Paying It Forward

Heather:

I've Googled many things in my time, but this week found me searching, "why does my gasoline engine sounds like a diesel?"  As you can probably imagine, nothing good comes from a search like that.  All of the posts mentioned oil being the issue, but my oil light hadn't come on and it hadn't been that long since I had the oil changed...

Picture it: I'm in the parking lot of a local big box store attempting to play mechanic when I hear, "Hey, HT! I thought that was you.  Need some help?"  I look up and see one of my students headed toward me.  I could have cried.  He helped me to decipher the lingo on the various bottles and managed to make me feel a little better about the whole situation.  Whoever said that chivalry is dead has not met this guy.

(I feel I should add that Dad made me learn how to check my oil and change a tire before I was allowed to get my permit.  I'm all about being independent, but I also know when I'm in over my head.  One thing I have learned is that when you are in distress, take help when offered.)

My gasoline powered car sounds less like a diesel powered vehicle now and I have a call in to a mechanic to get it checked.

I should have been worried on the ride home.  What if the oil leaked again and I was left stranded on a back road with no cell phone service?  What if the engine seized?  What if, even after checking and double checking, I had added the wrong oil? (That's just how my mind works.)

I wasn't worried, though.
          I was happy.

The student could have kept on going.  I hadn't seen him and even if I had, there was nothing mandating that he help me.  He stopped and offered help with no promise of anything in return.  I offered to pay him, but he refused.  "Just glad I could help," he said.

Instead of forcing him to take money, I decided to pay his kindness forward.  It felt great.  I know the person I helped can't pay me back any more than I can pay back the young man who helped me.  That's not the point.  The point is to help when you can.  You won't always get a glamorous thank you--sometimes there is no thanks at all.  You will, however, feel better knowing that you have helped to make someone's day a little easier.  That's what I've found, anyway.

Assignment: One random act of kindness. Be as creative as you want, but go out and do something for someone else.  Imagine what the world would be like if everyone did one thing every day for someone else...

Lessons in Being Kind

Heather:

The spring is always a hectic time here at my small college nestled in the hills of West Virginia.  The last few weeks have been, for me, a blur of senior projects and campus events.  Our seniors begin taking their Comprehensive Exams on Monday and final exams commence the following week.  Baccalaureate and Commencement will quickly follow and then my students will scatter to the winds for internships, summer jobs, and first jobs. If I were an accountant, this would be my tax season.  I’ve had more cups of coffee today than I had hours of sleep last night and I’m not the only one.  My colleagues and I often compare this time of year to running a marathon at a sprint pace. 

I’m not complaining. 

Really, I’m not.  I love what I do.  I get to watch students make the journey from awkward first-year student to confident graduate.  They recommend music to me and I lend books to them.  They come to me with problems and I recommend solutions.  We laugh together, we sometimes cry together, and when the “plague” is running rampant on campus, we sneeze and cough together.  I consider myself lucky to be doing what I do.  There are times, however, when I don’t feel up to the task.  There are days when I don’t think I have my own life together enough to be able to offer life advice to anyone else.  For example, I’ve missed trash collection for the last three weeks.  Granted, I haven’t been home that much as I have been traveling a great deal to see Gran while she recovers, but three weeks? 

Someone take my adult card.

It’s in moments like this that I need to remember to be nicer to myself. 

This week I am going to start taking better care of myself.  I’m going to go to bed earlier, drink less coffee, and eat more veggies.  I might even take a field trip to a book store to wander up and down the aisles.  I’m going to remember that I can’t make it to every event and I’m not going to beat myself up when I miss one.

I’ll check back in a week and let you know how it’s going.  In the meantime, make good decisions and enjoy at least one sunset.

Sunset in Piedmont.

The Best Accessory

Courtney:

          Sorry for the absence.  I do believe that the ever lovely Ms. H. Taylor made reason as to why in her last post.  Gran is doing better, but there are some fears that can never be stifled.  I know that eventually we all pass on, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.  I feel worry and grief more deeply since my Papa Bear passed away.  It can be an inconvenience; however, it also makes me a little more understanding about the world and the people in my life. 

        

One of my very close friends lost her father suddenly last year.  He passed away a week or so before her wedding, so it made the heartbreak that much greater.  I had worked with him and considered him a friend as well.  Watching her go through the same motions I had a couple years before began to wear on me. I think I cried just as much for him as I did my own dad. 

