Self Esteem Has Only Two Sources

I have one of those amazing friends who has a heart of gold. I have known her for over twenty years, and even though she may on occasion say something that comes off the wrong way, her intentions are forever benign. Several months ago she shared with me a concern about her daughter's confidence and self-esteem. I offered some suggestions, which were undoubtedly unhelpful. A little later I asked how things were going with her daughter. I have ever adored those noble souls who first look indoors to see if they can help change the weather somehow, and she sweetly replied that she  realized that she could do a better job of watching what she says to her daughter, and that it has helped. 


There are only two components to building self-esteem, according to the C-meister (psychotherapist), and there is great controversy over whether or not self-confidence may be taught outside of these two things: 
1. Skill-building/mastery 
2. Unconditional love


I love that my friend took a look at what she was saying and opted for greater love. I also have to say thank GOODNESS that those who did not grow up in a loving, nurturing home STILL have a chance to be confident! 


Today I received a call. It was from an out-of-state area code, and so I figured it was either a solicitor or a TV Program Director. I answered to find that it was the latter. They were minutes away from meeting with the network, and had forgotten to ask me one important question. 


Now this was the type of question that has the potential to make or break a deal. This was the type of question that makes you reach deep, because you know that by answering, you are sealing your fate. It's like those lines in the grocery store. You look to your left...

You look to your right...and suddenly you realize that you are surrounded. You have to make a choice. 

Do you succumb to the enticings of cheap and hollow caloric consumption, or do you rise above? Do you feed on the libelous and defamatory offerings of the paparazzi, or do you look at the ceiling to resist the urge to consume the petty gossip and privacy-violating headlines that shout at you from glossy, colorful pages? 


Alas, there I sat, with the question ringing in my ears. Of course I knew how I would answer. There was no question about that. The question that ran through my mind at that moment was this: would my answer determine my fate? Was I being discriminated against? Was this how it felt for so many who were discriminated against because of their skin color or ancestry? Why should such a thing matter? It seemed to be an irrelevant question upon which to make their decision, and yet, I answered. I am not ashamed of what I am, and nothing in this world would change my answer, like so many before me who had guns held to their heads and were threatened with death if they would not deny who they were. "Yes, I am." I replied. I am a "Mormon," a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The Arborist

I have been troubled. The bark has fallen off of some of the trees, and my favorite old fashioned red delicious lost a trunk to deadwood. I thought they had some fungus, some terrible, incurable thing that would spread to our new peach, plum, cherry, and apple trees. I visited a nursery for help. As a last resort, the woman suggested I could hire an Arborist. 

 

Once upon a time, before becoming a Technogeekologist, I wanted to become a Botanist, so I have great respect for this often unappreciated ilk of the professional world. He showed up on Monday, looking all Arboristy in his straw hat and sun-shiny smile. He gushed over my fruitful yet feeble-looking pear that has defied all odds, and I looked on like a proud adopted parent. He pulled out his virtual stethoscope and told me that our rather aggressive apple pruning has been the cause of not enough canopy for our old chaps, and has caused blistering on the bark from the sun, which made my heart break. He showed me how to prune my baby Braeburn to help him grow up big and strong, and praised me for planting my new baby peaches at the correct level.

It was the best money I have spent on our yard since buying this place. Not only did he point out how to lengthen the lifespan of our 75 year old trees, but he also recommended some plants and trees, suggestions for flowerbeds, how to properly treat for our aphids (the nursery recommended stuff for the fruit trees that would poison the fruit????!!!!).

It was thrilling, and shook the very core of my nerdness. I followed him around, writing down every word he said, and eating it up like candy... 

C was not so enthusastic.

"Do you want to join me?" I asked.

"No. Work. More work. That's all he will tell us." Well, not all of us love Arborists, but after the fact, he really was very interested. "Did you write that down? What else did he tell you?"

One of the best things I learned is that our pruners could be spreading disease to our trees. He answered any and all questions about our 22 trees, flowerbeds, roses, and best grafting practices for an hour and a half.

I have a final exam tonight for the 8 week class that I finished in a week and a half, but I have this one buttoned up. I am acing it. As for the TV program, still no word, but it's only mid-week. The programming company could get back with me before the end of the week still. Speaking of reality programming, have you seen Dual Survival? So captivating! Not for little kids because yes, they do kill animals and eat them, but what GREAT components for intriguing and engaging programming! Not TOO dramatic, but you have one guy who is a military survivalist, and the OTHER guy is this hippie who wears no shoes, even in arctic climates. Wow. It's just awesome to see these two work together in survival situations. Check it out!

