Tag: Uplifting

Special Connection

Caregivers develop a special, deeper connection with those who are in their care. I have no empirical data to support this claim. Anecdotal stories do support it though. I have my personal experience, those of family members, and friends who have cared for and lost those close to them.

It is only logical to assume that caregivers who are not “related” to their charges develop special, deep connections with those they care for. Again, no empirical data, but I cannot imagine they don’t.

Pam and I had a special relationship from the git go. I am sure we were in love before we knew it. We lifted each other up, consoled each other, confided in each other, and counseled each other. I’ve realized more recently that she saw more good in me than I saw in myself. I know Pam struggled with her own positive identity. But I saw her true self as did she see mine.

Collaborating with my sister who has been the primary caregiver for our aging (99-1/2 years old) Mother brings to light changes in relationships with our loved ones. I with Pam, she with our Mother. As Jan confides in me, it is easy to empathize with the deeper emotional ties she has developed even as her caregiving role has changed. I hear it in her voice (our conversations are by the phone). The occasional catch in her voice. The tell-tale sign of tears welling in her eyes. Her concern for our Mother’s failing cognition and general health.

Jan’s experience has helped me understand my own special, deeper relationship with Pam as the insidious disease ravaged her both physically and mentally. I’m sure I’ve said before that I didn’t realize the depth of my love for Pam until we traveled that horrible path. But now I see that my love and care for Pam actually deepened even more with the experience.

It’s hard to explain because we were still so much in love after 20 plus years of marriage. But many things changed as she became more dependent on me for her everyday needs. She slowly lost the ability to convey those needs or communicate in complex ways. I know she hated the dependence, but was also thankful to have my help.

For my part, I had to listen closely, not due to volume, but to understand. I had to develop ways to provide both physical and emotional support that I never knew I could. And her condition was always changing, and thus my means and methods. I had no training.

Caregiving is a noble endeavor. One that I imagine is very fulfilling for those professionals who choose to train for and engage in it. Jan and I have witnessed how professional caregivers work with those to which they are assigned. Whether they are members of private, commercial organizations or of non-profits like Hospice. Of course, they are not all equally sensitive or compassionate. But for the most part, it is apparent that they, too, try to, and ultimately do develop special connections with those they care for.

As we age, our exposure to caregiving is thrust upon us almost by default. If not for an aging parent, then for a partner or other close relative. And there are those who must take on the role for their young spouse, partner, or worse yet, their children. In the midst of it, it’s hard to recognize the good and positive aspects of your care and commitment. Know, though, that regardless of the outcome, your efforts are not in vain. You become more sensitive, empathetic, compassionate, and wise. From then forward, you will find it easier to experience special, deeper connections with those you care for, and for other caregivers as well.

Strange and Wonderful Sounds

My ears were subjected to a cacophony of sounds as soon as I opened the car door. I knew immediately that it was cicadas. I’d heard a few at home, but nothing like the constant noise I heard from the parking lot at Squire Point. Returning after several weeks of on and off travel, it was great to be back. But the sound!

Having donned my boots and trekking poles, I set off to enjoy the trail. Last autumn’s prescribed burn coupled with ample spring rain allowed the undergrowth amongst the trees to flourish in stature and color. Patchy sunshine filtering through the majestic, aged trees dappled shades of greens and browns on trees and undergrowth alike.

But the sound. It didn’t take long to identify three distinct types of cicada music. The constant background of whining permeated the forest. Difficult to identify, it was something like a mechanical whirring of mid-range tones, like that of a fan in need of lubrication. Its volume changed only as I ambled through the woods. Clearly there were areas of higher cicada concentrations in the trees. But the sound never abated while I was outside of the car.

I passed smaller swarms of the bumblebee sized insects along the path. Their sound was more like the incessant buzzing we are familiar with. Louder than the constant whirring throughout the forest, the chatter undulated at different decibel levels as I passed, louder then softer, then louder again in a coordinated symphony of winged instruments.

Closer, I could hear individual cicadas in the nearby trees extending their invitations to females in hopes of completing the mating act during their short, 24 hour adult life. Watching the path below and ahead as I often do, I saw the remains of those who’s time had passed. In some cases, I saw only a pair of wings. Other forest critters having hauled off and feasted on the other remains.

Traversing Squire Point and entering Woodpecker Trail, there was actually a fourth sound. I thought it might be a nearly silent drone or some kind of electric bike, barely audible compared to the singing (not really singing, but…) bugs. I turned to look and saw a single cicada flying, then landing on a nearby fern. Such a delicate contrasting sound, and enlightening new experience!

