Wendy Keller Blog

July 27, 2010

Stop the Clock

Filed under: Midlife Issues, Reflections on Life — Tags: , , , , , , — Wendy Keller @ 10:30 am

Yesterday was surreal, but the upshot is: Sophie isn’t moving out any time soon.  It turns out, since this was her and her best friend’s first time looking for apartments, and since neither of them would listen to anything any of the parents have to say nor take any advice (solicited or not) about what it takes to afford and secure an apartment, they could not complete the transaction.

Sophia, her friend, her friend’s parents and me all sat at a tiny table in the management company office.  The woman very patiently explained to the girls – in front of all three parents – that they don’t qualify for the rent because, as it turns out, Sophie’s friend actually hasn’t begun her job yet – even though she was allegedly hired months ago – and Sophie’s erratic 12-18 hours a week at minimum wage isn’t going to cut it.  Neither I nor the other parents are willing to co-sign, because we are not certain either girl will meet her responsibilities consistently; we don’t want to be left holding the bill if the other girl leaves the apartment; and we are concerned they might drop out of college to work more to pay the rent – which is not in alignment with our goals for them at this stage.  But Sophie had assured everyone that the landlady had approved them already, just based on her initial conversations.  So all the parents had decided a month-to-month arrangement, each girl heavily subsidized by her parents, would be a safe way to test their commitment.

When it didn’t work out, Sophie was shocked.  I’ve never seen such an expression on her face.  I knew she’d soon fall into sadness, and then emerge from that with a redoubled commitment to finding a way to move out and be independent.  Sure enough, by night she’d moved through the stages and was already looking at other apartments online.

I took the dog for a long walk and considered what this meant for me – that she would be staying with me until some future unknown date.  I felt relief, sadness, anger and guilt.  Mostly guilt, because I won’t just underwrite her whole adventure.  I want to do this differently than my parents did.  I want to support her decision to go to college financially and emotionally and in every other way.  But watching this early exercise in independence, I realize how far she is from understanding the first thing about how the business world works, and how resistant she is to my advice.

Discounting one’s parents wisdom is a normal behavior for an 18 year old, but I started reflecting on how many adults I know who repeat the same equally naive behaviors over and over and over.  I’m sure I do this, too.   Sophia got a dose of humility yesterday in front of everyone.  As adults, it’s easier to cover up our mistakes most of the time.  Because it isn’t public, we can stay blind to our weaknesses, faults and ineffective ways of being in the world.  I woke up this morning searching out the places in my life where I am so damn sure I know what’s going on and that my way is the only right way.  I’m forced to consider that perhaps, maybe, in some small way, some of the time, occasionally I might be wrong.   Gulp! Could it be true?  Where are these blind spots I don’t really want to see? They’re in the areas where my life isn’t working the way I want it to and still I keep trying all the wrong things without success.  Solution: solicit and apply advice from someone who has successfully accomplished what I’d like to achieve.

July 25, 2010

Ten Days To Freedom

Filed under: Midlife Issues, Reflections on Life — Wendy Keller @ 2:06 pm

I get up early on Sundays to row with my crew.  Over the months I’ve been rowing, I’ve watched the personalities of each rower – as people and as rowers.  Can they take criticism?  The most critical person on the boat is the one who is most damaged by the coxan telling her she’s done something wrong.  Are they trying to prove something?  The youngest one is always striving.  The most lost one is always trying to impress.  I have been taught that we all act from our shadow – the parts of ourselves that are hidden from ourselves.  I recognize, too, that I respond most vehemently to “faults” in others that I like least in myself.  So which of these “faults” do I respond to most?  One of the crew just rubs me the wrong way – and sure enough, it’s a fault I know I have and don’t quite know how to resolve. 

Sophia is in the midst of her weekend social whirl.  I haven’t seen her since Friday.  I think about how my mother dealt with me when I was preparing to move out, younger than Sophia is now.  I know what Mom did that irritated me and what I want to replicate.  While I’m trying to do more of the good and and less of the bad, I find out that it isn’t black and white.  That this child isn’t who I was when I left home.  Are the “faults” I saw in my mother then things that are evident in me now?  Probably yes.  I am concerned for her safety.  I am hopeful she’ll make good choices.  I am holding my breath – and with it, holding in a lot of unsolicited advice.  

The morning I moved out for Arizona State, I hurriedly loaded my meager belongings into my crummy beaten up old Ford Pinto.  I made sure the rear license plate was firmly duct taped to the back window.  I slammed the trunk and went inside to say a quick goodbye.  Finally, my escape!  But halfway to the car, my mother called me back.  She wanted one last family portrait on the steps of the ramshackle house they were renting.  That picture now hangs with many on the living room wall of her comfortable suburban home.  I stare at it whenever I go back to visit.  There I am, surrounded by my very little brothers in all my youthful arrogance, with a churlish look on my face that says, “Can we PLEASE get this over with now?”  Poor Mom!  

