The Switch

The first half of a person's life is spent in walking into rooms and turning on lights, personally and professionally.  You flick the switch and either take a quick glance, or walk in to check things out.  If it doesn't appeal, you quickly move on to the next room. 

If the room appeals to you, you stay a while, making the room feel more like you. You handle, manage, arrange, rearrange and remodel, often adding more rooms, closets, and drawers. There is a constant flow of traffic - always someone coming and going.  Some visitors are welcomed and cherished.  You're sad when it's time for them to go.  Other visitors are a pain in the neck, and you breathe a sigh of relief when they have moved on. Sometimes, others (voyeurs) poke their heads in and offer unsolicited opinions, criticisms, and advice. They never enter, only stand at the doorway. If you respect the person, you take the words into consideration.  If you don't respect the person, you ponder the suggestions, keep what's helpful, dismiss what isn't. . .and change the code on the door.

Somewhere along the line, there is a shift. There is always a shift, and that shift signals that it's time to move on.  Sometimes, it's your idea, and sometimes, it's not.  It is far more satisfactory when an inner voice tells you it's time to move on; if someone else delivers that message, it can lead to anger, and bitterness is generally not far behind. Either way, time is standing at the doorway, tapping on his watch, an eyebrow raised.

Thus, the second half of life becomes a series of walking in and out of rooms and turning off lights.  Sometimes, those lights are in rooms with dreams you once had as a kid. It's not that you can't achieve them, but the likelihood or pressing desire to accomplish them is no longer there. Sometimes, those lights are in rooms where you once played with your own kids, the memories and their laughter are still bouncing off the walls. The time has come and gone.  Sometimes, those lights are in rooms where once a career thrived. Click, flick, click.  

And just about the time it starts to feel as though you're losing more than you're gaining, you walk into a room that feels like a Goldilocks room - just right, again.  It appeals to you. You see hobbies you always wanted to pursue but never had time to. You see the stacks of books that have been gathering dust on your bedside table. You see friends from the past that were lost in the pursuit of the holy grail - raising healthy kids.  You see tickets on a table, waiting to whisk you to places you never had the time, or money, to visit.  

And then there is a door in that room that is opened just a crack. The light is already on; it feels as though someone has been waiting for you.  As you pull open the door, you see the greatest joys and rewards. . .

And the contents of that room is different for everyone, and it may be different by the day.  

The point is that the room exists.  It's real. In fact, that room has been there all along.  It has been there everyday, even though the contents of the room has varied.

In reflecting, I realize that I have wasted too much time lingering too long in some rooms, seeking a place in rooms where I didn't belong, trying to make repairs in rooms where I didn't cause damage, and spending too much time in rooms that were draining versus energizing, simply because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. And maybe it was what I needed to do - for that time and for that place, but certainly not forever. For most of my life, I have believed longevity, loyalty, and commitment to the rooms to be badges of pride. Now I’m not so sure about that.

When it comes to life and life events, Mike always says this: "Sunrise. Sunset." Light switches are life.  There is a time to turn them on.  There is a time to turn them off.  Rather than look at it from the standpoint of losing and gaining, it is much better, and infinitely more satisfactory, to look at it as a process of moving through.  Turning off a light and leaving one room means turning on a new one and moving into something new and different, not better or worse. 

Even though the process of moving through began a while ago, it’s only recently that I have begun to pay attention. That said, I would ask that you please excuse me.  There are a few rooms that need my attention, in one of which are three little people, soon-to-be five, waiting for me.  

What's Your Story?

 It occurred to me this morning that everybody is an author.  

What we did yesterday is history, and history, in its most simplistic format, is one long, continuous story.

 The characters come and go.  Depending on the situation, some of us are flat characters, but most often, we are rich, round characters. Unfortunately, some are static, and spend (waste?) a whole lifetime stubbornly refusing to grow or heal. Most, however, are dynamic - pushing through, or passing through, joyful and tragic circumstances - and using them to move to the next iteration of themselves.

Similarly, the plot of this meandering story continues, subject to numerous plot twists and conflicts.  Every time one problem, or complication, is resolved, a new one emerges. 

In short, history. . .herstory. . .ourstory. . .yourstory. . .mystory has been unfolding long before I was born and will presumably continue long after I am gone. 

But for now - for this time and in this space, you and I are not only characters in this story; we are also contributing authors to this story. 

And so, here is the gravitas associated with this revelation: Even though I, the character, in the story will only have meaning and relevance for, at most, 100 years (give or take), I, the author, will have immeasurable significance. 

To explain, realistically, my name and the stories of and about me will only recognizable or retained for at most, 100 years.  Any generations beyond my grandchildren will only know me as a face, possibly a name, and whatever stories or details that my grandchildren remember and relay.  With regard to my students and colleagues, my name and face will exist until I die, and as to my job, I will exist only until I hand over my key fob and laptop.  

It all sounds depressing. . .if our story is merely our physical existence.