Winding my way back along the matted dirt and naturally mulched path, I found myself hearing something different. Smaller, nearby cicada swarms were absent. For the first time this day I could hear the breeze high up in the trees. Its cooling refreshment barely reaching pathway level. Now that’s a familiar sound. But short-lived. Hike a few meters forward and back into the din.

Nearly five miles later, I was back at my vehicle. Take off the boots and put on shoes. Stow the trekking poles and drink the rest of my water. Looking down I found a wayward interloper at my feet. Yep. A cicada.

Above the twig, just below my thigh

Time to go. I got in and shut the door. OMG!!! It’s quiet! I didn’t realize just how loud the cicadas were.

As a side note, I was driving along the back roads east of the reservoir last week and thought my hearing devices were malfunctioning. I kept hearing a faint buzzing come and go. Since I have had a similar problem with them in the past, I took one out, and then the other. But I could still hear the noise as I meandered along the narrow, unmarked asphalt roads. I finally realized that, from time to time, I was passing swarms of cicadas. Who knew?!

Another thing I realized while on my hike today. I’m going to miss this natural world when my time comes – hopefully not soon.

Travel Log – Nebraska 2024

My trip to Nebraska was both rewarding and painful. I hope to expound on the rewards, but can’t help mixing in some pain. My planned route included stops at two lunch spots that I had seen on Only In Iowa, and designed to avoid any major highways.

First, I must say that Friday was an interesting and ultimately difficult day. I was packed and ready to go by noon. and considered taking off early, but didn’t know where to to. I kept busy outside all day which was good. But the evening relaxation turned into a major letdown that further exhausted me mentally, adding to the physical tiredness.

A ray (or rays) of hope on Friday evening

Waking early Saturday I left before I’d planned. That was good because it was a five-hour drive to Malvern, Iowa and Classic Cafe. I found the downtown area to be bustling with quant businesses, pedestrians, bikes, and cars. I could have spent more time there if I hadn’t another place to be that afternoon.

Classic Cafe was excellent. With decor epitomizing small town downtown cafes, It was comfortable with “Please sit anywhere” and welcoming friendly staff. The main special this day was Hot Beef Open Faced Sandwich. Not my favorite fare. But I jumped when the server mentioned Made Rites. One of Pam’s favorites, we used to seek out places that had both Made Rites and good pork tenderloin sandwiches. Accompanied with sweet potato fries and iced tea, my hunger was soon satisfied. If you are ever in the area, I highly recommend it.

The lengthy morning trek, enjoying the wandering state and county roads (mostly IA 92) of southern Iowa, left me less than two hours of yet more pleasurable travel to Leid Lodge at Arbor Day Farm. I had not been there in over 30 years when I stayed while consulting at Cooper Nuclear Power Plant. There on business, I never got the opportunity to enjoy the many interesting features at Arbor Day Farm. Taking Pam there to share what I thought would be a fun and enjoyable venue was on my bucket list. But we never made it there. I thought it fitting that I return now as part of my journey to Pam’s bridge.

Leid Lodge and Arbor Day Farm did not disappoint. A Baltimore Oriole greeted me as I walked toward the entrance from my car. The lodge reminds me of some in and around the mountains out west. Its timber construction, vaulted ceilings and glass walls are augmented by the use of recycled materials that finish the room decor, such as carpet made of recycled plastics.

I walked about five miles along wooded pathways and apple and nut orchards around the perimeter of the grounds. There are interactive displays in hundred-year-old farm buildings, a Tree Adventure ideal for family excursion, and a really neat shop, Apple House Market, where I spent more than I probably should have on honey, popcorn, candy, and a sweatshirt that colorfully says “Plant Trees.” There are many other facilities and activities there to enjoy.

Having made reservations, as recommended, at Timbers in Leid Lodge, I chose to sit on the deck overlooking treed grounds. I enjoyed an excellent meal of Prime Rib, homestyle mashed potatoes, and asparagus, with a glass of Cabernet. This was actually the third point at which I really felt Pam’s absence, the first two being while strolling in the woods. The second, while shopping. She would have really loved this place. Her joy would only enhance my experience.

Views from my table

I played my guitar on the stone terrace behind the lodge where more than a few people, especially with children, stopped to listen and offer their thanks. Cool. Having a fourth floor room facing the orchards, I hoped for a glimpse of the Northern Lights anticipated that evening. But they did not manifest. I slept well.