Life is kind of like an endless series of snapshots.  Who I was on the row this morning.  Who each of my crew members was. Who I was my last day in my parents’ house.  I look back at that photo on my mom’s wall and want to cringe.  Was impatience really such a dominant part of me?  If I could look at a snapshot of myself frozen in all the moments I am acting from my shadow side, would I be able to change?  Would this self-observance illuminate my weaknesses like a flashbulb?  Have I changed at all?  Is change even the goal, or is it being OK with What Is?

July 24, 2010

Eleven Days to Freedom

Filed under: Midlife Issues, Reflections on Life — Tags: , , , , , — Wendy Keller @ 2:07 pm

Hmmm.  My exuberant enthusiasm for my pending freedom has waned some.  I took a book called “Awakening At Midlife” (Brehony) to the lounge chairs overlooking the marina channel this morning.  I sat out there luxuriating in the sea air and the sunshine, reading, underlining massive portions and watching the boats and yachts passing.  I ate crisp, fresh organic blueberries.  A bee came to briefly inspect my hat. I had a friendly chat with a neighbor who strolled by.

I came back in to make some lunch and afterward, reclined on the couch watching the Science channel for about five minutes.  I quickly realized it was more interesting to watch our dog Lucky. He was having some sort of dream or nightmare.  His partly-open eyes moved in REM sleep state.  His horizontal hind legs were racing and leaping over the carpet.  His nostrils were flaring.  His breath became that of a marathon runner.

Like the sleeping dog, at this point my racing is mostly in place.  Midlife is a time when all our unlived dreams bubble up to the surface, when the soul cries out for wholeness and integration.  My soul is bubbling with ideas, memories and truths – all parts of me I tossed aside in the mad rush to raise a successful child and run a successful company. I see freedom coming over the horizon, but truth be told, I’ve had increasing freedom for a long time.  Years.  Have I used it to integrate my unlived Self into my reality?  Only in small ways from time to time. I am facing the daunting task of being OK with the messiness of this transition in my life until it naturally sorts itself out.  But by instinct, I am trying to use the wrong tools to build the new Me — things like “Goal Setting” and “Take Massive Action” and “Act As If” and “Half of Success is Showing Up.”  Those are the self-help tools that helped me in the first half of my life.  I find now that they are like trying to hammer in a nail with a fistful of spaghetti.

I’m coming to appreciate the wisdom in the old adage, “What got you here won’t get you there.”  My stepdad Larry always says the dogs are “chasing bunnies” when they have these sorts of active dreams.  Like Lucky, though, if I chase my bunnies in real life, what are the odds that I’ll really catch one?  And what the heck will I do with it if I do?

July 23, 2010

Twelve Days to Freedom

Filed under: Midlife Issues — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Wendy Keller @ 10:11 pm

I knew everything when I was 19. Most of all, as I firmly told my mother, I knew who I was and that I would never change. This was in defense of my decision to marry – about three weeks before I turned 20. I had my first baby at 22.  Time flies! Next weekend, my only living child will be moving out. It’s been 26 years since I haven’t had anyone else to consider, 16 of those years spent as a single parent when not only did I consider someone else, every breath was predicated on that person’s best interests. I have decided to chart my final 12 days and share this post with the world, for other mothers who may be feeling the same things. The reason, BTW, that it is 12 days and not a mere 8 til she moves out is because the dog is moving out 4 days later, to go live with my “was-band” who has two small kids from his second marriage.  They’ll appreciate the dog more than I can at this point and I can always go visit.

Twelve days. 12 days until what I have in my fridge is only what I like. Until when I go to sleep, it won’t be with one ear open in case I’m needed. Until I won’t think about who needs a walk so he doesn’t poop on the carpet and who needs $20 for gas money. I really can’t imagine it, and yet I’ve suddenly found that imagining what freedom will feel like in 12 short days has become my obsession.  What will I DO with the rest of my very own, all mine, completely free life?

I feel a little guilt for being so excited.  Shouldn’t I be worried or fearful of being alone? After all, I am not in a relationship and there will be no one there to fill the long empty hours. I work alone, I sleep alone and soon I will live alone. All alone. (Shhh! I can’t wait!) I may stay alone the rest of my life or I may not.  As my mother probably knew but wisely didn’t say, I have changed a lot.  I have no clear idea yet of who I am now as a Single Woman Alone or what I really want. I might go raise goats in New Guinea or start collecting antique barbed wire or set off deworming orphans in Somalia.  Or something I haven’t even considered yet. Who knows?  This time, for the rest of this lifetime, I get to choose. 

