Outside the Comfort Zone

I was recently exhorted to move outside my comfort zone by an anonymous "they."  Actually not totally anonymous because while I was peripherally in the know about this person, they don't know me at all, so it was an exhortation to the anonymous masses, of which I happened to be one at the time.  The interesting thing to me is that I perceive myself as tending to push the limits of my comfort zone, after all two of my primary hobbies are performance based and tend to put me out there in exposed situations.  But as I thought about the exhortation, I thought about what my comfort zone is and what makes it comfortable, or not.

Around the same time a friend posted her musings about her writing and publishing and agents, or lack thereof, and getting confirmation that what she is doing is worth the huge investment she has made. It occurred to me that pushing your boundaries or taking the leap to do what you love and taking the risk involves intestinal fortitude on your own behalf, but also some confirmation that you have something of value to offer the world.  After all, no matter how much I may love the work, patenting a new screw top lid to a bottle may not be the best use of my energy and dedication.

In the first case, my exhorter was encouraging people to take action to make their little piece of the world a better place ... to join a community of people working on a task within an organization to make things run.  Pick any organization, a social club, a community center, a church, 4-H, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts...you name it, and there are committees within the organization that need people to make things happen.  This is the exhortation I was hearing.  Find an action that appeals to you, join up and do it!  And this was considered to be working outside people's comfort zone or pushing personal limits.  I understood why I didn't understand.  This is what I do all the time.  I have to set limits so that I don't get eaten alive by hungry groups.  I pick and choose my actions to correspond to my needs, to those areas where I feel the need to grow.  This type of involvement does not threaten my feeling of comfort.

So what does?  My friend touched on it with her post - what is uncomfortable is not knowing whether what you do is worthwhile or an effort in developing a new screw top lid.  On some level, we need to do what we love and if we love it enough, we will take the leap to try to make it happen.  But on another level, we need to know that we are on the right track.  Or we need to know that there was a pebble we missed when we were looking under rocks for treasure.  We need guidance and encouragement and honesty.  Perhaps that's a "duh" statement.

Because I look for honesty in people's comments about my work, I am continually frustrated that the things I find easy in life (the join up and work stuff) gets all the praise and commendation.  The things that I truly love in life tend to be met with silence.  All sorts of things run through my head when met with these silences.  A big one being, "If you can't say something nice, don't say it at all."  Perhaps this saying is precisely why I tend to voice my opinion, it's that golden rule thing.  I would rather someone said something to me that was helpful in finding that perfect pebble than have them worry about hurting my feelings.

Another thing that runs through my head, and this is when I'm feeling optimistic, is that people don't say anything because they can't.  I think, well maybe what I'm doing is so far outside their realm of experience that we don't have a point of resonance.  In other words, that they are in some way intimidated because they can't relate.  And that is the edge of my comfort zone, right there.  How do I engage the people that intimidate me so that I can progress and learn from them or the opportunities that may arise?  How do I reach out for those opportunities that I want to take advantage of when I hate feeling like I'm selling myself as a bill of goods that may not have any substance?  In short, how do I know that what I do beyond the join up and work stuff is worth anything?

I obviously don't have the answers for myself. I am still utterly reliant on the rest of the world to tell me their opinion regarding my own efforts.  I have to continue taking my leaps of faith in a vacuum.  But it is a good reminder that I need to be aware of where others may be stretching their boundaries and needing the occasional or not so occasional good word and bear in mind that sometimes silence is a version of "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

Observations of the impatient ilk

Being on the dole of the unemployment kind and being a people watcher, I often get caught up in observing how people treat their fellow humans in different circumstances.

One theme I've been exploring lately is that of patience. I've been a variously patient and impatient sort. I surprise myself with the patience I have with young kids in a class and yet the Boston in me erupts when I encounter obviously non-thinking drivers.

But I have found the most interesting reactions from people who make assumptions about me, especially now that I am unemployed. I have long been active in the extracurricular activities that kept me sane during my previous jobs and those activities haven't changed because I have the need to stay sane now more than ever. What's changed is that instead of working 8 or 9 hours a day, I now look for a new job, I clean house (where I used to hire help there), mow the lawn (used to stimulate the local economy there, too), and cook (used to buy a lot of prepared or takeout to save time, now I cook from scratch). On a school day, I have less than 6 hours a day as opposed to my previous 8 or 9 to concentrate on what I need to get done, whatever that entails. And yet, many of my acquaintance think that I should be able to take on new commitments or somehow do more than I am. Is this a rant? Yes. I am railing against those people that feel they know I should be doing "better." I should be better at keeping in touch, I should be better at housekeeping, I should be a better community member, you name it, I should be better at it, just by virtue of being unemployed.