On the road before eight on Sunday morning, headed for the bridge. It was appropriately gloomy and I could see rain shafts in the distance toward Creston NE from the open road. Sullen anticipation enveloped me. About a 2-1/2 hour drive, I arrived by 10:30.

It was cool and breezy at Pam’s bridge, with intermittent light rain. Also appropriate. Avoiding too much detail about my time there, my lasting images are of dropping yellow daisy flowers over the guard rail while reconnecting with my sorrow, loneliness, guilt, and just trying to connect with Pam. And being on my knees, grasping the guard rail while screaming in agony as the pain overtook me. I spent quite a while there. I didn’t want to leave, but knew I would eventually have to.

Heading east again toward Ankeny, I had another lunch stop to make in Beebeetown Iowa, truly a “don’t sneeze or you’ll miss it town”, to a place called Twisted Tail Steakhouse and Saloon. Also recommended by Only In Iowa, it looked like a fun place to visit and enjoy another good meal along my route. Talking with a sister while on my way, I suggested that it might be the only restaurant in town and busy, being Mothers Day. No kidding. Look at the map on the link. Beebeetown is literally a on stop sign town. Twisted Tail was the only business I could see there. And it was packed!!! Cars parked up and down the street. People standing in line outside, decked in their Sunday best or Mothers Day finest – whatever. I moved on, grabbing a wrap sandwich in a convenience store and eating on the road. I’ll have to consider going back to Beebeetown another time.

of a sudden, in the hills about a mile west of Harlan, I crossed the path of the recent tornado. Mangled trees and missing roofs, silos, and damaged barns. There was a concrete slab on the side of the road. It was once covered by a house. All that remains is the slab and the entrance to a storm cellar, doors in tact. I hope the inhabitants of the house were in there!

On to Ankeny where I visited family and stayed over. It was a good plan. I was totally exhausted from two days on the road and emotionally spent from my experience. I did sleep well, though, and my leisurely trip back home Monday morning was pleasant and relaxing. Ah, the back roads!

This week has been filled with to do’s, and overarching feelings of sorrow and self pity. As of writing this yesterday (Friday), I am coming out of the funk and remembering that I must go on, remembering and honoring the past, while striving for a quality-of-life future. Remembering the rainbow.

New Normal

As the 2nd anniversary of Pam’s passing approaches, remembering and, in some cases, reliving what has transpired over the past five plus years, I recognize that I have, in deed, settled into a new normal. I realize that what goes on from day to day in my life centers around “normal” chores, tasks, challenges.

This does not change my love for Pam nor feeling of loss. It does not stop the memories and their associated feelings of love, pain, and anguish. They are now, however, intertwined with my “normal” life.

In these times, one is almost expected to question what “normal” is. In this context, normal is what most people live with and feel as part of their every day living. Normal includes a wide range of activities and feelings, thoughts and actions. People normally deal with aging and loss. We normally have health issues and interpersonal challenges. We laugh, we cry, we enjoy good times, and rue the bad. Feelings of doubt and craziness are part of being normal.

My aging aches and pains are normal for someone my age. My self-reflection and perception are normal. My feelings of love, gratitude, frustration, self-doubt, sadness, and loneliness – are normal.

It is normal to go to bed tired and often reflective of the day’s events, sometimes satisfied, sometimes with anxiety. It is normal to wake up pondering what will transpire, both planned and unplanned, psyching up for whatever the day might bring.

Feelings of happiness, sadness, frustration, contentment, and want are normal. Taking care of home, car, body, all normal. Sharing with friends and family, neighbors, and passers by are typical daily events.

And yet, for me, it’s still a “new normal.” Normal used to be experiencing all of the above with someone so close that you can know, without speaking, what the other is going through. Normal used to be buffered with the love and understanding of the one who loves you more than anyone, and with whom you love. Normal used to be softened by feelings of love and compassion for your partner, your soul mate, if you will.

Now, for me, normal is living alone, accepting this fact and being okay with it and myself – warts and all. Many daily tasks and experiences are the same as they used to be, in the “old normal”, but now I experience them alone. The old normal is captured in a poem our daughter framed for us for our wedding. It is attributed to Apache/Indian folklore, but is actually fake lore (fakelore).

