A little perspective

"My experience is what I agree to attend to."

I heard this William James line quoted on NPR a few months ago and it has stuck with me ever since.

It has drawn my attention to the fact that, when it comes to my career, I often allow myself to attend to thoughts or feelings that cloud my ability to appreciate the present.


This is probably because I am a perfectionist. It is easy for me to become ensconced in inconsequential details and I have a hard time performing a task if I know I can't give it all of my energy and focus.


As I have adjusted to a new job over the last few months, I have occasionally found myself on the verge of panic at the thought of completing all the tasks on my to-do list to the best of my ability. At times it has felt that there just aren't enough hours in the day.

On June 17, I wrote in my journal, "Another very busy day. Feeling overwhelmed. I think I am spending more time on some of these tasks than I should, but I am paranoid about making a mistake. Can't seem to wind down in the evenings when I need to."

A week later, I wrote "My mind is racing tonight. No matter how many times I go over my to-do list in my head, it keeps going."

This entry is followed by a list of tasks that seemed insurmountable at the time. But as I read back through the list, I find myself smiling, chuckling at my own overdramatic self.

A to-do list that once seemed daunting now seems perfectly do-able ... and tasks that once stirred my anxieties have now become routine.

This realization -- that once-overwhelming assignments over time become matters of habit -- has caused me to think about those stressful days at work in a whole new light.

I am beginning to believe that if I never felt overwhelmed, stressed or intimidated by an assignment, it would probably mean that I was not learning -- or, at least that I wasn't learning at a stimulating pace.

It is good to remember that there will always be things that burden or worry us in life, so rather than dwelling on the difficulty at hand, we ought to focus on the personal growth that will eventually result.

We should always bear in mind that our experiences are what we agree to attend to.

(See Artsdevivre's "Growing Up" for another perspective on careers and personal growth.)

Leap of Faith

We arrived at noon – nervous, but excited – in a state of disbelief about what we were about to do.

My legs felt stiff as I opened the car door and stepped out onto the gravel drive. I moved slowly toward the hangar, squinting my eyes in the summer haze and feeling anxiously bewildered by my surroundings.

The inside of the hangar was like a beehive – buzzing with activity. Dozens of people sprawled across the floor, twisting, tucking and folding large heaps of nylon into tight little parcels. Others darted back and forth across the large room, barking orders in their bare feet.

We made our way to the unmarked registration desk, which was manned by a slight but athletic-looking woman.

“You guys here for tandems?” she chirped.

We nodded timidly.

“Cool. I just started a video. Come on back.”

She grabbed a stack of papers and quickly weaved her way across the gear-strewn floor. We hopped along behind her, taking care not to step on any fingers, toes or important looking cords.

“Just fill out this paperwork,” she said, ushering us into a dusty classroom. “And bring it back up front when you’re finished.”

She was gone before I could even think about asking any questions.

I sat down gingerly, as I would in a strange doctor’s office, and looked around the room for some sort of reassurance.

No such luck.

The video, which was narrated by a man with dark skin and a long, woolen beard, was a tad too reminiscent of an Al Qaeda communiqué for my comfort, and the “paperwork” turned out to be a 20-page legal disclaimer stating (and restating) that what we were about to do was “inherently dangerous” and could result in serious injury or death.

I soon realized that all the other people in the classroom were scribbling their initials all over the same death contract I gripped in my sweaty little palm. They seemed to be ignoring the possibility that the skydiving experience could turn out to be anything but fun.

Reluctantly, I followed their lead, and signed my life away in a matter of minutes. I then scuttled as quickly as possible back to the registration desk and practically threw my wad of cash at the girl behind the counter. I knew that as soon as I forked over my $250, I would be mentally and physically committed.

We were eventually summoned to a brief training session led by a wry fellow who told us there were two things we absolutely had to do during our sky dive: keep an arch in our backs throughout the entire free fall, and tell our instructors immediately if we felt the urge to vomit.

Simple enough.

Then we waited, watching as one group after another suited up, boarded the plane and, minutes later, emerged from the clouds above us like a flock of Rainbow Brite-infused birds.

The first few landings I witnessed made me cringe. The solo divers came in hard and fast, as if sliding into home plate for a game-winning run. Some of them soared in with such uncontrolled momentum that I thought they might take out a building – or at least one of their buddies – on the way.

