Helping Helena

Daily Life, On Writing

Last night, I had the extreme pleasure of seeing my favorite writer, Anne Lamott, give a talk in Santa Barbara.  Since she is also a political activist, one of the things she talked about was how we can all deal with the frustration we are experiencing based on the daily atrocities of the current administration.  Her recommendation is, in order to make oneself feel better, go out and help other people.  A progressive liberal, she cares deeply about the marginalized – the poor, the homeless, the elderly – so she has lots of ideas for ways to help them.

This morning, I had to get up early and go have some routine fasting blood work done.  At Quest Diagnostics, they no longer have a receptionist, but a touch screen check-in system.  When I made my appointment, I received a confirmation code, which I had jotted down on my calendar.  This morning, I took a photo of it with my phone, just in case I needed it.  I used it to check in, and the process for me took less than 10 seconds.  There was an elderly woman who had come in the same time that I did, and she was confused by the touch screen, so I offered to help her.  We entered in her name, birthdate and phone number to get her squared away and checked in.  It was so easy to help another person and she was so very appreciative, it made me feel good.

I had already decided that I was going to be grumpy this morning because, well, morning – not to mention the fact that I could not have my morning cup of earl grey tea or any breakfast and I was hungry.  I had thrown sweat pants and a sweat shirt over my jammies and sort of brushed my teeth and maybe brushed my hair, so that I could pull off the cranky in a more believable way.  Instead, after helping Helena check in, I had this feeling of euphoria.  We sat next to each other and chatted as a crowd of people entered just as we sat down.  “Wow!  We really beat the rush,” one of us said.  Actually, I had been a half hour early for my 8:30 appointment because I was starving, and I just didn’t trust myself to stay home and not eat, so I thought I would get there early and sit and read the book I bought last night.   Turns out I didn’t have to sit there for more than a few minutes before I was taken back.  The woman who took my blood was so quick and painless – there was absolutely nothing for me to complain about.  I could only praise her professionalism and ouch less technique and wish her a wonderful day as I left.

After Anne’s talk last night, she did a book signing.  I had wanted to bring my favorite book of hers, Bird by Bird, Some Instructions on Writing and Life, for her to sign – especially since it is dogged-eared and highlighted from cover to cover.  A kind of fledgling badge of writing honor.  But of course I had forgotten it, so I decided to buy another one of her many titles.  She was there promoting her latest one, Hallelujah Anyway, Rediscovering Mercy, which she talked about.  I was drawn to another title, Small Victories, mostly because I always think in such broad terms and huge projects and end up hating myself for not being able to pull them off.  I had the intuitive hit that the lesson for me, right now, is to focus in on the small little victories that I run across in my everyday life.

As I sit and think back about my morning – I realize – we are all in this together.  So, we might as well help each other out along the way.  And it doesn’t have to be big things.  Just small, little ways to make another person’s life a little less stressful, something to make someone smile and feel acknowledged as they slog through their personal struggles.  A small victory.

This Morning at 6am

Daily Life

Yes –I am the kind of person that lays in bed in the morning and thinks about every misstep, error in judgment, mistake, or otherwise bad thing I have ever done in my life,  including, in the 6th grade when Kenny Stackler, the neighbor boy down the street, was pushing me on a cart he and my brother had made. The cart started veering out of control, so I put my hand down on the ground to steady it.  The cart ran over my thumb and jacked up my thumbnail.  I had to go to the emergency room and have my nail ripped off.  This resulted in a huge bandage on my thumb and  a constant throbbing pain.  However, it was not enough to get me out of having to do my oral report for Mr. Aguirre in his class at Cloverly Elementary School.  I had to do a report on Octopi.  At the time, the majority of my research was done in The Golden Book Encyclopedia, which my mother had purchased at the supermarket, one volume at a time.  We had the complete set, and I had read it from A to Z when I was younger.  I thought that it was all I would ever need to use for any report ever.  However, Mr. Aguirre asked me questions about the octopus that I could not answer from my limited research.  It was humiliating on several levels.  One, that The Golden Book Encyclopedia was no longer ENOUGH for all of my school reports and research.  AND,  that I wasn’t as smart and I had thought I was.  UP to that point, I had not minded getting up in front of the class to speak.  I actually enjoyed it and had confidence in my abilities and my intelligence.  After Mr. Aguirre’s perceived brutal attack on my intelligence, from that day forward, I could not get up in front of the class for any reason.  I was terrified to speak up in class from that day forward.  Any class.  Even raising my hand become a source of high anxiety.  That continues to this day.  If I sign up for a class or workshop, I’m always worried that it’s going to be one of those where we go around the room and introduce ourselves and tell everyone a little something about us.  I end up not listening to anyone else and obsessing about what I’m going to say when my turn comes and all eyes will be on me.  Sometimes, my left thumb starts to throb.

So that was what I was thinking about this morning at 6 am as I lay in bed looking out at a blue cloudless day. Reliving 6th grade anxiety about a ripped-off thumbnail and octopi.

And Speaking of Crazy

Daily Life

During a family visit, I was sitting out by the pool with my sister-in-law and youngest niece.  I was talking about something that I thought was totally normal conversation.  When I had finished my story, my niece says, “and speaking of crazy”, and starts talking about one of her friends grandmothers who did something that they thought was weird and crazy.  I laughed and asked her why she thought my story was crazy.   She shrugged her shoulders and said, “it just is”.

I was shocked because I make it a point to edit out anything that could be even slightly construed as different, and always keep my topics of conversation fairly bland so as not to raise any eyebrows.

And there it is – even with trying to be boringly mainstream and normal, it’s undeniable.  There’s just no hiding the fact that I am your crazy aunt.