Now you will feel no rain,
for each of you will be
shelter to the other

Now you will feel no cold,
for each of you will be
warmth to the other

Now there is no more loneliness

Now you are two persons,
but there is only
one life before you

Go now and enter into the days of your life together

from the 1947 novel Blood Brother by American author Elliot Arnold and popularized in the film adaptation, Broken Arrow, released in 1950

Poetic verse, prose, or lyrics describing what is MY new normal are still being written. After all, I am still grasping the scope of it. As the anniversary approaches, I suspect that I will contemplate its meaning with renewed intensity. For better or for worse, this, too, is part of my “new normal.”

Do Unto Others…

I’ve been influenced by religions of various forms my whole life. At times fervently pursuing various dogmas and at other times, heightened spirituality. I grew up with mainstream Judaism – Old Testament – teachings and liturgy. After dabbling in Eastern religions, I converted to Christianity during college, which led me to intense immersion into New Testament teachings and new liturgies, with many allusions to my Old Testament understanding, albeit with new perspective.

As my life has unfolded, I have experienced various levels of faith and spirituality, ultimately questioning whether God even exists. Is there some omniscient being managing the entire universe while keeping close tabs on this little blue ball spinning around in its midst? Or are we all just part of the same universal energy taking on different animate and inanimate forms of matter? Those questions I will leave us all to ponder.

But through all of the teachings I have figuratively ingested from the time I began to walk and talk until now, I realize that I attempt to live my life with this one basic tenet:

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you…

Matthew 7:12 (NRSV) – “In everything do unto others as you would have them do unto you; for this is the law and the prophets

Sometimes it’s in the small things, like just saying hello to a passer by. Or picking up some recyclables blown out of a bin in a neighbor’s yard. I enjoy it when I look at someone, hoping to engage, and they look me back in the eye. A connection, even with a stranger.

Simple gestures acknowledging our common humanity go a long way to treating others with respect, with care, with love. Opening doors. Waiting for and on others who do not enjoy the same abilities as I, knowing that it could easily be me at some time in the future. Or my favorite pet peeve, using my turn signal – even when no one is in the area – making sure I am in the habit for when there is.

These are all fine and dandy and make me feel good too. But doing unto others as you would have them do unto you is much larger and more complicated than simple daily gestures. There are millions living with hunger every day. The homeless are always with us. People with disabilities. The elderly and infirm. What level of empathy and compassion do I incorporate into my inner being, into my daily living? At this level, how do I fare? Let’s just say I’m a work in progress.

Clearly, I have ample room for improvement. From swearing at drivers who don’t use their turn signals, to not literally giving the shirt off my back, opportunities for treating others as I would want to be treated abound. Where’s the balance? What are the boundaries? This is the tension I face daily as I travel through my life. And I know I’m not alone in this struggle.

Here’s another one for you:

And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

First Corinthians 13:13 (NRSV)

Please don’t read too much into the fact that both quotes are from the Christian New Testament. I am NOT trying to proselytize nor tout any organized or unorganized religion. My own faith is at the least shaken, if not completely gone. My hope is limited to what I can see and perceive of the universe.

For some reason, though, I believe in love. As I’ve said before, I didn’t understand love until I realized the depth and breadth of my love for Pam and, probably more importantly, her love for me. I recognize love. I want to love. I love the planet and the cosmos. I love people, and all living things. I even love myself – most of the time.

I’ve been told that loving self is precursor to loving others. Maybe so. If loving self is necessary for doing unto others as you would have them do to you, then I’m all for it. It seems so simple. Yet it’s a life-long process. I wish everyone felt and strived for the same. The world would undoubtedly be a better place in which to live!

Strength for a Reason, Strength for a Season

Another from the vault of future topics on which to write. This one, not a quote that I know of, conjures up many potential meanings, none of which I can directly attribute because I did not flesh them out when I added it to the list. I am, however, confident that it had something to do with my grieving process. The need to be strong. The potential that the need may have a finite time frame.

Back from two weeks and 2,400 miles away from home, I begin the process of mentally preparing for the upcoming second anniversary of Pam’s passing, two short/long years ago. I am putting possibly too much weight behind the date. As with my many backpacking trips during which I hope or expect some sort of epiphany about life, I feel the need to attribute some rite of passage to visiting the site in Nebraska where Pam’s ashes were scattered.

Could it actually be a milestone in my grief journey? Have I been strong for this season to culminate in a literal and figurative step forward in my new life without Pam? Based on past experience, I’d say no. Yet somehow I feel like it should. Like it will.

There have been plenty of milestones since May 12, 2022. First it was days, then weeks. Counting months seems to have subsided several months ago. But two years! Is this one particularly significant? In a way, I think so. Not because of a date. But because of how I feel and the way I view life at this juncture.