        

The main problem for me was that I knew exactly how she was feeling. I didn’t want her to feel empty and gray.  I kept wishing that I could put her hurt into a cup and carry it for her.  I knew, though, that doing so was impossible.  And so, instead of carrying it for her, I shared in her grief.  Sometimes we talked or I talked while she wept.  The most powerful moments came when we said nothing at all.  We would just sit silently next to one another.  We could endure, together.  

        As destructive as grief can be there are things that cast light into the shadows.  A smile for instance.  A customer told me once that every time he came into the store and saw my smile it gave him hope.  I, of course, flashed him another smile, thanked him, and then went on about my shift.  It wasn’t until much later that I realized how high a compliment he had paid me, or how relevant his words would be to my life.

        I pay close attention to smiles now.  They are one of my favorite things.  There are polite smiles.  They are the ones we deal out when we don’t really want to smile or when we meet new people.  Then there is the unguarded greatness of a real smile.  I love how delicious the curve of the mouth is as the smile reaches up and kisses the eyes making them crinkle in the corners.  Like watching a flame, the soul, wake up and shine out of one’s eyes.  We are each other’s lantern through life in a way.

        “Don’t worry about the future; or worry but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum.”  Oh Baz, thank you for the advice.  I am trying harder to not spoil the now with too much worry.  So, I smile.  I smile for the warm spring day here in the Heart of it All.  I smile for my friend.  You, always, I smile for you.  Sometimes, when I am by myself, I even smile for myself.  

The Little Things

Heather:

Recent weeks have found me in four different states, three different homes, and two different hotels.  I've logged hundreds of miles in my car and hundreds more in a friend's car.  I've brewed many, many pots of coffee and steeped several cups of tea.

I have not done a single load of laundry.

Just over a week ago, Gran fell and broke both her left hip and her left shoulder.  Life came to a halt, as I frantically headed to the emergency room. Thus began a week of fracturing speed limit laws almost every time I got into the car.  A week ago yesterday, Gran had hip replacement surgery.  She's had a bout with pneumonia, but is doing much better.  How do I know?  She was mocking me last night for buying more books and we were able to play the entire game of Jeopardy. (It's my understanding that some people merely watch the show.  Gran and I have played along--keeping score--for about as long as I can remember.)  After a stint in rehab, she should be as good as new.

There were a few moments during all of this that I thought I might go crazy.  I was worried about Gran, trying to stay on top of things at work, and dealing with graduate school assignments.  My to-do list was daunting.  I felt myself sinking.

I didn't sink, though.

Why?  Because a neighbor called to see how Gran was getting along.  Because my boss's husband made trays of snacks and delivered them to me.  Because my students could tell I was having a hard time and they stepped up to help out.  Because Mom is the most selfless person I know.  Because a friend reminded me to see the beauty in ordinary things.  Because another friend drove 5 hours, one way, to have lunch with me.

I might get buried under the mountain of dirty laundry at my apartment, but I have learned that I can handle what life throws my way because I have good people around me.  I don't know why it's easier to focus on the negative things that happen, but we should all be spending more time on the positive things in our lives.  How have I practiced that this week?  Well, I started by trying to let go of some of my anger.  It's not something that will happen over night, but it's a start.  I've also sent cards.  You know--those things you write by hand, put a stamp on, and take to the post office.  Some have been cards of thanks, some cards to just say hello, and other cards to remind people that they rock.  A handwritten message has a way of brightening a day, but I also felt pretty good after posting them.  I also stopped to look at the daffodils that blanket sections of campus.  Something about the sunny flower always makes me smile.

It's been a bit of a battle--this focusing on the good and not snapping at people out of frustration and lack of sleep.  I think it's one worth fighting, though.

Here's your assignment.  Yeah, you read that correctly. I'm giving you an assignment.  Go outside today and see what nature has to offer you.  Maybe you'll spot a daffodil.  Maybe you'll hear birds chirping.  Maybe you'll find something that makes you smile.  Whatever you find, I bet it makes your day.