Why did the standard change from when I was being paid to work? I'm figuring out that it's the matter of perceived "free" time. I do admit that I can do things now that I could not before because I now have the time. But there is a balance sheet that comes into play. Take cooking for example. The fact that I am cooking our meals from scratch has meant a huge cost savings in our money budget, but, conversely, a huge expense in my time budget. The easiest meals I prepare are a minimum half hour prep and about a half hour cleanup.   So I can make a pizza for a couple bucks instead of buying a take and bake pizza for $10-$12 or a fully baked one for $20. I spend a half an hour prep (while the bread machine does the bulk of the work during the two-hour lead time) instead of popping open a box upon arrival. Another example is now I am the bulk of the after school and summer time supervision for Resident Kid instead of paying for lots of after school activities and summer camps.

I am one of the lucky ones in terms of mental health (Death and Joblessness) and yet still I suffer the impatience of those amongst my acquaintance that believe I should somehow be able to get myself into a different situation if only I were really trying. 

I, ironically, don't have patience with these sorts. I have found that my mental health improved when I realized that I don't need the added expectations from other people's measuring sticks. I don't need the ruler rapped on my knuckles to make me try harder. Ultimately, my motivation comes from the fact that it's my family's well-being that is at stake here and it is beyond me to understand why others believe that their approval or disapproval will spur me to greater deeds.

I use the unemployment situation as the example here, but really, doesn't this apply in other circumstances as well? I should be more patient with those sorry, inexperienced folks that believe I should magic a job out of thin air. But, by my sarcasm, I find I have a long way to go.

A big hoping of potatoes

For several years I have been experimenting with leftover mashed potatoes to make pancakes.  (I will come clean right off the bat by saying, "Yes, these are often instant mashed potatoes.)  I have made homemade mashers but when in a mad scramble to get something on the table, the taters may result from a shortcut, which these days happens to be Paradise Valley All Natural Creamy Mashed Potatoes from Costco.)

Because the packets are from Costco, they are on the larger size (8 servings per container), which is way more than the three of us can eat.  Not to say that I mind the leftovers, not at all, the scientist in me comes alive as I get the opportunity to continue my grand experiments.

The first attempts were bland, mushy blobs of starch.  These were the days before I realized eggs are an important structural element in many baked, as in this case, pan baked, goods.  My culinary training has been haphazard at best and mostly on the fly.

I was quite pleased with the last batch I made.  No recipe is available because I have no idea what quantity of potatoes I started with.  I can say that I put in one more egg than I thought would be prudent because the batter turned a lovely light yellow from the marigold of the yolks.  Add to that some lightly sauteed diced onion and Canadian bacon and fry dollops on the griddle.

That particular day was lovely and Resident Kid had taken on a backyard chore with surprising gusto.  Considering that Kid had already spent over an hour outside, I called out with what I thought was an irresistible summons, "Come and have some potato pancakes."  Duh, wrong approach.  Of course the answer was an upturned and wrinkled nose, a grunt and a query as to whether there were any mashed potatoes left.

"No, they're in the pancakes."  Silence ... then I sense the whine building.  I attempted the end run around the whine and said with a firm tone, "Come in for some lunch."  A grand show of dramatic foot dragging ensued, which I blithely ignored as I dished up pancakes.  Digging into my own serving, I declared, "Wow, they're pretty good with a bit of syrup on them."

Resident Kid takes a plate, disappears for a while and comes back with one cake (out of two) gone and puts the plate on the counter.  I droop a little, expecting resistance to my urgings to eat a little more.  But, fancy that, maple syrup goes on the second cake (the first having been eaten dry) and the plate drifts back to the living room.  When the plate came back the second time, I ventured, "Do you want a hot one off the griddle?"

"Sure."

"Two?"  Hope springs.

"One."  That's good enough for hope

Then in a totally blatant push of my good luck, I say, "Hey, those cakes are pretty good aren't they?"

"Grrrr."

"What?  You can't admit that you like them?"  I looked around for the response just in time to see a head duck to barely hide a grin.

"Needs more ham."

Good enough for this cook.  Score.