Being strong through the pain and sadness, clutching almost without hope to the need to play music in Pam’s honor and absence. With the incredible help of family and friends I have come far – much further than I thought possible – through my grief journey. I recognize once more who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. And though the two of us were another amazing being together, Pam never lost who she was, nor did I.

We are no longer the same being, nor will we ever be again. Pam is gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Evidenced now only by a bridge to visit on the back country roads in rural Nebraska. I live on with her memory. She lives on through the memories of so many family and friends who knew and love(d) her. I/we cannot change this reality.

Is this the season of transition? Is it the season of change? Of course. There are many impactful changes taking place here and around the world. They are constant – change. I certainly feel that my life’s journey is in transition and that I am ready for change.

I suffer no delusions that transition and change are linear. My emotional ups and downs confirm that change and seasons are cyclical or, as some say about the grief process, a spiral, moving up and around through time. We all live with them. I choose to accept them.

So on I go, embracing each day, remembering yet not living in the past, not afraid of what the future holds. I am thankful for this outlook and hope to continue being strong for good reasons, strong for any season.

May you all find strength and peace amidst life’s changes and seasons.

“Fear is the Thief of Joy”

This is not my quote. I think I saw it on Facebook and liked it – a lot! I retrieved it from a list of future blog subjects I keep online. I’m finally claiming it.

“Would have, could have, should have”, is similar. Often spurred on by fear, the regret this saying suggests is the result of fear retrospectively. Though regret is not always triggered by doing something or choosing not to do something out of fear, it often is the result of it.

There have been plenty of times in my life that I forged ahead into some unknown, fearless of, and often ignorant of, the consequences. We all have. Some are simply bad decisions. In every instance, I have learned some major life lessons as a result. But the decisions I remember so clearly are those when I chose not to pursue something or someone and have since wished I had.

Fear can be a weapon or a power tool to usurp control. This kind of fear certainly robs the victim of Joy. I suspect that it brings no joy to the oppressor, even if there is some sort of satisfaction derived from wielding it.

My education tells me that there is, in fact, healthy fear. Fearing the unknown is entrenched in our instinct for survival. We most likely would not have risen to the top of the animal kingdom without it. Healthy skepticism sometimes can keep us alive.

But we will never know what we would learn, or what pleasure, joy, or satisfaction we would gain, by choosing to let fear dictate our behavior and/or decisions. Like coming to a fork in the path. By choosing one, you never know what was down the other. It is not always the path that looks easiest, flattest, brightest, smoothest, that brings good things to our futures. Sometimes it’s the scary, rough, dark ways where we find our greatest joy.

And that is not always the situation. Sometimes we choose not to do something, say something, offer something, for fear of being rejected, laughed at, ostracized. Social norms, peer pressure, self doubt, keep us from performing such acts as saying hello to a passer by or offering up a compliment to someone who looks nice, speaks well, sings on key. Who amongst us has failed to ask a boy or girl to coffee or a date for fear of a negative response. Fear keeps us from following through. Fear drives us to do things we know we should not. Fear of being alone. Fear of fitting in. Fear that our opinions will meet with resistance, or worse yet, physical harm.

Fear is the thief of joy. My recent experiences have forced me to view life altering decisions in a different way. I am no longer so fearful of taking reasonable risks that might improve my quality of life without harm to others. Another new mantra is “life’s too short.” I cannot afford to delay venturing out, trying new things (something my OCD psyche hates), expanding my circle, making new acquaintances. No one knows what tomorrow will bring. And as I’ve said before, I cannot, and do not live in the past.

That leaves only today to decide what influences my decisions. I choose to be open, kind, empathetic, engaging. I choose to realize that every person is just that. Another human being trying to live their life as best they can with what has influenced them, what they have been given. It’s really quite liberating.

Sure, this MO has its risks. It might even be dangerous. But if the alternative is living in fear, robbed of the potential joys that accompany human interaction, to me it is worth the risk.

Assessment and the Amanas

I was still assessing and evaluating last week’s performances while driving between routine medical appointments Wednesday morning, the latter being in Hiawatha IA on the north end of Cedar Rapids. As expected, I had the initial letdown through last weekend. But the funk lingered into this week.

I was pleased with my performance on Friday of last week. I played as well as I hoped. Not completely error-free, but with only minor hand coordination mistakes that I doubt were noticed by the audience. I did, in fact, remember all the words. Everyone stayed for the entire performance, allaying my second deepest fear that people would just get up and walk out. “And the first?”, you ask, was that I would get lost mid-song and freeze up. How embarrassing!

