… makes me an uninspired, uncreative, dull, dull, dull girl.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad I have a job. Maybe even lucky. But lately, my job has left me completely drained – of energy, of time, of creativity, of inspiration. Every day, I go to office, put in eight hours (sometimes more) of my time, my energy, my talents, my heart, my mind, my LIFE.  And at the end of the day, I feel I am left with nothing but fatigue and frustration.  I have nothing left for God, for my husband, my friends, my family, even myself.

I know that part of the problem is my own perfectionism. It kills me to have to deal with mediocrity. (And that can almost be taken in a literal sense, as my intensely high daily stress level surely is doing nothing good for my health.) But every day, mediocrity is what I deal with. On top of that, the people I am surrounded with don’t seem to even notice it. So, every day, I take it upon myself to “cure” us (by us, I mean the media company I work for) of mediocrity. And I’ve realized that I CANNOT do that anymore. I can’t take it upon myself to “fix” everything. I just can’t.

I need balance. I need ME back. When I leave work, I need to LEAVE work. No more taking work home every weekend. No more stressing out during my vacation time and being unable to RELAX because I’m worried about this project, or that impossible deadline, or this article that I need to finish and to perfect. No more skipping workouts or turning down social invitations because I’m exhausted, because I’ve spent too much of myself on work, work, work. No more. I’m done. Done.

Well, until the next time I lose sight or my priorities and lose myself again. Help keep me accountable, will you?

I am in the beginning stages of helping plan my 10-year high school reunion.  (Wow! I feel old.)  And this, of course, has prompted me to browse my high school yearbooks and such.  My school days (all of them, not just high school) were often difficult.  Kids were cruel, as kids often are.  Sometimes, especially cruel.

That’s not to say that my school experience was all bad.  It wasn’t.  We all eventually grew up (sometime during the summer before senior year) and learned to get along despite our socioeconomic/racial/personality/whathaveyou differences.  And I’ve never been one to hold a grudge, always forgiving people despite the lack of apology.  But as I was skimming my old high school yearbooks, I did come across an apology – the only one I ever remember receiving from a once-cruel classmate – written in blue ink on page 22.

Laura,

How goes it?  Well I want you to know that you have been a great friend.  All those times I was mean to you when we were younger, well I’m sorry for that.  Keep band strong next year.  Maybe you’ll get Drum Major next year!  That would be awesome.  Well I’ve gotta go.  I’ll write more later.

Your friend,

It was nice to read nearly 10 years ago.  Still is.  There is so much power in a simple “I’m sorry.”  I think so many times, we make offenses and then move on as if nothing ever happened, expecting the person on the receiving end to do so as well.  We’re penitent, and we expect others to realize this without our making it known:

My husband knows I was only angry and didn’t mean to say the hurtful things I did.  I don’t have to say, “I’m sorry.”  My best friend will forgive me for letting her secret slip.  After all, it was an accident.  My mom understands how busy I was last week when I forgot to call her back.  There’s no need to apologize.  My little brother won’t mind that I forgot his birthday.  He understands I have a lot of things on my mind.  My son knows I love him, even though I angrily yelled at him out of frustration.  My sister will forgive me for going overboard on the teasing.  She knows I didn’t mean to be hurtful.  That girl at church who walked in on us gossiping about her probably didn’t even hear what we were saying, anyway. The list goes on.

Not every wrongdoing is easily glossed over.  Many offenses are forgiven, but not all are forgotten.  Words and actions that may be no big deal to us can have a lasting effect on the recipients of those words and actions.

“I’m sorry.”

A simple phrase.  It’s not always easy to say.  But it is comforting, and sometimes necessary, to hear.

Posted in Life, Etc., My Roots, Ruminations Tagged: forgiveness, high school, letters, yearbook ]]> http://laurajeanette.wordpress.com/2008/10/24/when-its-too-hard-to-say-im-sorry-write-it-in-a-yearbook/feed/ 2 laurajeanette http://laurajeanette.wordpress.com/2008/10/09/overwhelmed/ http://laurajeanette.wordpress.com/2008/10/09/overwhelmed/#comments Thu, 09 Oct 2008 13:33:55 +0000 laurajeanette http://laurajeanette.wordpress.com/?p=306 ]]>

This is how I feel.

All.

The.

Time.

While reading the Tennessean online, I came across an article about John McCain selecting Alaska governor Sarah Palin as his running mate.  The article gives a brief overview of Palin’s political/biographical background, ending with this final sentence:

She and her husband Todd Palin, have five children. The latest, a baby, was born with Down syndrome.

I find it so comforting to know that Palin’s latest child was a baby, and not, I don’t know, a chicken or an alien.  Rest assured people, the Tennessean has confirmed that Palin’s latest child was indeed a baby.  You can go back to your arguing over who would make a better president: Obama or McCain.  Thank you for your time.

The other day, I came home from the gym and my husband was downloading music to his iPhone.  He had his headphones on, and I could barely make out the lyrics.  The song: “How I Could Just Kill a Man.”  Here is the conversation that followed:

Me: (semi singing/rapping, most likely bustin’ some Luda moves) Here is something you can’t understand, how I could just kill a man. Is that what you’re listening to?

Husband: Yeah, you know that song? (obviously surprised, maybe even shocked)

Me: Holla!  Ice Cube.  Of course I know that song.  Do you not know me at all?  (The song is actually sung by Cypress Hill, but Ice Cube is in the video.)