Show a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Courtney

          In my place of employment I have to wear a uniform.  It is pretty generic black pants and a white button down smock.  I work in the bakery department of a grocery store, and I like what I do. I mean how many people can say they make roses bloom with the flick of the wrist and a pastry bag filled with icing.  As a cake decorator I can color the world as I see fit.  We still cut donuts by hand.  That is how a good donut should be made, patiently and by hand. 

          I know this may seem like quit the jump, but I promise my craziness will make some sense in the end. 

          I did a very short stint at a well-recognized college in my area.  As I worked on a clay project one day, a professor went on about how daring it was that I was attending such a college since three years had passed between then and high school graduation.  I sat silently as she went on to say that my co-workers, my friends, were uneducated.  What? 

            I wanted to argue against her statement, but I gathered my things and left the clay lab.  I finished the semester, but I did not return after the holiday break.  I didn’t want to learn from someone who thought she was of more importance than the people who helped build me.  My education was mine to seek out, and so I chose to find it in the bakery.

           I may not have a college degree or certificates hanging on my walls, but I have so many other things. Things I can’t hang on a wall, but are much more valuable.  I have an appreciation for the little things like the way a waitress/waiter remembers what I order regularly.  I love that the man working at the full service gas station genuinely asks about my family and me and how the courtesy clerk at the grocery store knows that I prefer paper over plastic bags.  I appreciate kindness, even if it comes in the smallest of doses. 

            As for being uneducated, there is no such thing.  One should not be judged simply because they are educated differently from someone else.  I have a good job, skilled hands, an amazing Crew, and a give ‘em hell attitude.  How much more education does one need?  So, tip well.  Make eye contact.  Be kind.  Respect one another.  Help somebody if you can.  Now, before I put my hair net back on, I would like to propose a toast.  Here is to the ladies and gents in the uniforms.  To the ones running the world with their names on their shirt.  When it comes down to it, we’re all just trying to dance as elegantly through life as we can.    

 Heather

           I love to learn.  I always have.  I don’t remember learning to read, but I do remember being read to and then reading on my own.  It seems—at least to my memory—to have been a seamless transition.  I would read anything from the backs (and sides) of cereal boxes to the many copies of Hot Rod Magazine Dad had lying around the house.  I devoured history texts and relished book reports.  When I got to college, I took classes in non-Western history and art not because they were required for my major, but because I was interested in what I could learn there.  Some of the things I made in ceramics class are still kicking around my apartment.

            Mom and Dad always talked about college as if it were an absolute.  “When you go to college…” was a phrase I heard from my first day of kindergarten on through high school.  There was no if.  I was going.  And I went.

            I had just decided to transfer schools and change my major when Dad asked me if I thought I was smarter than him.  There was no hesitation—I told him that I was a different kind of smart.  He could tear apart an engine and put it together again without any kind of manual.  He could design and build all sorts of things with his torch and steel.  I could barely change a car tire, but I could talk about history and tear apart a poem. 

           A piece of paper in a fancy frame doesn’t denote education.  It indicates attendance at an institution and the fulfillment of minimum requirements, but it does not tell the story of what you actually know.  Education comes from experience and happens all around us—not just in ivy covered brick buildings.  I learned about the Battle of Hastings and Beowulf in a classroom, but I learned about hard work while working as a courtesy clerk and then cashier at a local grocery store.  Have you ever tried to lug two bales of paper bags from the back of a store to the front or moved two carts loaded down with groceries from the check-out area to a customer’s car while dodging other customers and traffic? How about dealing with people yelling at you because the sale doesn’t start on the day they want it to start?  The public.  Always an adventure.

            I learned about taking pride in my work from Dad.  He may have been what some would refer to as “only” a driver, but he made sure that his truck was well taken care of and that his work clothes were free of stains.  I learned about dedication from Mom who rarely calls off even when the weather keeps people who live in town from getting to work. 

            Instead of judging someone by their job, thank them.  Maybe they’re working as a server to pay their way through school or to support themselves while they produce art.  Maybe they’re doing that job because it’s what they love to do and they couldn’t imagine doing anything else. 

            Tip the courtesy clerk who slogs through snow and rain to deliver your groceries to your car, tip the server who brought you your meal, thank the postal workers, the paper carriers, and the waste removal workers.  Thank the people who make your work possible.

           Also, take some time to thank the people who have taught you valuable lessons.  That could mean sending a note to your fourth grade teacher who encouraged your writing or thanking your first boss for giving you a chance. 