But I was less than satisfied with people’s response to the songs. One person’s comment was that old people don’t want to hear sad songs. I thought I had left those out of the playlist! Another clearly disliked what is probably my most popular song, Bad Habit Creatures. But I suspect it was a political dislike. Most who attended liked it over the other songs.

Returning home that afternoon, I felt numb. Part of it was having worked so hard in preparation, just to have it over in less than one hour. But it also felt empty. Of course, I had achieved what I set out to do, play in public, having an opportunity to share my stories through song.

What I realized over the next few days was that I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t enjoy having to pare down my playlist and manipulate it to fit what I thought was the audience I was playing to. I didn’t enjoy practicing only specific songs in hopes of playing ‘well enough’ for that particular crowd. I didn’t enjoy worrying about whether my music would be accepted or appreciated.

By Wednesday, the conclusion I came to was that, though I accomplished this project that I set out to do, I was not being true to my original goal and commitment of just playing what I want, when I want, where I want. What I want is to be able to just play. Play the songs I want as my mood dictates. Like it or don’t. That I can handle.

Still, I was unsettled as I sat in the parking lot in Hiawatha trying to figure out what to do next on this Wednesday afternoon. I had no reason to rush home. I decided to make the trek to The Amana Colonies about 20 miles SW of where I sat. I had read an article in Only In Iowa just that morning about a hotel in Homestead, the only Amana Colony without the word Amana in its name. I thought it might make for a little get-away sometime where I could stay as a base for branching out to tour all of the colonies. I’d been through them, but only briefly in most.

My second motive for going was to pick up some wonderful smoked salami’s at the Amana Meat Shop and Smokehouse. That place is so much fun for a guy like me. So many meat, cheese, and kitchen gadget choices. Plenty of other tasty morsels as well. As usual, I came out with more than I went in for.

Having increased my groceries and decreased my bank account, I sat in the car again, planning to head for Homestead, just a few miles away. But it’s almost past lunch time. Surely there are places to eat in Amana. Then I remembered that Millstream Brewing Company, the first craft beer establishment in Iowa, had added a brew pub, “Millstream Brau Hous.” Since I’d never been there, I decided to go.

Somewhat typical in style, but with the cultural design on the exterior as well as the interior, I was greeted and ushered to a window-side table. Sitting down, my eyes immediately fixed on a blonde Ibanez guitar hanging on the wall on the other side of the room near the bar. There were few people in the room. I asked if someone played it. It belongs to the owner and is there for anyone to play.

That was all it took. I quickly ordered my burger, fries, and Widow Maker hazy IPA, and headed for the guitar. Nice tone. New strings. Sounds good. I planted myself on a bar stool facing the bar, and began to play. It came easy. It sounded good. I was having fun. I barely noticed that my food had arrived across the room.

However, the beer was not at the table. I finally went to the bar to ask for it. The server apologized, saying he was distracted, enjoying the music, and forgot. I took that as a compliment.

After enjoying the food and quaff, I went straight back to the Ibanez. I noticed the bar tender tapping his hand on his thigh as I played an instrumental riff that I enjoy. Turns out he is also a musician.

Returning to the table to pay the tab, the two ladies at the table next to me expressed their appreciation of my playing. That’s the effect I am going for.

My assessment complete. My analysis spot on. I never wanted to be a performer, though I like to play for people, hoping they enjoy and get something out of the listening. I just want to play my songs whenever and wherever I can. Be it in the garage, in parks, in brew pubs or coffee houses. I’m not in it for the gigs. Now I remember the vision and the commitment. I hope to be true to it.

On to Homestead Iowa. Home town to Ashton Kutcher. Homestead is literally a one street town with its homes and businesses lining it. Stop signs only at the two ends of the half-mile long road. I found the hotel about 3/4 of the way through town. It had a for sale sign on it. So much for that cozy getaway.

Just drive on home. Play my guitar. It’s a good day. I’m back on track.

PPA:

It’s a TLI
PA: It’s also a TLI, or a TLA

I used to do this in the classroom. There were so many abbreviations. In my jargon, a TLA is a three-letter acronym – and also a two-letter acronym. But I know that actually, PPA is not a three-letter acronym. It’s a three-letter initialism.