Husband: (with a totally puzzled look on his face) No, baby.  Rage sings that song.  You know, Rage Against the Machine … the rock group.

Me: Sweetie, that’s a rap song.  You know, thug life.  How else would I know the lyrics?

At this point, a small argument ensued over who originally recorded the song (duh, Cypress Hill) and who covered it.  Wikipedia gave us our answer, but offered no help in in resolving the conflict that arises from the fact that my husband and I are not only from two different planets, but two different solar systems.

Heck, I’m not even sure if we live in the same dimension.

• engagement photo (we look so young) because every girl needs a photo of her man by her bed to remind her that she’s loved
• sea breeze scented candle for relaxing aromatherapy
• notebook, complete with notes, to jot down those late night thoughts that chase away sleep
• a green and blue polka dot pen because pens should be fun, not boring, in order to enhance creativity
• Billy Collins’ Poetry 180 – modern inspiration, a good read
• bedside lamp to provide light for nighttime reading and writing
• Dasani water, the only kind I drink
• striped coaster to protect the furniture from ugly water rings

The blank page leers at me

like an imperious tiger eyeing

the weak gazelle in the herd -

the small, delicate one with wild,

darting eyes.

His rough tongue

laps greedily at his carnivorous incisors.

He is not hungry – no,

solely cavalier.

A lust for domination primes his axons,

contracting muscles

that know only to devour.

Iron eyes – penetrating -

unclothe her vulnerabilities,

defy her to rise.

*I saw myself on Oprah yesterday. Well, I saw the self that I try to forget about, the part of me that I hide and pretend never existed even though I don’t think I can ever forget it did. I saw the part of me that few people even know about, the part of me that most people are somewhat shocked to hear about when I do actually tell them. It is the part of me that I am more likely to share with total strangers than with those people whom I consider friends or even acquaintances.

When I left home to go to college, I started over. I made a new life for myself, a life that most would consider “normal,” middle-class. But the fact of the matter is that I grew up poor, always on the brink of and most of the time below the national poverty line, below the Mississippi poverty line. There were times that I didn’t know it because my mom worked so hard to give her children a “normal” life, but there were also times when I knew the reality of it all too well. Times when I was afraid of what might happen to my family, when I worried about where we would live or how we would pay for things. I knew what it felt like to get free lunch at school and to have a classmate see my mom use food stamps in the grocery line, to wear clothes that did not originally belong to me, hand-me-downs from older peers, and to be pointed out as different, as not good enough, as a poor kid, to be called “white trash” by classmates.

I saw myself on Oprah yesterday, but I also saw other children who have worse lives than I ever did, even at the lowest point. I also saw my mom, a single mom who worked three or four jobs, who deprived herself to give to her children, who knew that there were others worse off and didn’t hesitate to help them. Some people looked down on her and judged her, but I know she did the best that she could with what she was given. My mom sacrificed herself to give her children what they needed to break the cycle and live a better life. I know I had it better than so many other kids, but I had it worse than almost all of the kids that I knew.

For many years, I have lived with both shame and guilt. Shame because at a young age I was taught that I wasn’t good enough, that other people were better than me. Shame because our society associates poverty with some sort of moral or mental decay, or just plain laziness. Shame because our society believes that people live like that because they want to or because they deserve it. I feel guilt because sometimes I buy into that erroneous belief. Guilt because I hide a part of myself that has shaped me into the person that I am now. Guilt because I sometimes pretend to be someone that I am not. I also feel guilt for wanting more and for having more for my life. Guilt for moving ahead while others are left behind. Guilt because I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve the life that I have now because I lived the life that I did then.

What makes me special? What makes me different from other children who are caught in the cycle and can’t get out of it? I know I’m not that different. I was blessed with an extended family that helped out when we needed it without seeing us as a “charity case.” I was blessed with school teachers and church leaders who helped give me the skills and the confidence and the hope that I needed in order to break the cycle. I was different, I am different, because I had hope, because I believed that I could rise above it even though everything in my life told me I couldn’t.

I don’t want to hide myself, or parts of myself, anymore. I don’t want to feel shame or guilt anymore. I just want to be. And I want to give others that same hope that is so desperately needed and so rarely seen inside the lives of America’s poor.

*This post was originally published on March 23, 2006 to my old Xanga blog. I am re-posting it here to continue the discussion over on Living Oprah.

** On another note, I would love to be able to import that blog to this one, but I have no idea how. Does anyone know how to do that?

I am watching the Olympics. I LOVE the Olympics. I love the athleticism, the competition, the sportsmanship. I love the excitement and suspense. I love the symbolism, the peace, the unity. I love the back stories of the athletes, the struggles, the obstacles, the overcoming, the realizing the dream. I love the sense of pride for my country I feel when one of ours takes home the gold. I love hearing our national anthem played on an international stage. I love the Olympics. Michael Phelps is my hero. Go Team USA!

Sunday was an ice cream lover’s dream come true. The Martha O’Bryan Center held its 23rd Purity Miss Martha’s Ice Cream Crankin’ Contest on the lawn of First Presbyterian Church in Nashville. Basically, it’s all the homemade ice cream you can eat, dozens of unique flavors, all for $8. After church, lunch, and a little naptime, you had better believe the Rutabagas were there for this one. All you can eat homemade ice cream. Who doesn’t love that? We even managed to drag the husband along.

(Read more here)