The Art of Misunderstanding and Being Misunderstood

 We’ve all been there, right?  We do something for all the right reasons and somebody thinks our motives are questionable.  We offer to help a person just to find out that they think we are just being self-important.  We are having a rough day and we are accused of being self-absorbed and snobby.   We buy a new (used) car and we are told we are being “uppity” and showing off.  Can you relate?  It’s like you just can’t win.
 
This, the art of being misunderstood (because it’s an art, truly), has been my bane throughout my years on earth.  It’s been the source of heartache and self-questioning (Am I really the awful person they think I am?)  It has caused me to become “un-done” many times.  In my ornery moments it just makes me angry and resentful.   At other times it just hurts.


For 99% of us humans on earth coexisting with countless other humans, one of our most basic needs is to be loved and UNDERSTOOD.  We want someone to know us; to know the best of us and to see that in us.  We want to be loved in spite of our imperfections and to be seen as the best version of ourselves.  We want our aspirations, our attitudes, our ambitions and motives to be seen in a positive light.  And sometimes, nay, many times, that just doesn’t happen. 

It would take months of writing to delve into the reasons why we, as  humans, have a proclivity for misunderstanding one another.  It takes a lot of creativity - this misunderstanding business. That’s not my purpose in writing about this.  My reasons for addressing this topic are two-fold.  One reason is to simply vent.  The second reason is to understand it and learn to accept it and then let it go.

Alright, I’ve already vented.  Now I would like to offer some insight into the concept of being misunderstood.  Wait… you know what?  I am thinking that will be a futile exercise of my grey cells to try to understand why we habitually misunderstand one another.  It might even kill a few of those brain cells off, and I don't want that.   Let’s try a different approach.

Someone gave me something recently that has rearranged (not always willingly) how I think about things - especially the things that have an affect on me.  It’s called a Resentment Model. 

Only little kids look cute when resentful.

 And because of learning about this Resentment Model, I’ve discovered (this is kinda embarrassing) that anytime I get angry, frustrated, annoyed, hurt, disappointed (… ok, you get the idea), with someone or with a situation, it’s because I have some resentment towards it or them.  And that puts it all back on me.  It’s in my head and I (capital “I”) have to deal with it.  Rather anti-climatic, isn’t it?  It’s also a bit annoying because now I can no longer blame someone else for feeling hurt and sad at being offended or misunderstood. 

I now have to own my part in these “misunderstanding” type of situations and take care of it from my side.  Basically, I have to act like a grown-up.  I will have to be mature and apologize if needed, make amends where it is necessary, forgive when it isn’t asked for, and at the very least, let go of the things I cannot control (like another person’s actions or thoughts).

When I was a 20 yr old college student, I moved after my freshman year to a new college, city, state, the whole shebang.  

 I got involved with the group of college kids from my church right away and began dating a great guy.  I was having a terrific time and felt like I was making friends and fitting in.  A huge feat for a girl who was nominated as ‘most shy’ in high school.  And then one night at a pool party, I heard a group of girls talking about me and saying unkind things.  My first response was, “What?  Who am I that they would even be spending time talking about me?”    My second response was a sad, “Gee, they don’t even know me.”   I still have that inner response when I am misunderstood.  It doesn’t even occur to me to respond by “lashing back” or being vengeful.  But I have learned to be resentful (not a great thing, and so enters the Resentment Model).

This mis-judging and misunderstanding one another has become epidemic.  My oldest son used to say, when the younger kids were arguing, “Can’t we just all get along?”  I think of him frequently, saying that now, as I look at all the self-inflicted turmoil in our world; brother against brother, human being against human being.  “Can’t we just all get along?” 
Can’t a little empathy and understanding go a long way?  Can we not step into another’s shoes and walk in them for a while?  Can’t we be kinder, more understanding, more forgiving?  And can’t we all grow up and own our very own negative thoughts, our own unkind words and deeds, our own prejudices.  And finally, can’t we just LET IT GO? 
 


When we can let our part in it go, then maybe we can forgive and like each other again.  ALL OF US.

                     



That’s not too much to hope for, is it?

A Little Knee-Shaking is Good for You

Do you remember, as a child, thinking, “When I get bigger I won’t be afraid of that”!(whatever “that” was)?