The story, however, is really the sum total of our choices on a daily basis:

- How we react when things don't go our way,

- The habits or traditions we choose and hold firm to,

- What we say and do when someone betrays or hurts us deeply,

- The way we show love to both lovable and unlovable people,

- Our generosity or stinginess when it comes to time, money, and love

- The little things we do or say when we think no one is watching,

- The way in which we treat people - all people - related to us, like us, near us, or not

This is the REAL story we write with our lives.  This is where we become "immortal." This is how we shape and redefine the plot moving forward.  This is how we influence the story that is to come for generations we will never meet, and who will never know us.  This is how we leave a mark on history. . .herstory. . . yourstory. . .and theirstory. The denouement has already been decided, so you don't have to worry about the ending. It's the plot diagram and development in getting there that is the consideration. 

Given all that, as you add your plotline today, tomorrow, next week, next year, what story is important to tell? What plot points are you passionate about? What story do you want generations ahead of you to know and live? 

As an author in both this communal, endless narrative we call history, and your own personal narrative, what kind of tale are you hoping will be told? And most importantly, what are you doing today, right now, and every day to bring that storyline (literally) to life? 

Bread of Life

 Just as it does with everyone else, the time change punked me this morning.  I was wide awake at 4, which is actually 5. Since I had the extra time, I decided to get up and try a new bread recipe, even though I've never been good at bread. I can bake just about everything else, but bread is a skill that still eludes me. 

Once I had all the ingredients mixed together, in the stipulate order and at the stipulated temperatures, I started in on the seemingly-endless process of kneading. I set a timer for a guesstimation of minutes for kneading and started the rhythmic, back and forth, side-to-side pound and sway. 

The thing about bread-making is that it requires patience and just the right baking conditions. One does not just decide to bake bread; one plans to make bread. In other words, one does not just wake up and say, "I want to bake fresh bread for breakfast."  The only ways in which that statement can be true is if A) one gets up at like 3 am, or B) one gets in his/her car and drives to the bakery to purchase a fresh loaf. In bread-making, there is a plan, and it is a plan that unfolds after several steps and the passage of time. 

Likewise, baking conditions count. If the liquid is too cold, the yeast won't activate.  If the liquid is to hot, it kills the yeast. Too much flour, and the loaf becomes a brick.  No salt, and it lacks flavor.  If the room is too cold, the loaf won't prove. And then, there is the arduous process of kneading. 

Kneading has to happen in order in order for bread to happen.  Kneading consists of rolling, punching, twisting, and turning the dough for several minutes.  If s/he didn't know better, a passing observer might think that the baker is angry, given the seemingly violent action. But kneading makes sure that all the ingredients in the bread get evenly distributed. Kneading makes sure that all the ingredients have been exposed to a consistent, warm temperature (from the hands that knead the dough). Kneading traps the little air bubbles that are necessary to create the dance between gluten and yeast that makes a loaf rise. Thus, kneading is necessary; the elusive question is how long to knead the dough. 

This is where the second round of magic happens.  A baker has to pay attention during the kneading process, because the question of length of kneading is based on texture - how it feels in the baker's hands.  A properly-kneaded loaf will feel smooth and elastic. It's easily stretched and leaves a slight impression, almost like a finger to a cushion. A baker does a fair amount of watching in order to gauge this, but truly, the best way to know enough is enough is by feel.  

Why the bread lesson?  Well, it's not about bread at all.  Not really.  

While kneading, I had several minutes in which to ponder. 

Once upon a time, across history eras and geographical locations, bread was life.  Other than meat, it was the only available food, and when meat wasn't available, it was what kept people alive.  A hobo, who had been interviewed for The Great Shake-Up,  a documentary on the 1930s on the History Channel, reported that after asking for some food, a lady told him all she had was bread, to which he replied, "Bread would taste like cake." So in a very real, physical sense, bread is life. 

Bread is also life in the metaphorical sense.  Bread-making requires time and patience. One does not get to fast-forward to the end. S/he has to follow the process, one step at a time.  Likewise, all the necessary ingredients must be there in order for the dough to become a loaf. By themselves, salt and yeast won't make a loaf.  The other ingredients are necessary.  The same is true in life.  Happiness alone does not lead to a quality loaf. Neither do sadness and hardship.  They are all necessary in order for the loaf to become what it was intended to be.

And then there is the kneading process.  In life, we often feel as though we are beat up - we are rolled up in situations we didn't ask for; we are punched - sometimes by situations and words of our own making, and sometimes by being in the wrong place at the wrong time; our words and intentions get twisted; and we get turned around, disoriented by life's curveballs.  When we are in the middle of it, we not only ask "Why?" but "How long will this last?"

I think you already the answer to that question.

The Baker knows what He is doing.  He knows exactly the ingredients needed - and the quantity of each - in order for us to become the end product we were destined to be.  He has the knowledge, skills and wisdom to add them in just the right order, and at just the right time.  The same is true for kneading.  He knows exactly for how long the process must continue. In walking on earth and being one of us for a while, He is well-acquainted, even more so than us, as to the texture of "enough" - He knows what it feels like. When we are in the process, we just need to trust that the Baker knows best.

Will my loaf turn out this time?  Time will tell.  It's still processing.  

Will the Baker's loaf turn out? IF you trust the Baker and let the Him do His thing, you already know the answer to that question.