But watching the tandem jumpers land was much more comforting. They came in softly, smoothly and with the utmost control. And each time I saw a smiling face come bobbing back from the landing strip, the butterflies in my stomach fluttered a little less violently.

By the time it was finally our turn to gear up, I was so tired of waiting that I probably would have been willing to jump out of a plane with anyone who offered to take me. So when I met my instructor and discovered he was a Navy man, I felt as confident as I ever would about risking my life for a fleeting adrenaline rush.

“Now,” said my instructor once I had donned my diving harness. “Do you remember the most important thing you have to do during your jump?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically. “Arch my back.”

“Nope,” he shook his head. “Afraid that’s not it. Who told you that?”

My stomach did a flip flop.

“Um… I …I don’t remember his name, but…”

“The most important thing – in fact, the only thing you have to do once you exit that plane,” he said, “is to have fun.”

I smiled.
“I think I can do that,” I said.

Within a few minutes, we were packed like sardines in a tin can of an airplane, watching as the altimeters on our wrists measured 10,000 feet … 12,000 feet … and, finally, 13,500 feet.

As I pulled my goggles down over my eyes, I felt my instructor tug the harness to make sure we were securely fastened to one another.

Then the door at the rear of the plane slid open and four experienced jumpers shimmied out one by one, clinging to the side of the airplane like oversized tree frogs.

I blinked, and they were gone.

A blast of cold air swept across my face as we approached the back of the plane. I saw clouds and open air, and felt suddenly vulnerable.

From then on, I was aware of what was happening, but felt like I was experiencing it from a distance. My instructor’s voice faded to a dim murmur and everything became blurry through my goggles.

In an instant, I felt my body torque and plummet head-first into spiraling white space. Then there was nothing but the deafening roar of free fall.

I had expected a jolt, or at least a falling sensation, but the movement was surprisingly smooth. My body was hurtling toward the earth at several hundred miles per hour, but somehow I wasn’t scared. I didn’t even feel the need to scream.

I just kept my mouth shut and focused on breathing, which was no easy task.

Then, with the yank of a cord, I was plunged into a tranquil, floating silence. My body trembled and my ears rang, but my mind was calm.

I removed my goggles and admired the expanse of lush, green farmland below. As I drifted through the air, with my legs dangling in the breeze, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

It has since occurred to me that skydiving probably isn’t so different from any other risk you take in life. Whether you are getting married, starting a new job, having a child or jumping out of a plane, what may at first seem terrifying – especially when you consider all that could possibly go wrong – usually turns out to be instinctive, comfortable ... even fun.

Once you cross the initial hurdle of committing yourself to a challenge and accepting its inherent risks, you are three fourths of the way there. Then, all it takes is a few encouraging smiles and a firm but gentle nudge from someone you trust, and, before you know it, you are soaring through the open air, with the wind in your face and adrenaline coursing through your veins, and – surprisingly enough – you realize you are enjoying it.

Summer Reading

Over the last month, I have read two fantastic novels by female authors relatively new on the literature scene.

The first - "Belong To Me" - was Marisa de los Santos' follow up to her 2005 novel, "Love Walked In." De los Santos writes with clarity, honesty and emotion ... and the characters in her books are people I would like to have as friends.

The characters in Kathryn Stockett's first novel, "The Help," are equally interesting and engaging, but in a completely different way. These ladies living in Jackson, Miss. in the 1960s represent a wide spectrum of strengths and weaknesses, passions and dreams. I am inspired by their sense of compassion for each other.

The summer isn't over yet, and I am already 20 pages in to what I can tell will be another good one: "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott.

Summer

Is there any sound more soothing than the gentle drone of cicadas on a midsummer night?

Things that give me pause

On July 1, Christopher B. Howard became the first black president of Hampden-Sydney College. The 40-year old is a Rhodes scholar and graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy with a doctorate in politics from Oxford University and an MBA from Harvard Business School. He earned a Bronze Star in Afghanistan, headed Bristol-Myers' HIV/AIDS initiative for Africa and now serves as a defense attaché to Liberia, where he spent two weeks on duty last month before reporting to his new post at Hampden-Sydney.