 

If my aged memory still serves me, I recall being afraid of many things, like, the dark, opening an umbrella indoors, the Mummy, haunted houses, spiders, looking under the bed at night, the Doctor, the Mummy (oops!  I said that one already.  I was really terrified of that guy wrapped in band-aids), and, understandably, my 1st grade teacher.  Some of these fears were silly and unfounded.  A few, I won't mention which, have remained with me all these years later - like the Mummy.

I also remember thinking NUMEROUS times, “When I grow up, I won’t be afraid of the dark!”, or, “When I get bigger, I will be able to look under my bed”.  Basically, I figured I’d be able to conquer the world when I grew into my big girl pants.  I would be able to climb big rocks without help, swim underwater without holding my nose, explore caves AND haunted houses, kill spiders like a man, and walk around outside on a dark night without startling at each little noise.  I reasoned, in my 7 year old brain, that I would be afraid of absolutely nothing.  I’d be able to look my syringe-wielding doctor straight in the eye without dissolving into tears of terror.

Then I became a teenager.  

It seemed like my theory on fear and growing older was coming true.  I was ready to try almost anything!  Rapelling, doctor appointments, speeding in my Dad’s 'Caddy', spelunking, swimming at the river at night, trying strange food like, um…, mushrooms, sticking your tongue out at your mom when she turned her back, bring it on!  As I entered my twenties, I discovered that I wasn’t truly brave as a teenager, I was just stupid and cocky.  Teenagers like me, didn’t have the sense to realize that a little fear is a good thing.  And a smack on the head from your mom who caught you sticking your tongue out didn’t feel very nice.

Since then, I’ve been waiting for that big shot of bravery, like an inoculation of "Fearless"!   I'm pretty sure they don't manufacture that specific vaccine, because it’s never happened.  In fact, I have become MORE fearful as I’ve gotten older.  Fear of falling (“…and I can’t get up!”), dogs with big teeth, accidentally hiking into a marijuana farm, spooky bathrooms filled with spider webs (google ‘Walker Lake, NV’), and the fear of my teeth all falling out at once, just to name a few.  My fears have morphed for sure and I have not become less fearful, but more so.  My fears have grown and matured.  It paralyzes me at times and keeps me from trying and doing new things.  That fear, because I give in to it,  tethers me to the ground with iron-clad ropes.  Sure, it keeps me safer physically and emotionally, but on the downside, it has squeezed much of the adventurous spirit right out of me.  I think I have even begun to be afraid of being afraid.  And that is kinda sad.
When we moved from southern UT, a very dear friend gave me a small book/journal as a “going away” gift.  It was titled, “Do One Thing Everyday That Scares You”; a gem of a book.  It is filled with a quote and one thing to do each day, per page.  Some things are small, like, “talk to someone you don’t know”.  Some of the ideas were bigger and scarier, like, “join a dance class”.  Ok, that one isn’t so scary - but you get the idea.  I loved this book. 
The thing about doing things you are afraid of, or challenged by, is that it stretches you right into your soul.  It builds you.  Even if you fail at something, you can say, “I tried and it wasn’t that bad”.  And then you try again.  And you grow.  *On a serious note;  are we ever alone in our fear?  No, never.  We have a Savior there by our side for the silly and the not-so-silly fears.  He can be the source for the courage to move ahead.

 
Coolest thing I’ve discovered as I grown older?  You can keep growing and learning and changing!!  What??  Is that true?    Yep; truer than true.  In fact, we can accomplish the most amazing growth in our later years.   The reason?  Well, for me it’s because I tell myself, “What have you got to lose?”  Embarrassment?  Been there, done that.  Injury?  It’ll heal.  Mental trauma?  Just add it to the pile.  Death?  What a glorious way to go!!  Okay, okay.  Not "for reals" on that last one.  There’s grandkids to torture still. 

If you are thinking I have conquered all my fears, think again.  Far from it.  It’s a process.  It is time for me to pick up and use that little book that my friend was inspired to give me. 