Shouldn’t I be concerned that my only child is toddling into adulthood?  Well, this is a capable, strong-minded, strong-willed, grounded young woman.  Sure, she’ll make mistakes, but she’s ready and I’m so proud of her.  I can’t rouse fear over that.  So other than the fleeting bouts of self-imposed guilt, I have to tell you I’m more likely to have a party for myself, by myself, the 12th day when I see that black furry tail riding off into the sunset. I think I’ll get a massage, sit on the ocean front deck and read a book, maybe take a walk on the beach at sunset.  Me: Day One, on my own, with a lifetime of freedom ahead of me. Imagine that! Imagine it for me, will ya?  I can’t yet!

Racism and the White Woman

Filed under: Reflections on Life — Tags: , , , , , , , , — Wendy Keller @ 6:03 pm

I hired a professional man who happens to be black to do some collections work for me.  We met at a coffee shop so I could give him his check for a job well done.  We started talking about the Sherrod case, and all the foment it is creating in the continuing American dialogue on racism.  The man told me that the reason black people are resistant to being in the USA  is because they are the only race that was brought here against their will.  I had never thought about that before.  I suggested that many blacks could pay for one-way fares back “home” if they preferred to return to Africa.  He said they would be discriminated against there too because there is no home in Africa for them anymore.  I didn’t point out that perhaps “home is where the heart is”, and that choosing to feel at home in the USA is an option after 150+ years of residency.  I kept my mouth shut because I know I have no clue what it would feel like to have been brought here as a slave.  (Frankly, neither does he.)

I noticed while he was speaking that for whatever reason, he mispronounced a large number of words.  Not just in an Ebonics way, but in the way of someone who is unaccustomed to using $10 words.  He spoke about “spontanooity” and said he likes to “conversate” as much as the next person.  This is a man who has had ample opportunities to learn good language usage.  He comes from a respected military family and his professional credentials are impeccable, including a stint on the police force.  I always notice misspoken words – whether I’m the speaker or someone else is.  When I speak a word I’ve only seen before but never heard, I’m actually enough of a geek to look up the phonetics of it so next time, I will be sure to pronounce it correctly.  I get it that I’m not like all the other kids. Never have been.  That’s become OK with me.  But his usage became worse as he became more vehement about “the black man’s oppression in society.”  His dreadlocks were shaking with the force of his convictions. 

When he took a brief breath, I said, “The problem is inadequate education.”  I was about to espouse my pet theory on how all children should be given access to exemplary teachers, all teachers should be evaluated and monitored, teachers should circulate throughout their districts, etc. when my companion said, “No.  It’s not education.  Education has nothing to do with it.  It’s plain discrimination.”  He stated that Obama, who is “a mixed race person who can’t decide which half he is today” and “the other intellectual, educated people in Washington are ruining the country.  It should be handed over to street smart people,” like he most assuredly is.  I’d never heard that viewpoint before.

I read somewhere that the majority of prisoners are either learning disabled or extremely under-educated and therefore have few employment opportunities.  I really do believe that equitable education is a solution, maybe not the only one, but certainly a big step in the right direction.  When we got into his very firm pro-Creationism views, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I handed him his check and stood up to leave.  I thanked him for his work and the iced tea.  But when I got in my car and shut the door, I thought, “Am I a racist?  Am I a bleeding heart liberal who thinks that education will change the world?  Have I become an intellectual snob – and if so, how did I become one?”  Almost everyone I know is just like me mentally, no matter their skin color, although my friends today are a far cry from those I knew during my blue-collar low income childhood.  I really truly believe in the “teach a man to fish, you feed him for life” principle. 

The Sherrod case has opened a lot of people’s minds to rethinking racism in America today - even benign racism like mine perhaps is.  But isn’t there also an onus on the formerly oppressed to reconsider their world view, their place in society, the opportunities this country affords them if they grasp for them?

July 22, 2010

A Box of Encouragement

Filed under: Overcoming Adversity — Wendy Keller @ 1:17 am

When my home and office building burned up in 2007, one of the few things that survived was – curiously – a large plastic crate full of memorabilia from my life as a writer. It’s mostly story ideas, character sketches, awards and tear sheets, but I’ve always known that in that crate are three bulging manila folders, each labeled “Encouragement”. They’re stuffed with the best of my fan mail, the cards, emails and letters I’ve received from people who’ve heard me speak or read my books over the years. It’s eerie that the crate survived. I moved it from its usual place in the shipping room not ten days before the blaze.

I’m working with a new counselor to break through a mental habit I’ve formed that isn’t working for me anymore. She encouraged me to observe my focus, so tonight I just randomly yanked out an Encouragement folder. I was feeling the need for some fan mail. Just wanted to believe I’d done something – anything — that had helped someone else so far.