Howard is an Aspen Institute Henry Crown Fellow and serves as a senior advisor on African affairs at Stonebridge International. In 2000, inspired by his wife's experiences growing up under Apartheid in South Africa, Howard founded the Impact Young Lives Foundation to provide scholarships and travel opportunities to South African students of color.

His resume goes on and on ... and is nothing short of remarkable. I look forward to seeing the new perspective Howard and his family will bring to the Hampden-Sydney community.

July 19 Richmond Times-Dispatch article: http://bit.ly/30qtVt

Christopher Howard on leadership: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW7-eeg5NfA

Life lessons from the King of Pop

As I scanned through radio channels during my drive to the mountains last Friday, I happened upon a radio interview with a Midwestern woman who was grappling with the reality of Michael Jackson’s death. The woman said that it wasn’t until Jackson died that she truly came to recognize and appreciate the role he had played in shaping her dance career. I listened, enthralled, as she tearfully described the confused rush of emotion she experienced when she heard the news of Jackson’s death and all the memories – of his performances as well as her own – that had since come flooding back to her. And, while I am by no means a dancer or musician, I found myself identifying with much of what the woman said. Hearing her reminisce about Michael and his music caused me to consider my own “relationship” with the King of Pop. As hard as it is for me to admit now, I was once a die-hard M.J. fan.

I don’t quite remember how I first became interested in Michael Jackson’s music. What I do remember is shrieking at the top of my lungs – “Yyyeesssssssssss!!!” – when I found a cassette tape of Thriller in my stocking on Christmas morning. That was the year I was in fourth grade – the year I became completely obsessed. My cousins and I spent hours upon hours composing dance routines to everything from “ABC” by the Jackson Five to “Billie Jean,” “Bad,” and Smooth Criminal.” We even took a stab at choreographing our own (uber-cheesy) performance of “Black or White.”

That summer, I discovered MTV and VH1 and devoured every Michael Jackson special I came across. I watched the ABC Family movie, The Jacksons: An American Dream, so many times I could practically recite the script by heart. I am pretty sure I even recorded some of this “educational material” on a blank VHS tape so that I could watch it over and over again – pausing and rewinding to study Michael’s dance moves and then attempt to recreate them in my living room.

So what changed? Why did I eventually ditch my M.J. albums and replace them with the latest by Sheryl Crow and Ace of Base?

I think I began to lose interest when I saw the slightly creepy but mostly sad version of Michael that emerged during the infamous Oprah interview at Neverland Ranch. Then, the endless series of child molestation charges gradually smothered to death the last few sparks of enthusiasm and respect I had for him.

Deep down, I wanted to be a loyal fan and stand up for the artist I so admired, but it was suddenly way un-cool to do so. The more the media feasted on Jackson’s freakish appearance and dubious behaviors, the more difficult it became to focus on his talents instead of his shortcomings.

I genuinely hope that Jackson is finally resting in a peaceful place where he is free from the gnashing jaws of the paparazzi, but I must admit that I have been pleasantly surprised at how the public has responded to his passing. The media’s interest in digging up the nitty-gritty details of Jackson’s death has been vastly overshadowed by the tidal wave of positive recognition(or cultish hero-worship, whatever you want to call it) he has received over the last two weeks. Sure, the coverage of Tuesday’s memorial service was a bit over the top, but I, for one, have taken great pleasure in hearing Michael’s music on the radio, seeing his old performances rerun on television and observing as people across the globe process the bittersweet news of his death.

I find it a shame that it often takes a celebrity dying in order for the public (or the media) to focus on the positive aspects of his or her career. It is incredibly easy to fall into a pattern criticism and judgment, but life is too short and too precious to be tainted by constant negativity. And nothing good ever comes of negative thinking. So , in honor of Michael, I am going to start with the (wo)man in the mirror and challenge her to always look for the good in people.

Things that give me pause

• Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog -- a charming novel I would recommend to anyone, but especially to anyone with a soft spot for the French language and culture.

• "Don't Pity the Spinsters" -- I love this refreshing perspective on finding one's soul mate.

• 24/7 with Mary Davenport Williams, founder of Gibson Lane Studio. Check out Gibson Lane's classic silhouette designs with a whimiscal twist.