 
What am I trying to say here, you may wonder?  (Quit beating around the bush for heck’s sake!) Here it is without all the frills; a little fear with a dose of courage goes a long way.  That business you want to start but are afraid you don’t have the skills?  Learn what you gotta know and step out there!  That 36 mile backpacking trip you want to take?  Just DO IT (and take bear spray)!   Want to enter your photography in an art fair but you think your work isn’t worthy?  Go for it!  Ya gotta start somewhere!  Want to see that great movie alone?  Just do it and make sure to get your popcorn with extra butter!  (And I’m talking to myself here!)

The things in life that make your knees shake are often the very things that will cause you to grow and feel alive.  And you know one of the things that grows the most?  It’s our courage.  Courage to keep trying new things and to keep going.   Courage to become our best selves.  Courage to be fearless with our goals and our life.  Courage to be who we are.

So, yes, a little knee-shaking is good for you.   REALLY GOOD!! 

Take it from a scaredy-cat.

A Desert Gal Coming into the Rain (and Snow)

 I have lived the past 28 years of my life in the dry and arid southwest.  I even had a few brief flirtations with the desert before that, which would bring the grand total to about 33 years of desert dwelling.  Chapped lips, never-ending sun, dry skin, bleached hair and cracked heels; this was the norm for many seasons of long and dry summers.  I had 2 kinds of shoes; flip-flops and sandals.  I had only one lightweight coat for when the temps dipped below 60.  Shorts, capris, skirts with lightweight shirts were my complete wardrobe.  Ok, I lie.  I had a few pairs of jeans for the winter and for camping. 

The catch was, I began to hate summers.  Well, to be honest, I only hated the desert summers.  And that wasn't just during the day.  Like when the temperatures soared past 108 degrees for a full 30 days, or when it never cooled down lower than 90 degrees at night, or when going shopping meant you’d at one point have to get into a car that was a blistering 150 degrees or higher inside, or barefoot walking on the concrete meant blisters for a week, or you had to choose between letting your veggie garden die or stand out and fry your buns while watering it each day.  And there is SOOO much more.  Summers at the beach were divine.  Summers spent at a mountain cabin were glorious.  But I could never assign the adjectives, “divine” and “glorious” to an Arizona, or a Utah desert summer.  I loved the landscapes, but the weather withered my bones.  Or the stuff on my bones. 

Which brings me to this moment in time.  We left southern Utah at the end of August after packing a motorhome and a moving van with ourselves, our cats, and all our possession and moved to Northern California.  (Please, never call California, “Cali”.  It’s rather annoying and I believe it only refers to southern California.  A different state altogether.)


We arrived in September just in time for a beautiful and glorious fall. (there’s that ‘glorious’ word again)   It was truly lovely.  Dry, warm, but cool at night.  Soon the days became cooler.  I was great with that.  I could be outside ALL day and not feel like I was being cooked alive.  I loved it.  Did I mention it was GLOR-I-OUS??

Then came winter.  
 It roared in like lion with rain and crazy winds.  And then we’d have a few nice days.  Then more roaring.  And then the snow started.  And it kept coming.
 


 And the rains came down and the floods came up.  More snow. Then more “torrential rains” (according to the weatherman).  And more flooding.  And wind.  And more rain.  Our yard turned into a lake with a river.  A large (REALLY LARGE) tree blew down narrowly missing our home.  And more rain and snow is predicted. 
*Be careful what you wish for.  You just might get it.*

A few days ago we had some sunshine.  I was ecstatic.  I spent all the time I could spare in the sun.  I walked.  I shoveled.  I read a book in it.  I explored.  And I’m pretty sure it’s the same sun that was baking southern Utah to a crisp just 6 months ago.





 But instead of hating it, I was reveling in it.  I couldn’t get enough.  I. Had. Missed. It.   There.  I said it.  My shameful secret was out.  I really did love the sunshine.  I had missed it like a dear and loving friend.  I was done with the rain and the snow and the clouds.  But, then….











Last week I saw a double rainbow.  Twice.  And, as I was sitting in the jeep, waiting to meet someone and not looking at my phone, but at the rainbows, I began to ponder on this puzzling turn of events.  How human it is, how like us all, to never be happy with where we are and what we have.  Too much sunshine?  Yuck; we hate it.  It’s too hot … waahaahaa!  OR…. Too much snow/rain?  Ugh!  We are so tired of it.  I can never get warm!  (somebody call the Whaahaa-ambulance!)  We are never happy with where we are, unless things are just perfect.