Happy 4th of July!

The third was a  lovely day. I cleaned suckers off of all of the mature fruit trees with the help of some little helpers across the street while C started working on my next flowerbed, a huge improvement over the pieces of wood that surrounded it before. See the final product here.

 

We ate some loverly things like mango salad and cilantro lime white chili with chicken. 

I picked fresh strawberries from the garden, and hung out with Kawi in the hammock.

Kawi hid in my hair to make sure those big bad fireworks didn't get him...

The sunset was a thousand times more gorgeous than the fireworks displays. 

A Little More LEAN, Please...

When C came home I was chilling in the hammock with Kawi, who had just been trying to scare off those very frightening and dangerous butterflies that seem to have cropped up everywhere overnight. Impressively, Kawi didn't seem to mind the baby dove who stopped by to listen to his performance of Der Hölle Rache.

What it's supposed to sound like...

Kawi's version:

I suggested we go for a motorcycle ride, and perhaps stop by for a salmon slider or two. I donned my baby blue jacket...

And my boots...

And we were off, Go-Go-Power Rangers!

Yours truly...

I thought I would take a few pics along the way...

We had planned on eating outside, but there was a thirty year reunion going on. I did a quick scan to see if the  lady in the green shirt was there, but no dice. It was the wrong school, but would have made for an interesting ending to the story...

Soon we were off again. Something a tiny bit sad about a flag at half-mast for the 4th, but then, that is the honorable beauty of it as well, I suppose...

We picked our canyon destination and headed off into the mountains.

And I started to wonder if I need a faster camera to keep up with C's bike...

C tapped my leg so I could catch the odometer changing to 22222...

Here's where I had to hold tight, and where I leaned in close to C as we move like one through the winding green canyon, slicing through the stillness 'til the wind roars past us, licking at our helmets. The sweet smell of holiday campfires filled our nostrils,  along with the occasional whiff of not so sweet road carrion to remind us that we are not encased in metal and glass. It all comes to you, the smells, the sounds, the sights. We passed trucks pulling well-stocked campers, and saw their puppies pressing wet noses against glass windows to peer at us whizzing by. 

We watched the towering rock cliffs and trees fade into silhouettes as the sun settled into bed for the night, while we rode off into the dusty rose sunset to our own delicious habitation.  

Tiny little fact: Did you know that I write my blogs for a variety of readers? Some love lots of pictures, but don't we all? For them I have some posts with lots of pics and/or videos, like this one. I also have my treasure-box blog, Whose-its, a happy place with lots of fun things to look at. Some readers like words that paint pictures, and some like words that lift and inspire. Some readers are just busy, and so I include the large text so that someone may get the jist of my post in ten seconds or less, but I don't often include the more in depth stuff in large text. 

What types of posts do you love most?

YOU Asked for it!

No, you really did. Several of you. It was something like, hey, make sure you keep me updated on that really cool secret you revealed! You did. I won't name names, but I'm just sayin'. Well, here it is, the update...but first, a word from our sponsor, How To Know When You Think You Are Being Helpful But You Really Aren't. 


Scenario #1: 
I was eighteen years old and mowing our lawn. I noticed that a little Dutch couple down the street had  reasonably long grass. Normally one of their sons would come to mow it for them, but it just got longer, and longer, and longer...

It was a hot day. I thought, I could just wander over and mow that lawn and be all neighborly and nice! I didn't know if they were home, and was pretty sure they weren't. I could just surprise them, and when they arrived home to a newly mowed lawn, they'd have no idea who did it! I started on one corner of the lawn and cut across to the other side. I was just making my second turn when the woman ran out with arms flailing, shouting some expletives and insisting that I stop. I was undoubtedly shocked. Perhaps she thought I was going to charge her money for it.

"I, uh, I'm just trying to be nice...I wasn't going to try to charge you money or anything..." The sad part is, I don't remember what happened next. I don't remember if I finished mowing, or if I went back home with tail tucked. I just remember how I felt, which was, "Gosh, I was only trying to help."

Scenario #2: 
Today I stopped at a store to look at earrings. A woman approached me and asked for advice on her clothing and jewelry selection, a belted green sleeveless shirt and a rainbow colored necklace. She was going to a reunion tonight and wanted something cute to wear. Long story short, I made some jewelry suggestions which she liked, and then she mumbled something about how if her daughter was there, she would have told her how she really felt. I thought I would go the extra mile and try a little harder to help. 