"He it is Who created for you all that is in the Earth; then He turned toward the Heaven, and He perfected them as seven Heavens."

Sultry Seville Nights

I imagine most everyone who has attended an authentic flamenco show has walked away like I did – with my jaw hanging open in amazement.
It is impossible NOT to be considerably stirred and confused by the sounds, movements and emotions one witnesses at a flamenco performance. And it is equally impossible not to want to share what you have seen, heard and felt with others. The question is how to do so.
Even if photography is permitted at a flamenco show, how much of the experience can a photo actually capture? What of flamenco can a series of still images convey?
A still photo fails to communicate the intrinsic elements of flamenco – sound and movement.
But is there any type of recording which can encapsulate those essential elements?
An audio recording could potentially capture the sound of flamenco, but its ability to do so is limited.
Even the highest quality recording would not do the artists justice. The guttural cadences and improvised percussion of flamenco would lose a dimension in translation. Its adamant stomps and lacerating cries would not slice through the air and resonate against the tile walls of the candlelit patio. It would be flat.
Moreover, an audio recording would divulge none of the invigorating visual elements of flamenco: the gleaming wood of the musician’s guitar; the delicate lace on the dancer’s dress; the expressions of agony, passion and rage on the artists’ faces; the dancer’s erotic hand flourishes, high-speed twirls and fervent thrashes … and the hummingbird blur of her hammering feet.
So … that leaves the option of a video recording -- a tried and true tool often used to convey and arouse emotion. But I would argue that even the most artistically rendered flamenco film would be bland compared to the real thing.
While film can communicate some sensory details, when it comes to recreating an entirely sensual experience, film falls short.
A video screen does not capture the play of light across a room -- the way it envelops certain faces in a warm glow, and brushes briefly against others before leaving them to the shadows.
When you watch flamenco on a movie screen, you will not you breathe the cool night air laced with honeysuckle, your eyes will not detect the sparkle of perspiration on the dancer’s face, nor will you feel the temperature rise as her body movements and footwork accelerate.
For me, the question of how to document the performance was rendered irrelevant because recording devices were not permitted. Instead, I jotted down notes throughout the performance in an attempt to capture the scene in words.
But it is not easy to find words which accurately describe the visual, auditory and emotional stimuli one encounters with flamenco.
Unpredictable. Desperate. Angry. Insistent. Fluid. Graceful. Soulful. Sultry.
The juxtaposition of these terms is a decent start …but does not even begin to paint the full picture.
In fact, I am not sure an encounter with flamenco can be recreated through any combination of words, images and sounds. I see it as one of those rare and beautiful creations rendered comprehensible only through personal experience.

Adventures in Veganland

Discovery

I am not a vegan. Nor do I want to be. But I have recently developed a taste for vegan baked goods.

A few weeks ago, I was hit by a mid-afternoon sugar low and stopped at Crossroads Coffee Shop in search of a sweet but substantive snack.

Peering in to the glass display case, I saw mouth-watering slices of carrot cake, coconut cake and pecan pie. They looked decadent ... but a tad too sugary to have substance.

Next, I saw rows of plump sesame bagels and fluffy blueberry muffins. Nah... too bready.

Finally, my eyes rested on a perfectly scrumptious looking cookie packed with whole grain oats and plump, pink craisins. It was browned to perfection ... juuuuuust riiiiight.

The cellophane-wrapped treat looked a little large for an afternoon snack (about the size of a miniature frisbee), so I figured I would eat half and save the rest for later.

I must admit that I was a bit skeptical when the gal behind the Crossroads counter informed me that what I had assumed to be a cookie was in fact a vegan oatie.

"Hmmm," I thought. "Could be disappointing."

But, faced with a lack of appealing alternatives, I decided the mighty vegan oatie deserved at least a fair trial.

Luckily, as soon as I took my first bite of vegan delight, I realized I was not in danger of buyer's remorse. It hit the spot.

A little bit chewy, with just a hint of crunch. Moist, tasty and satisfying. Sweet enough, but not too sweet. Honey-kissed.

I broke off another piece of oatie. It went down just as smoothly as the first. Delicious.

After a few more nibbles, I tucked the remainder away for later.