To my surprise, the folder didn’t contain fan mail at all! Instead, I found condolence letters from strangers sent to my then-husband and I after our children died – heartfelt outpourings I was suffering too much to appreciate at the time. I found a stash of crayon drawings by my daughter. She turned 18 this month. I thought all her old artwork had been burned up, so I got magnets and hung it all on the fridge. (Just wait until she gets home and sees it – uh-oh!) I found a bunch of touching, fervent love letters sent to me since my divorce in 1994. The dearest ones are from my high school sweetheart Dave. We still carry a secret torch for one another 31 years later. He’s my “One That Got Away”. There are letters from Ernestine, a seminar leader-turned-friend who greatly influenced my life with her words. An actual written apology from my ex-husband. A forgotten postcard from my dearest long-dead grandfather. I read the record of my life in that file like a geologist reads sedimentary layers. I didn’t find a single piece of fan mail. Not one thing lauding my professional achievements. But every scrap of paper there is a testament to the fact that I have lived, and I have loved others, and they have loved me.

I felt my heart’s DNA rewriting itself as I read them, like in the old days when we could hear a hard drive writing over a floppy disk. This stack of paper feels like proof that I’ve been here, that even if I end tomorrow, I’ve touched some dear people, and they’ve touched me. That love exists, it flows, it moves, it changes. In some cases, all that’s left is faint traces, like water poured on sand. In other cases, it has grown and blossomed into something so precious it cannot be described by mere language anymore – like my love, respect for and pride in my daughter.

I wish every person could accidentally stumble on a box of encouragement when they’re feeling a bit blue. What a transformation we’d have overnight! We live our lives so fast. Love letters have become text messages. Scribbly crayon drawings quickly become algebra homework and then college entrance essays. Sometimes it’s easy to forget it’s the lives we touched and that we allowed to touch ours that really matter. And I can prove it – c’mon over and look at my fridge.

July 20, 2010

Careening into Midlife in America

Filed under: Midlife Issues — Wendy Keller @ 12:09 am

Lately, snippets of things I’ve read and heard have stuck to me. Does that ever happen to you, when somehow your brain becomes the cordoroy and the world is the dog hair?

Someone wrote me and said, “I just read your WendyKeller.com website and it puts my job loss in perspective.” When I hear that kind of stuff, I always want to say, ‘Gee, thanks I guess, but that doesn’t make your life any easier.’  It doesn’t even make MY life any easier, and I lived it. You’d think I’d be Miss Positive, like “everything is good compared to the bad days”, but I don’t really think that’s how life works. Certainly not my life.

Somewhere, I read that women over 40 become invisible. That’s especially true in LA!  Some days, I feel invisible. Some days, I wish I was invisible. Some days, I walk with my stunning just-turned-18-years old daughter and want to beat every guy who ogles her with a baseball bat. I never know if it’s because I want to protect her or because I rue losing the attention myself. I think it’s the former.  I hope it’s the former.  (PS – I don’t own a bat.  They’re safe.) 

I’ve been reading a lot of things lately on midlife. As she prepares to move out for college in a few weeks, I find myself entering a new phase of my life. No dog, no kid, tasteful apartment in a town I like, hmmm. I haven’t had freedom since just before I got married – at age 19.  What does a sometimes-invisible, shape-shifting mid-40s female DO with her life?  I always planned to divide the year up into quarters: for three months, I’d go off to teach English or business in a third world country; for one quarter, I’d live in a writing cabin on a lake somewhere in the world and crank out a great book or two (I actually have published proof I could do this for a living); then I’d live in a chic condo in a major city in the US and fly around the country seeing friends and family; and finally, for three months every year, I’d live in Europe and work on perfecting my Italian. (Mi piace molto tutti lingue.)  Of course, in between I’d still sell my clients’ books from wherever I was (www.KellerMedia.com).  When did all those dreams become exhausting to even consider? When did I become invisible?  And what the hell am I supposed to do NOW? 

I observe that each stage/age I attain, I look back on those stages that came before and think, “How could I not have understood where this was heading?” and “Why didn’t I appreciate my thighs more back then?”  I’ve learned this so far: things pretty much work out, even the really, really bad things. Each stage of life, each crisis, seems to bring with it such richness, such depth of experience, increased authenticity and a broader perspective.  At each milestone, I find myself feeling more compassionately toward others’ journey – because the bandwidth of emotions and experiences I’ve had are increasingly similar to other’s and therefore I have greater empathy.  It’s kind of like before you have a first child and people tell you how it’s going to be.  And then, shortly after the birth, you suddenly “get it”: nothing will ever be the same from this stage forward.  I have no idea where this first toddling step into midlife is going to take me, but as my daughter says, “I’m down.”

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