We started our hunt for an outfit and mustered up a few things that might work. She would try something on, and ask for a different size of something and then asked if I'd find a little bolo jacket. I left to find the jacked, and when I returned she was gone. I looked toward the door and saw her little blonde head retreating out of the store. {Sigh} While I was just as shocked at her sudden lack of of enthusiasm for my help, I must confess, it was a little easier to take than flailing arms and expletives. Alas, sometimes you just never know the price you'll pay for "helping," but I'll still keep trying just the same.

And now, the news: The production company e-mailed me today. They are meeting with the network next week, so things are moving along. I made some recommendations that they consider a documentary on the non-profit organization with which I work, so I will be pleased either way. You've been JUST SO eager for an update, and now you know!

A Temporary Reconciliation

In the great adventure stories there is an anomaly, a contradiction to everything you know. It pulls at the very foundations of your faith in the hero, leaving you to question, to doubt. It is a brief, but temporary reconciliation between the protagonist and the antagonist in order to fight a greater evil. Today I achieved this brief monumental status, but the events leading up to it were most unexpected.

I began the day a bit tired, having achieved full catharsis from taking in the spectacular depiction of Nelson Mandela and his quest for unity. I arrived at work in time for a meeting, and at 11:00 AM, I headed across the parking lot for my regular blood-letting. I proudly offered them the garden-hose vein on my left arm, and they graciously accepted.

I gushed with the blood-letters about how much I love giving blood, and then gushed literally. It went something like this:

A: I LOVE giving blood. It's so easy with a tap vein that just begs to be bled.

BloodLetter1: That's kind of creepy. Oops! Looks like we've gotta leak here.

A: See what I told you? BEGGING to be bled. Say, have you seen Land of the Lost? I am not recommending it, because, well, it has Will Ferrell in it, but did you see the scene with the mosquito?

BloodLetter2: No, what scene. Mosquito?

BloodLetter1: (chuckle) Well, see, there's this mosquito, and it's THIS BIG, and it gets him in the jugular, see? And it starts to fill up, and...

Coworker who is afraid of needles: (groan)

Nurse: Stop talking about that! He has an issue with needles!

Coworker:(to me) I'll get even with you later, A.

A: (laugh) Just keep thinking, 'I'm gonna win the laptop.' Just think laptop.

Coworker: Laptop. Right. Wait, we get to win a laptop?

True story! It was an unexpected bonus that they mentioned after you arrived for your appointment.

My blood-letting was complete in a respectable eight minutes, and after a little juice and snack, I hurried back to my desk.  I was a little light headed, so I delayed driving to pick up some lunch until I felt better. 12:00...1:00...2:00...2:45... I decided to remove my colorful blood-letting armbands, and the moment I moved my elbow, well, let's just say that I didn't stick around to clean the blood off of my desk. I pressed the bandage on my arm and booked it back across the parking lot to the bandwagon before they left. They remembered me from earlier, yea verily, by name, and hastily re-wrapped my arm.

A: I think I am feeling a little light headed.

BloodLetter: Do you want to lie down?

A: No, maybe I just need a little water...

BloodLetter: Did you drink plenty of water and eat today?

A: Oh, yes, I drank plenty of water....Ummm, hmmm. Ohhhhh. I guess I did forget to eat...

Bloodletter: That would certainly do it...

A: I think I am going to pass out. Yes, I am definitely going to pass out. Here I go! 

Suddenly I was someplace different. I think it was nighttime, and I was talking to someone, but someone else kept interrupting by calling my name from the shadows. When I opened my eyes, I looked up to see this:

Only, who WERE these people, and how did they know my name?


They kept telling me to keep my eyes open, but they were so heavy. I felt just like Will Ferrell after his giant mosquito bite. At last I remembered where I was, and why that young strapping fella was lifting both of my feet up off of the bench. They moved me onto one of the tables, where I stared at this for an inordinate amount of time:

Not very interesting, really. I watched the clock flip for twenty, thirty minutes, hoping my head would finally clear. At last I bid my band of caretakers farewell.

 I finally mustered up the courage to walk VERY SLOWLY back across the parking lot to the door, and took a rest just inside. I took the elevator up ONE FLOOR, and triumphantly sat at my desk, still feeling rather sick. Oddly, the blood droplets had curled up into dried flakes and there was very little cleanup.