Acronym

a word (such as NATO, radar, or laser) formed from the initial letter or letters of each of the successive parts or major parts of a compound term

Merriam Webster Dictionary

Initialism

an abbreviation formed from initial letters

Merriam Webster Dictionary

“Okay”, you might say, “Wut’s this all really about?” Well, I thought I might be coining a new acronym/initialism, but once again, Google search saved me from embarrassment.

PPA is an initialism for Pre-Performance Anxiety. According to WebMD, pre-performance anxiety is stress and anxiety about performing in front of people and causes performance anxiety. PA can be considered either an initialism or an acronym since its letters also form a colloquialism for father. Performance Anxiety is also known as stage fright.

Now do you see where I’m headed with this? I now have two performances scheduled for next week. On Thursday I will participate in an open mic at Sidekick Coffee & Books in Iowa City. I recently added this venue after previously committing to the 55+ Connections Lunch at the North Liberty Recreation Center.

I’ve known about the 55+ gig for some time and have been practicing a set of songs that I hope will engage and somehow positively affect the lives of those who attend. Now that the time is near at hand, I find myself second guessing. Are my music and lyrics really “good” enough for public consumption? Is my presentation polished enough to expose myself to scrutiny? Will my aging, stiff fingers work!!!? On the up side, I do think I’ll remember the words.

I am not self-absorbed enough to think I am the only person who experiences performance anxiety (stage fright). I immediately think of my 13-year-old granddaughter who landed a major part in a community theater musical that opens next Friday, the same day as my 55+ performance. Break a leg, E! And there are others in my immediate sphere who have upcoming meetings and interviews who may deal with similar anxieties.

I found an interesting article, Get excited: reappraising pre-performance anxiety as excitement, on the National Library of Medicine website. Just reading the abstract helped me reframe my perspective:

Abstract

Individuals often feel anxious in anticipation of tasks such as speaking in public or meeting with a boss. I find that an overwhelming majority of people believe trying to calm down is the best way to cope with pre-performance anxiety. However, across several studies involving karaoke singing, public speaking, and math performance, I investigate an alternative strategy: reappraising anxiety as excitement. Compared with those who attempt to calm down, individuals who reappraise their anxious arousal as excitement feel more excited and perform better. Individuals can reappraise anxiety as excitement using minimal strategies such as self-talk (e.g., saying “I am excited” out loud) or simple messages (e.g., “get excited”), which lead them to feel more excited, adopt an opportunity mind-set (as opposed to a threat mind-set), and improve their subsequent performance. These findings suggest the importance of arousal congruency during the emotional reappraisal process.

Alison Wood Brooks 
PsycINFO Database Record (c) 2014 APA, all rights reserved

Next week will be a culmination of an extensive period of hoping, dreaming, and preparing that began even before my retirement and Pam’s illness and death. I’ve conveyed many times my desire to “take it on the road” with Pam during our retirement years, using venues as a tour guide for going places and seeing things together. Something we so enjoyed together.

These two gigs also mark the beginning of a new phase of reaching for the dream. Though I have performed at very limited open mic sessions and in front of a friendly audience of family and friends at a church, these are the first true public appearances in front of people whom I don’t know. No one will have heard the songs. No one will know what to expect. At the 55+, I’m not even sure they know that the program is a musician. They only know that there is a program every last Friday of the month.

Success will look like people not walking out during the first song or shortly thereafter. It will look like people looking at me, perhaps nodding with some sort of mutual understanding. Maybe even clapping? Success will catapult me forward in my journey, give me confidence to book other performances, find other ways to get my music out there. Obviously, failure will look and feel quite different.

Therein lies the fear with pre-performance anticipation. I am excited that I have followed through with the commitment to pursue my music. I believe that I have a message of humanness, one that not everyone is willing to share. It happens to be through music. I am fearful that my musical message will not be received, even though those who have listened have encouraged me.

Performance anxiety, stage fright, is another matter. My mouth gets dry, my heart rate goes up (even more than when I just play the songs), and I have trouble staying focused. My eyes and ears seem to work overtime to ferret out any peculiar distracting input, of which there are ample, when one is on stage. Practice, even trying to imagine myself at the venue, helps. Just thinking about looking out over the audience during practice is enough to distract me. Thus, the more I do it, the better I will be able to focus – I hope.

Again, none of this is unique to me. I am sure that many of you can relate at some level. And again, I am just egocentric enough to think it’s worth writing about. That you might enjoy the reading, and maybe get something worthwhile out of it.

By this time next week, all of the anticipation, anxiety, excitement, and of course, the performances will be over. I will have an emotional let down, as I always do. I will review and evaluate the outcome. Then I will pick myself up and figure out the next plan. Yet I have made a greater commitment – to Pam:

I will go on. I will be okay.