Spring in the High Desert

This time of year is always a guessing game.  Is it safe to put seeds out?  (Not really, but maybe if you're lucky.)  Is is safe to put seedlings or larger transplants out?  (No, unless you have a greenhouse or other way to cover & protect seedlings from inclement weather.) 

Folks were complaining about the weather the other day, as folks everywhere are wont to do.  Here the complaint was snow in May.  I actually don't think that it would be normal to not have snow in May in Central Oregon.  After all, a significant family event was marked, eleven years ago, by snow.

The locals say not to plant until the snow is off of Black Butte, a local extinct volcano, but not being able to see Black Butte easily from my vantage point, I tend to rely on a nose to the wind and an eye to weather.com.

Spring is more a frame of mind.  It must be spring, therefore it is.  We wear flip flops and short sleeve shirts and shiver in the still freezing temperatures but don't really care because, by golly, it's spring!

Book report - The Lost Symbol

I just went on an escapist binge book-wise, perhaps a hangover from the nasty virus I dealt with early in pre-spring.  The latest in my string of perusings was "The Lost Symbol" by Dan Brown.  It has all the trappings of his previous thrillers:  the incredible deadlines, the frenzied dashes from place to place, the monstrous villains, the mistaken or hidden identities, the close calls, and the flashes of intellectual brilliance from our exhausted heros.  What fun!

As the wind dies down from the page turning race of Robert Langdon against the end of the book, I reflect on the ideas presented and enjoy watching for convergences in the information that flows through my life.  The PBS presentation on Buddhism was remarkably well timed for me to enjoy after finishing "The Lost Symbol" but I really don't want to say too much in the event that there are readers out there who are even slower at reading the best sellers than I am.

All mimsy were the borogoves...

I had the opportunity to be in Salem, Oregon a couple times in the last month and I was taken by the daffodils and late crocus that were in full bloom.  These are some of my favorite flowers, but then, ask me in another month or so and my favorites will have changed.  I was particularly taken by the Salem daffodils because on my first trip to Salem, on February 12, I left Central Oregon still in the late winter doldrums.  Some trees were starting to set buds, but there were no crocus yet, apart from some foliage starting up in some sunny spots.  Now, here at home, the crocus are in full bloom around the house.  I have tended to plant a lot of crocus because the deer don't eat them and we get a spot of color early.  Last fall I planted more, because I wanted to mark Doppie's howe.  Much to the resident 10-year old's ire, I also planted a slew of bulbs in the lawn in front of our house..

Major complaints arose when she saw the first flowers popping out because she didn't want to walk on them.  "Just wait until they're done blooming," was my response.  I think I heard a slight growl but I'm really not sure.

Well, recently, a new member joined our family.  Mimsy, a miniature pinscher and something mix, is a sweet little critter that is only slightly frenetic for being about a year old and having gone through the shelter experience.  She still has those puppy qualities that make her simultaneously endearing and annoying, but she learns so fast, it is somewhat alarming.  She has been with us for less than two weeks and she is sitting, staying, dancing, almost heeling on command.  And, no, it's not like she had been trained to do these things previously, because the first action we worked on, sit, was actually hard to achieve because she wasn't what you would call a natural sitter.  Definitely didn't know the command on hearing.

I am sure that I sound like a proud parent as I boast of this little dog's achievements in so short a time, but really what I am amazed at is the difference in personality between Mimsy and Doppler.  Doppler was definitely all Dalmation when it came to working with him on basic actions.  A distinct stubborn streak would kick in and that, combined with a feigned deafness.  How do we know it was feigned, you ask?  Because that critter could hear a banana being cracked open, sight unseen from 30 feet.  I would open a banana in the living room and he would come trotting in from what I thought was a sound sleep in the bedroom.  For some reason, as a young dog, he liked bananas. 

Anyway, it's the differences between personalities and places that are startling and interesting and that really spice your life's experiences.  And spring is a perfect time to celebrate differences.

Doppler - 2

Soon after Doppler decided to move in with us, we started making the rounds of the local animal shelter and the vets to see if anyone had left word they were missing him.  We dutifully left word of where to contact us in the event someone came looking and we all went home again.

Doppler himself gave us few clues about where he might have come from.  He wore a blue collar with no tags and nothing else attached but a few bits of wire and baling twine that looked like they'd been chewed through.  He was also scrawny and had some talents that indicated the scrawniness was no fault of his own.

