words, to have a second chance at making the situation right, from the ground up.

Sometimes, the children ask for (or expect!) a second chance, when all they really want to do is apply/reapply "cold patch" to the situation, instead of actually grinding down to the gravel, applying different behaviors or skills and creating a true fix.

To stretch the metaphor even further, I would tell the children that asking for a true second chance is like being a contractor bidding on the road project:  What's the plan?  How long will it take?  What's the price?  How will the repair process affect people nearby?

A second chance should be about success, an opportunity to say "Yes!  I have a plan!" and celebrate a positive income.

I'm ready to do things differently.  I'm ready for my second chance. 

A Different 30-Day Challenge

No, not a weight-loss or healthy-eating challenge (she wrote, while scarfing down some recently unearthed chocolate Easter eggs...from last year).

This past week, I was in a video/study group.  The broad topic was exchanging something good for something better, and how we often get stuck on the "good" things, instead of the "better" things.
The specific topic du jour was,
"If you had 30 days to live, what would you do?"

I've heard similar questions before.  What if you only had a year?  Two weeks?
The difference this time was the follow-up statement.

"Whatever you would choose to do, however you would choose to spend your time...that's what you value."  Put another way, "What do you value so much, you would make sure to fit it in to your last thirty days?"

The speaker reported his own poll showed no one replying "I'd spend the time making more money" or "I'd buy more stuff."  That intuitively makes sense.

The REALLY interesting part of this question is not the specifics, because most people probably have some variant of investing time in loved ones or long-dreamed-of experiences.

The interesting part is what motivates those decisions.  Why choose that Alaskan cruise with the family?  Why write birthday letters to the children?  Why make personal bequests of treasured items?

I don't know for sure, but I do know that everyone who has moved through my own life has affected its course in some way...even if I can't point to a specific time or incident and say, "That's it, right there."  Every person, no matter how casual the contact, lingers in some form, whether they've just passed through our lives, or truly passed on, like the ringing of a bell lingers in the air, even after the clapper is still. 

I wonder if the real 30-day (or 30-year) challenge is to use one's remaining time to create a sweet, lingering ring.  Some people might call this "leaving a legacy", but I think it's simpler than that.  A legacy sounds big and grand, like ripples that spread in larger and larger circles.   And it sounds like a real time suck, too much work for 30 days.

"What do you value so much, you would make sure to fit it in to your last thirty days?"
I think it's very simple--to be remembered and loved. 

"Did You Have A Good Day?"

My husband often asks me that, possibly to see what the definition du jour is of "good."
When considered from that angle, it's an interesting question.

"Depends on what you mean by 'good'."

Does good mean "productive"?  If so, what qualifies as productive?  In my experience, people are delighted to weigh in on what productive means...for other people.
Less so for themselves.  (I've done this too.)

Does good mean "relaxing"?  That's an easy one; as a card-carrying Calvinist, the answer is "No!"
Others may beg to differ.

How about..."satisfying"?  Is a good day a satisfying day?

Every few months, I check out a Monday Morning Mindset call for business owners.  There's a general formula to these calls:  an inspiration, relating that inspiration to business, and exhortations to Go Out There and Work Hard, even if (especially if) the work is uncomfortable or intimidating.  This demonstrates seriousness and commitment.

Does it also make for a good day? 

Related:  Is it necessary to dislike the journey, in order for the goal to be considered "worthwhile"?
Further Related:  What if the work/journey has some obvious unpleasant features...but these don't really bother you?

I believe it's easy to record a day on the "good" side of the ledger, even if it contained some objectively unpleasant elements.  The trick is to note what went right, and to resist listening to those who would say, "Yes, but you didn't...".

A few bumps in the daily road shouldn't be sufficient to write off the whole day as unproductive, stressful or unsatisfying.  If you're flexing your skills at all...it was a good day.  Enjoy.

The "Loser" Spot

When I was in high school, I tried out for the precision-skating team in my figure skating club.
I was a late-comer to figure skating, my parents didn't want to get second or third jobs to bankroll any hard-core training, so...

...I wasn't very good.
In fact, I didn't even try out until tenth grade. And then, I had to share a spot with another skater for a year.

At that time, a senior-level team could skate 32.  Not only was that a lot of bodies to move around in formations, when all the skaters lined up for a pinwheel, the ends of the line nearly touched the wall.

And, they moved fast.

Of course, the ends of the pinwheel were prestige spots, reserved for the strongest skaters.  As one moved toward the center of the line, there was less speed and strength required.  At the very center, the two "anchor" spots required only toe-picks and some upper body strength to counteract the centrifugal pull of the rest of the line.

In today's vernacular, the center of the pinwheel was the loser spot.
I spent my three years on the team in that spot.
(That said, I had a blast the whole time.)

Today, with the career I trained for behind me, and another one heading toward the cliff,
I sometimes think I'm back in the center of the pinwheel.  Maybe the "pinwheel of life", to put a metaphorical spin on it.

I got closer to the end position for awhile, enough to feel a little wind in my hair.
That was ok; still...the best spot, the high-profie, all-my-friends-can-see-me, everyone-knows-how-good-I-must-be spot never quite happened.

Now, what am I to make of being back in the center of the pinwheel?
Well, it's humbling, for sure.  Everyone knows the weakest skaters are in the center.
The anchor spot holds zero prospects for glory and recognition.

But...
Somebody's gotta do it.  Without the anchors, there's no pinwheel at all.
It's not glamorous, it's not selfie-worthy, but it IS indispensable.
Maybe not so loser after all.

"Whatever It Takes"...or "Championship Focus"?

Poor "whatever it takes" is really getting a drubbing! When I first started working from home, I heard "whatever it takes" a LOT! Was I willing to do "whatever it takes" to develop my skills, build a business...or was I "not serious"? Not liking either of those, my quest for a third option led me to my skate bag, where most of life's answers lurk within. As an adult skater, I felt the sting of humiliation for fourteen long years, as I strove to master the mental game of competing/performing. Along the way, I watched my share of elite skaters, and I noticed that there always seemed to be a few in the very top ranks who had a reputation for being "inconsistent." Inconsistency could mean rarely having a clean short program and a clean long program in the same competition, or it could mean doing a particular jump well in practices and in warm-up, but rarely executing it in competition. Or, it could mean mentally giving up in a program, once an element was missed. I knew I would never join the ranks of elite skaters, but it finally occurred to me that I could do one thing as well as, or even better than, the top international skaters: I could focus. In fact, I could have elite-level focus. "Championship focus" became a personal catch-phrase and the goal of all my performances. Everything else flows from championship focus.

If it works, and it does work really well for skating, can championship focus be the cornerstone for success in other areas of life? Is championship focus a good substitute for that vague-but-you-know-it's-awful "whatever it takes"? I believe it can. I work from home, and the dirty dishes can be a distraction. Will championship focus help me ignore them for a couple hours? Of course. Or, I have a writing deadline to meet. Can championship focus keep me off the internet? Absolutely. In fact, championship focus feels successful in and of itself. Focus produces targeted activity; targeted activity produces success (eventually). Championship focus is mastery over the self, and once the self is in hand, it really is possible to do....whatever it takes.