Well .... later came sooner than I expected. And, before I knew it, I had polished off the entire frisbee-sized vegan cookie.

I felt like I had eaten a small but energy-packed meal. The scrumptious snack kept me going through my 7 p.m. class and until I made it home for a light dinner at 10 p.m.



Revelation

The next week, I was having lunch with a friend whose office happens to be just around the corner from Crossroads Coffee in the Fan.

"This may sound weird," she ventured, "but Crossroads makes these really good vegan cookies ... and I am totally addicted to them."

"I know those cookies!" I cried.

And we proceeded to gush about them for the rest of our lunch date.

Since then, I have been back to Crossroads a couple of times in search of their delectable vegan treats.

I was even beginning to think I might just prefer vegan baked goods to the ones made for carnivores.

And then last weekend, the same friend who had admitted her addiction to the Crossroads oaties told me she had discovered the secret to vegan cooking.

"Margarine," she proclaimed. "They use it in everything."

I felt like I had been punched in the gut.

"Margarine??" I gasped.

You see, telling a natural foods nazi like me that her new favorite treat is made with chemical-laden margarine is like telling a compulsive dieter that the nonfat, sugar-free latte she just drank was actually made with whole milk and sugar.

I felt blindsided ... bilked ... betrayed.

"I thought vegans were supposed to be health consicous," I said in disgust. "Doesn't that usually mean avoiding synthetic foods?"

"What a sham," I thought. "Typical."

Reconciliation

So, today I took a break from Crossroads and instead headed to Ellwood's Coffee for my afternoon pick-me-up.

Browsing their selection of sweets, I spotted a chocolate covered dessert bar sprinkled with nuts. My stomach gurgled in anticipation.

"What is that one?" I asked the gal behind the counter.

"It's a vegan toffee bar," she chirped.

Of course it was. What else would it be?

I contemplated asking if it was made with margarine, but decided against it. I chose not to to think about the hypocrisy and let myself cave to vegan temptation.

Postscript

As it turns out, there are actually several "all natural" vegan margarine options on the market.

Some appear to be made with soy ... while others are made with olive and/or nut oils. Check out the Earth Balance product line.

There are also plenty of recipes for vegan baked goods that use fruit purees or vegetable oil in place of butter or margarine. See Vegweb.com for some yummy-looking recipe ideas.

The Search

I don't mean to be critical, but I am so sick of this type of commentary:
http://social.richmond.com/blog/carolinesplate/2009/04/the-lost-first-date/

Yes, dating in 2009 is different than dating in 1950. Yes, it sucks.

Now move on.

I find this obsession with "the search for the perfect mate" extremely tiresome. There is no perfect mate.

If you're lucky, you will find a kind, supportive, loving mate ... but there is no point in hoping for perfection. And there is no point in wasting energy analyzing why near-perfection is so hard to find.

Why not use that energy to pursue something within reach? Why not search for yourself ... connect with yourself ... improve yourself.

Each one of us is ultimately responsible for our own happiness. No one--not even the "perfect" mate-- can guarantee another person's sense of well being. That sense is one that comes from within.

So ... to all you self-professed dating gurus, I say relax. Take a break from dating as a competitive sport, and cultivate a relationship with someone who can make you happy--yourself.

Either or?

In a job interview a few weeks ago, I was posed with a question that has stayed with me ever since:

"Do you find comfort in being close to home ...or are you eager to get out and explore the world?"

Since it was an interview, I felt I had to answer one way or another. So I chose the latter.

But I'm not sure how I can claim to be an eager explorer when I have just moved "home" to Richmond, where I am surrounded by friends and family.

True...I did spend four years away at college and three years living in DC, but throughout that time -- except for the semester I spent in Paris -- I was never more than five hours away from the comforts of home.

Yet there is no question in my mind that the most rewarding and enriching moments of my adult life have come from my ventures into the wider world. As I have explored new places and cultures, I have made friends and memories that now define me.

It seems each time I venture out of my comfort zone, I encounter someone or something that illuminates a new layer within the prism of my soul. Afterward, everything I experience filters through that new layer and refracts into thoughts and perspectives I would not otherwise have had.