As I'd mentioned previously, we were working at a friend's B&B.  One morning, there were leftover muffins to be had so I took them back to our apartment for a late breakfast.  Eric took his with whatever else was on the menu out to the living room while I had turned to fill my own plate and get a fork from the drawer.  When I turned back, my muffin was gone.

Feeling a little steamed, I went out to the living room and berated Eric for being a pig and taking all the muffins.  Picture the classic guy pose, mouth full, "What did I do?"  Pause.  "I didn't take your muffin."

Picture two heads turning slowly towards the quiet snarfing sounds from the other side of the coffee table where a scrawny dog was eating an orange chocolate chip muffin held gently between his front paws.  The nearest we could figure was that he, in complete silence, snagged the muffin off the counter (which had a top uncomfortably high for me to work at) and carried it into the living without either of us hearing or noticing what he was doing.

No one ever came calling to claim him.  Our best bet was that he was a Rainbow dog.  A Rainbow gathering had recently departed the nearby forest lands and we had quite the traffic moving through town for a while.   Eric says Doppler chewed through his baling twine lead and went off looking for adventure on his own.

And I was never that fond of orange chocolate chip muffins anyway.

Leap into the new frontier

I have coffee or other connecting times with fellow unemployees and we kibitz about all the various and sundry things that bubble up during the course of our lives.  And it is true, that during these kinds of life tests, that you really find out who are, for lack of a better term, genuine people.  There are the pretend people who go around with their heads in a haze and are totally clueless about what is going on in the world.  And then there are the people that have engaged.  These are curious people who want to learn in order to figure why things tick along the way they do.

I recently met a person who accosted me and called me, funnily enough, a communist, because I dared to give voice to all of the evidence supporting global climate change.  I had a couple other people take a similar aggressive stance towards me because I stepped up to take on a challenge that, well, challenged me in somewhat a public setting.   In thinking back on these events, I realize that I launched into each endeavor with a big breath and a sense of...Well, here goes nothing...Nothing ventured, nothing gained...What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger...Add your own adage.

In one circumstance, I got a heavy negative response from select individuals amongst my acquaintance and at first I was confused.  But then, one of those genuine people told me to ignore them because they were jealous.  I was floored.  People were jealous of me for essentially being willing to make a fool of myself.  Wow.  Brings to mind some other adages:  Deer in the headlights...Scared of their own shadow...the blind leading the blind...

So, you blogospherians, in hopes of building a new cadre of genuine people in the world, stride forth, engage, learn, and eat haggis.*



* By the way, the canned haggis I referred to in my earlier blog is:  Caledonian Kitchen Haggis With Sirloin Beef, 14.5-Ounce Cans (Pack of 3) and Caledonian Kitchen Haggis With Lamb, 14.5-Ounce Cans (Pack of 3).

Hope amongst the haggis

I encountered a nice fellow at the celtic society festival this summer who was giving out samples of haggis to try and, after trying it, I thought it was pretty good. (I suppose I should preface my story by saying that I was raised eating liverwurst and actually enjoying it.)  I bought two cans: one was beef based, the other, lamb. Not too long after the festival I made a nice breakfast hash using the beef version* with potatoes, onions and home grown eggs. I thought it was pretty darn tasty - scotch/swedish hubby ate it and declared it tasty as well. Resident 10-year old objected to the frog eggs (barley) and the taste (strong liver). Left large pile of said frog eggs on the plate and picked out all the potatoes and eggs. The precision was amazing.

Today, a couple months later, I made the second haggis hash, the lamb version**. Resident 10-year old walks in the kitchen, points at the frog eggs and says, "I don't like that stuff." Pause. "Much." I said, "This is lamb, the other was beef." Small glimmer of hope springs in a mom's heart.

As I serve up the glop I put a tiny portion of frog eggs on said 10-year old's plate. Didn't bother mixing it into the potatoes. As she walked away, she declared, "This is better than the other stuff." The little glimmer of hope becomes a small flame, like a candle. Braunschweiger, here we come!

Hubby snarfs his breakfast down and declares, "I like this one much better."

Resident 10-year old leaves the pile of frog eggs on the plate and disappears to hide peanuts in the tree for the resident squirrel to find.

Hope is extinguished, spiraling wistfully towards the ceiling.



* Caledonian Kitchen Haggis With Sirloin Beef, 14.5-Ounce Cans (Pack of 3)
** Caledonian Kitchen Haggis With Lamb, 14.5-Ounce Cans (Pack of 3)