Gratitude can make a difference.

 

The fishermen on Piedmont Lake have traded in the shacks of ice fishing for boats and I couldn't be happier.  Spring means a new beginning and hope.

 

Rulers, Pay checks, or Coffee Spoons? How Do You Measure a Year?

Courtney

Paper coffee cups.  Laughter.  The warmth of a child sitting on my lap.  Cell phone games. Friends.  In one swift elevator ride, all of that comfort was replaced with an achy, hollow feeling that settled itself in my chest.  Smeared mascara.  Hoodie sleeve tissues.  My second last kiss.  I was suddenly aware that the hospital smelled like sanitizer, salt, and sickness.  I wanted to leave.  I wanted to run to my car and drive as fast as those four wheels could roll, but I didn’t.  I told my friends to go home and I waited with my family for the funeral director to come for Dad. 

For a while after Papa Bear’s death I carried that hollow feeling with me constantly.  Now, almost four years later, the Beast only rears his ugly head every so often.  I don’t know if that feeling ever really fully heals after losing a parent, and part of me doesn’t want it to.  Every time my heart constricts in that way it is kind of a reminder of the man I carry with me. Because of this I have noticed that I have a bit of a problem. 

They say that the first step is admitting to having a problem.  I am not entirely sure who “they” are, but “they” may be onto something.  Once I admitted that I needed to fix myself, life became so much lighter.  You see I, Courtney Taylor, do not know how to measure.  I am not talking about busting out the ruler here.  I am talking about life.  How am I measuring life? 

One day I looked down at my coffee cup and silently wondered just how many cups I go through a year.  Then, I started thinking about other everyday things that I so very often take for granted.  How many smiles are there in a year?  How many hand written letters?  So for one year I want to chronicle the journey of bettering myself.  I want to stuff the days with too many pictures and not enough sleep.  Let’s go zip lining.  Let’s be kind to one another.  Let’s all take the time to smile more.  Let’s measure life differently this year.  So pack an overnight bag, come on, and bring your jukebox money.

Heather

On a March day, much like this one, my life changed with one phone call.  It was a short call—maybe two minutes in length, but in that time I learned that Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.   The months that followed were filled with doctor’s appointments and treatments.  I began carrying a bag that became known as my hospital readiness bag.  It contained snacks, tissues, bottles of water, books, notebooks, and pens.  Days blurred together as I put in a day at work and then either went home or to the hospital to see Dad.

On July 30, 2010, my life changed again.  I don’t remember the exact time, but it must have been late because I remember it being dark outside and the main lobby was nearly deserted.  My sister and I had been on the sixth floor with family for several days straight and had gone to the lobby to talk to some friends who had come to check on us.  When our brother stepped off the elevator, my heart sank.  The next several hours are a blur to me.  I know that we rushed back to Dad’s room and I know that there were tears.  I know that I couldn’t be in the room or even in the hallway when the funeral director came to take Dad away.  The next thing I remember is sitting at my Nan’s table with a cup of coffee thinking that I couldn’t go home because at home it would all be real.  I wasn’t sure that I could stand waking up in a world that didn’t include Dad.

My sorrow swallowed me and I buried myself in work.  If I stayed busy, I didn’t feel the emptiness.  One summer evening I was driving from my apartment to Mom’s and I passed the truck that Dad used to drive.  I reached for my phone to call him—and then I remembered.  I put the phone down and thought about what he might have said to me if I had been able to call him. 

Dad was a character.  He had a story for every occasion and he talk to everyone—for hours on end.  At the funeral home, people told me stories of their adventures with him.  He had really lived.  There were stories of motorcycle rides, senior pranks, parties, and truck pulls. 

I will always carry my grief for Dad, but, like my sister, I need a lesson in measuring.  Instead of measuring my days with meetings and time spent behind a desk, I need to start measuring it in the things that really matter.  I need to spend more time with friends and family.  I need to spend more time doing the things I always promised I would do later.  There is no more “later.”  There is only now.  My sister once asked me, “We all know life is hard, so why are we so mean to each other?”  My question is this: We all know life is short, so why don’t we make the most out of each and every day we’re given?

See the theme? 

This year, I’m going to really live and I’m going to share my story. 

Are you ready? 

I am.