I tried to make it home before I got even sicker, but started to feel light headed about half-way home. I pulled off in the closest parking lot, which just HAPPENED to be Pizza Factory.

 I knew I had to get some food in me, but I also didn't want to pass out in a restaurant. Lo and beholden: in my phone was the phone number for the restaurant! I looked in my console and found a dollar and change. It was desperate times. I knew that only the Nemesis could help me now. I would have to do the very thing that was most contradictory, that tears at the very fiber of integrity, of humanity.

The Nemesis and I have had a long relationship. We normally regard one another with politeness, and on special occasions we share a brief conversation in order to avoid offending a tender host who has ignorantly invited us both to dinner. In less intimate circumstances, however, we rarely even exchange glances. The Nemesis has employed evil belly and thigh plumping properties which are intended to be the demise of my fitness goals, and yet the lightening fast sugar conversion was the very thing I needed in that moment.

"RELEASE THE NEMESIS!" The words tumbled from my lips in desperation, and moments later, IT appeared at my car door window. Alas, it was time to join forces for the greater good.

It was a strange, but sweet reunion, like Magneto and Xavier, once dear friends, then enemies, joined momentarily, only to part ways again once the joint victory has been achieved.

Odium on Unmindful Democracy

I sometimes feel as if we live in a lovely bubble. We think it's tough when our cars break down, or we get behind on bills, or we can't fit into our favorite pair of jeans. We focus on silliness and insignificance as if it were some critical issue that we must battle. We pick over food not being prepared correctly at restaurants and use it as grounds to be unkind to another human being; we scoff at the person who isn't dressed just so, and then our children grow up and do the same. We create caste systems without names, except that they are enforced by prideful glances and eye-rolling, and perhaps a whispered word or two, just to make sure that one is kept in their place and then think we are better for it.

So often I think we take for granted the great gifts we have been given as a nation. We fight ferociously about a tiny injustice of someone accidentally dinging our car door while we keep a blind eye to what is happening throughout the world. Nobody wants to hear about the fear and trepidation that seizes the hearts of citizens of  other countries while their governments are at the root of violent acts against them.

I have followed Afghanistan's relationship with the United States reasonably closely, and not from U.S. news sources, since you get a very different perspective internationally. If Afghanistan was on the news every night, nobody would watch because it wouldn't entertain us. Why do we want to hear the same old news about that war that is so far away that we cannot smell the gunpowder, nor hear the casings clatter to the ground? I watched as Obama redirected the focus from Iraq to Afghanistan, a country who sheltered al-Qaeda's presence within their boundaries, allowing their organization to grow and flourish in the desert.

I watched as Afghan elections looked hopeful, and President Obama congratulated Afghanistan on holding their own election, only to have spoken too soon. I watched as the truth spewed forth about the elections, destroying confidence in the results. I watched as Mr. Karzai's opponent dropped out of the election with some sloppy reason, leaving an enormous question mark with Karzai's name all over it.

I watch as the battle rages on, taking the very familiar tone of Vietnam, while military leaders speak out in frustration and criticism against the executive branch of American government. I watch as those military leaders step off the stage, leaving an enormous hiccup in the velocity of the war. I watch as Americans go about their every day activities, oblivious to the fact that their safe rest at night is under the watchful eyes of men and women they will never know nor see.

I am not trying to take a gloom-and-doom point of view, and certainly there are those who mourn with the world as they take the time to be aware of the painful circumstances under which so many human beings live, not just in Afghanistan, but throughout the world. What can we do, after all?

We can be grateful for what we have. We can pray for those who struggle, both in our country and throughout the world, take the time to learn about your fellow earthlings, and perhaps find some small way to help through a humanitarian project, and the next time one verbally censures the government, remember that many died to remove the fear from our hearts to do so, and many more continue to die to protect that right. In many countries it would be a sentence for death.

Perhaps this year while celebrating our freedoms, wherever in the world one may live, we can think about what those fireworks represent, or put a flag in the yard. We can be grateful that our country doesn't block blogger or other social networking tools because they are trying to censure us. We can relish that family BBQ in the backyard a bit more because we can't hear bombs going off in the distance (unless they are fireworks) and we don't worry about our children wandering onto a land mine.

We can hold our family a bit closer, knowing that someone won't rip us from their arms just because we have an undesirable lineage or because we said the wrong thing out loud one day. We can be a bit more kind the next time something doesn't go our way, and don't be an agent for fear in another person's life because we could use more agents of safety and kindness instead.