I am not sure who I would be today if I had never gotten out and explored the world. But I also don't know who I would be today if I did not have a home base to return to after each adventure.
My loyalty to home and family defines me just as much as my fascination with the world beyond.

In the interview, I had to choose one or the other...but in real life I refuse to do so.

And if that means my life becomes a quest to balance these two essential drives, then so be it.

Because I simply can't relinquish either side of myself.

How far have we come?

I watched an excellent but emotionally disturbing film last night.

It was "Changeling"-- yet another of Clint Eastwood's thought -provoking directorial masterpieces.

Conspiracy, corruption and discrimination are some of the sociopolitical issues raised in the film, which is based on a series of events that took place in Los Angeles in the late 1920s .

"Changeling" exposes some alarming real-life examples of conspiring officials and corrupt police departments. But, to me, the most disturbing illustration was that of the L.A. County Hospital Psychiatric Ward.

It wasn't that I was distressed by the images of life inside an insane asylum. (I have seen "Girl Interrupted" and "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," after all.)

No...what I found most upsetting was the patients' sense of helplessness--and the doctors' refusal to listen to them.

The doctors and nurses assumed everything the women said or did to be evidence of their "insanity." The harder a patient tried to act normal, the crazier she seemed.

I was nauseated at the idea that, as soon as a woman is diagnosed as mentally ill, she essentially loses the ability to defend herself.

Fortunately, I know that over the past 80 years society has made significant progress in its approach to mental illness.

Today, doctors are better equipped to diagnose and treat anxiety, depression and mood disorders with counseling and medication; insurance companies are finally required to treat mental ailments the same way they treat physical ailments; and it seems the stigma attached to mental illness is gradually beginning to fade.

Taking all of this into consideration as I re-hashed the psych ward scenes in "Changeling," I convinced myself that patients in modern psychiatric wards are treated more humanely than those portrayed in the movie.

But this morning, NPR informed me that caretakers at a home for mentally retarded citizens were recently arrested for organizing after-hours "fight clubs" pitting disabled residents against each other.

So now I wonder...

If a group of caretakers can so easily abuse the mentally disabled, why should I think they couldn't do the same to the mentally ill?

Float On

Float On

A few weeks ago, I opened a copy of Richmond's Skirt magazine and promptly devoured three personal essays I found inside: Stacy Appel's "Undercurrents," Christine Mason Miller's "Time Out" and Phyllis Theroux's "Dream Time."

The theme and messages of this month's issue could not have come at a better time for me.

As I transition out of a job I held for three years and attempt to find my way along a new path of my own making, I have found myself feeling overwhelmed and anxious at the thought that I am in control of my own future.

What if I make the wrong decision and miss out on a golden opportunity? What if I take a step in one direction and then, a few years later, wish I had gone a different route?

The words of wisdom in these essays eased my anxieties and reassured me that I am in the right place for me right now.

I am nourished by the idea that sometimes the wisest choice we can make is to relinquish control and let the invisible currents of life "carry us forward with intelligence we can't quite perceive."

Open your mind and add spice to your life

I was midway through a semester abroad program, studying French and living with a family in Paris when the United States declared war on Iraq.

“C’est la guerre,” my host father matter-of-factly proclaimed as we sat down to dinner one March evening.

Once it became clear that France would not back the U.S. in its pursuit of war with Iraq, I received phone calls and emails from friends in the states :

“Is it weird to be in France right now? Are the people rude or hostile to you? Do the French hate Americans now? Do you feel unsafe?”

Not at all.

As opposed to Americans, who had boycotted the sale of French wine and taken to calling French fries “freedom fries,” my French colleagues were able to make a clear distinction.

"We are against the war, but we are not against Americans," they said.

Despite my inherent association with President Bush and the war, I never encountered the least bit of enmity or aggression from the French community.

I hope that a French student studying in the states at that time would be able to say the same.

Living abroad, especially during such a controversial moment in history, opened my mind to the importance of cross-cultural awareness and drew my attention to the media’s considerable influence over public perception.

This awareness has encouraged me to seek out friends with backgrounds different from my own and to consider the variety of perspectives surrounding each political, social or cultural issue.

They say variety is the spice of life. If so, I believe we owe it to society and to ourselves to keep our spice racks fully stocked.