But, here's the clincher.  This type of perfection is subjective. We are the one who decides what is perfect for us.  Us and us alone.  No one else decides that for us.  At least, they’d better not.  In other words, “perfection” doesn’t always mean things have to be “perfect”.   So, I can decide that right now, right where I am, is just right; the weather is just right; the amount of solitude is just right; the kind of house I live in is just right (you get the idea), OR, I can decide to always want what I don't have and be unhappy about where I am.  Key words?  I  CAN  DECIDE.

 

 

 

Seems like a no-brainer, right?

Beginnings and Baggers

Disclaimer:

This blog is for practice.  Just wanted to warn everyone.  I love to write.  It has been a dream of mine, since I was a wee girl, to write a book.  However, I have written very little in the last 12 years.  Naturally, if you don’t do something for 12 years, you’re going to be out of practice.   Hence, the warning.  So, if you’re wanting to read something really eloquent and literary, come back in 10 years or so.  I may be old(er) and senile by then, but maybe, just maybe, I will be a better writer at the least, and perhaps an author at the most.

That being said, I will give you another word of warning about the proposed content of my blog.  Wait for it….there isn’t one.  I am a thinker and a wonderer.  I think of a good many things in my spare time on this planet, and a lot of those thoughts cause a lot of noise rattling around in my head.  I will write about those things.  And about things I know.  It’s all fair game.  Some of my thoughts right  now could be, “Why do people drool on their pillows at night?”,   and “How come you get more fearful as you get old?”, and “Why do some people have tons of hair on their head and some don’t?”, and “What is the hardest job in the world?”, and even “Why, as soon as your kids grow up into nice, responsible human beings, do they move out; can’t we dispose of them sooner and have them come back when they are less hostile?”.   Yeah, topics like that, and even topics that I am a near expert on, like, “How to apologize without really apologizing”, or “How to tell off your daughter’s boyfriend”.   I am open to taking suggestions too, from my readers.  If I have any.

For now; for this very first post, I would like to talk about BAGGERS (hiss, boo!) at the grocery store.  A little background.  I live in the big long state of California, up at the northern end.  And for those of you who are not geography wizards, San Francisco is NOT northern California, and neither is Sacramento.  It’s above that.  It’s the part that no one knows about.  Small towns, forests, ranches and ranchers, miles and miles of open country, where citizens rarely care about the latest fashion except in camouflage, and where the “right to carry” is sacred.  I digress.  There is a reason to my rambling. 
Recently CA passed a law that did away with free bags in stores.  You have to bring your own or pay $.10 a bag.  Naturally I bring my own bag (BYOB).  I have several large nylon reinforced bags that I love and use each time.

 And every blasted time I take these to the grocery store, the BAGGER (hiss, boo!) thinks he must fill it to the top with all the heavy stuff.  Stuff like full milk and dairy cartons, heads of cauliflower and cabbages, cans of garbanzo beans, 5 lb bags of organic bread flour bottles of Caesar dressing and even an occasional kumquat.  Then the BAGGER (hiss, boo!), will look at me with a smirk and give this overflowing bag a “test heft”, then grin and say, “yeah, I think that’s ok”.  And I’m like, “HELLOOO!!  Can’t you see I’m a senior citizen?  Can you see these flabs on my arms that USED TO BE  muscles?  Are you some kind of masochist?”  Then he sets the 10-ton bag in my cart while stifling a groan of his own and says, “you got this, right?”  And, since I want to appear young and tough, like any near 60 yr. old lady, I smile and wheel my 20-ton cart (because there are 2 10-ton bags) out to my snazzy yellow jeep where I groan and curse all BAGGERS, because I am sure he is peeking out the store window with his binoculars and rolling on the floor laughing with all his bagger buddies, while I am trying to brace my feet and with 2 arms and a “Heave, ho”, catapulting those  50-ton (oops, I meant 10-ton) grocery bags into the tiny back seat of the jeep. 

 And all the while I am wondering, “WHY?”.

I am positive that on employment applications for grocery store baggers, there is a line that asks, “Do you have a sick sense of humor that would allow you to enjoy torturing old people by OVER-loading their bags?”.

Yep, that would explain it.