Privilege

a right or immunity granted as a peculiar benefit, advantage, or favor : PREROGATIVE

especially : such a right or immunity attached specifically to a position or an office

Merriam Webster Dictionary

As I ponder Webster’s definition of privilege, I’m not sure if it is an accurate reflection of my topic. But I think my discourse does reflect common understanding of the word.

He walked into the dentist's office asking for help with a tooth that, by the way he talked, was clearly causing him discomfort. He explained that he had been to another office that he previously patronized where he was told that they would have to begin a new, complete work-up. Apparently, it had been a while. "Can you help me?", he asked. "I just want help with this tooth right now. I don't want to start with a whole mouth evaluation."

Assured now that this office would not deny him or make him jump through hoops to get immediate relief, he began looking for his dental insurance card to assist with the sign-in process. As he fumbled through a stack of cards in his wallet, he began to explain. "I know it's here somewhere. No, that's for my health insurance. Oh, that one's expired. I know it's here somewhere.

"I'm glad to have insurance", he continued as he fumbled. "The place I work has been laying off. It sounds like more layoffs are coming. Oh, that looks like it. No, that's for prescriptions."

His frayed baseball cap, faded plaid jacket covering a just as faded hoody, well-worn jeans, and scuffed up work boots betrayed his economic status. It certainly was not one of privilege.

While still looking, the assistant was checking the schedule. "I can get you in at 12:30 and it might be a bit sooner. "I don't think I can do that. I have to go to the unemployment office and then get groceries for my mother."

"How about two o'clock? Or two thirty?"

"Well, I'm not sure... Let's just make it for the 12:00. I can just go to the unemployment tomorrow and get the groceries after the appointment. Oh, there it is! I really need to clean out this wallet."

Sitting in the lobby, waiting for the hygienist to call my name for scheduled teeth cleaning, I was aware of the different world this man lived in. I have lived a life of privilege.

Oh, I’ve had my difficult times, economically as well as physically and emotionally. Everyone does. This man, at least from my snap judgmental viewpoint, is living harder times than I.

My father died while I was young. My mother, with four young mouths to feed, had to find a job. She did. But she and my father were really just trying to get ahead in life before he died. Now it was a much larger challenge. I knew times were rough, but didn’t really understand.

But I was young and unaware of how anything in the world works. I was unfazed by economic struggles, even when mom married again. A man in between jobs. That didn’t last too long and as I grew into my tweens and teens, our household was one of upward economic and social mobility. I have benefited from that economic stability throughout my life other than a self-imposed poverty period in my early 20’s.

My father’s death and that poverty did manage to instill in me some empathy for others who are less fortunate. But I did attend an almost all white high school in the suburbs and wasn’t exposed to many alternative cultures until going to college.

So what is this really about? It’s about trekking through my life with some empathy, and a lot of guilt. I am guilty of not being empathetic enough. I am guilty of not doing more to help others in need. I am guilty of judging them by their apparent economic status rather than by their character. I think, because I have been privileged. Although I know such judgements go both ways.

I am thankful for my parents’ hard work to keep me fed and clothed; to provide me with more than my needs, to give me at least some of what I wanted. I am thankful that, at many tipping points in my life, my parents and family have supported me and, possibly most importantly, have provided safe haven when my world was anything but safe. So many around the world don’t have the luxury.

This post is a reminder to all of us that we (you and I) have lived some level of privilege in our lives. Though we might be on varying levels of the economic spectrum, most likely if you are reading this, you are not on the lower end. I dare say that most of you can relate to my empathy, my thankfulness, and my guilt.

Times being what they are, it is difficult to determine how to help. We are deluged with requests for donations in written, online, and multi-media forms. Who can we trust? You already know of some of my choices that include the Arbor Day Foundation, Parkinson’s Foundation, EWALU, Habitat for Humanity, and our local community pantry. Organizations I know first hand, or have researched and trust.

But assuaging guilt goes beyond giving of my fixed income resources. It must include a change in perspective, a change in judgement. I have been working on this for decades now and still have work to do. It must be a conscious effort to recognize biases and prejudices. Then, act in opposition to those preconceived notions. And that I try to do.

Regardless of my ramblings, it is a privilege to be able to share my personal struggles with you. I do hope that the sharing adds value to your lives. You may empathize, you may think I’m out to lunch. But I hope I make you think. That, too, is my privilege.