Less is more

I've never understood why products that have less of something end up costing more. For example, why is decaf coffee more expensive than caffeinated coffee? If there's less caffeine in it, shouldn't it cost less?

And diesel fuel. Supposedly, diesel is the closest thing to pure petroleum. Yet, it'll cost you more to fill your tank with diesel than regular gasoline with all its additives.

Ron watches his sugar intake and buys sugar-free products. They are all more expensive than products that contain sugar. How can not adding a main ingredient add to the price? It makes no sense.

Fat-free and gluten-free foods, and fragrance-free detergents are also more expensive.

If companies can charge more for doing less work, why can't I?

No regrets

I've got this philosophy about life -- I don't want any regrets. I know that's hard to do. We all make mistakes and we all miss opportunities. But I try.

My hero R.W. Emerson said "An opportunity missed is an opportunity lost." I don't completely agree with him. If you miss an opportunity and do nothing to rectify it then, yes, it's lost.

I don't know how much time is too much time to address a regret. It may depend on the incident. But I think that as soon as your conscience or gut tell you that someone may have been hurt by your actions, that's when it should be addressed. The longer you wait, the harder it is.

Some people can move on and put lost relationships in the past. I'm not one of those people. I want to hang onto everyone I've ever loved or shared my heart with.

My biggest fear in life is that I'll be sitting in the nursing home in my 80s and thinking back on my life. I'll be struck by things I either didn't say to someone who was important to me, or things I said or did that were hurtful. And then I'll be filled with sadness that I didn't change things when I had the chance.

I had a couple of friends who died young. Friends who I was very close to in my youth but had had a falling out with. One lost friendship was all my fault, the other was a mystery to me. Both of these friends died not knowing that I loved them. Why? Well, partly because I was stubborn, but mainly because I thought I had time. We were young, after all, and mortality was something generations away from us.

I'd picture myself bumping into them while out shopping or out at a local restaurant. We'd hug and laugh about our stupidity and everything would be back to normal.

That didn't happen and I live with that regret. So, now, when I feel a friendship is reaching a critical point, I go into communication mode.

Not everyone wants or knows how to communicate in the brutally honest, soul-baring way that is my style. To me, it's always better to speak what's difficult to say than to not say it at all. As long as the message comes from a place of love and healing, and not of anger and self righteousness, it's all good as far as I'm concerned.

So, when I'm faced with a moment when I could do what's "easy" and let a friendship die, I become that 80-something woman in the nursing home, thinking back on her life.

And then I make that phone call.

Spring cleaning

I bought some new summer clothes yesterday and found I had no room for them in my rather small closet. Today, I took some time getting rid of clothes that either don't fit or are out of style. Considering I wear mostly jeans and LL Bean-type clothing, that's not a lot.

My closet, as I said, is quite small so clothes are really jammed in there. I normally reach for the same old things and wear them to death. But as I was moving the hangers to expose each piece of clothing, I found things I forgot I had. It was then that I started to get serious about what would fill that large black trash bag on my bed. 

Some of the clothes were no-brainers. I'd keep them because they were in good shape, they fit, and I wear them all the time. It was when I got to the part of the closet that is not easily reached that I started feeling torn.

There was the shirt that my uncle Phil gave me the Christmas before he died at 45. A heartbreaking death for me. He wasn't much older than me and we were more friends than relatives. I haven't worn the shirt since 1999 but still can't bear to throw it out. So there it stays.

I found old company logo shirts from miscellaneous projects I worked on. I kept one from each company and tossed the rest. I know the chances of my wearing those remaining golf shirts again is next to nil, but I worked hard at those companies and, with the exception of my resume and the friends I made there, these were my only tangible reminders.

There were the shirts that I bought either on or for vacation trips. Each one held fond memories. I kept the ones that still fit and put the rest in the bag. I've got pictures and stories from all those trips that can replace the clothing.

The pants were another story. The sizes were all over the map. I thought about my weight struggles over the years as I pitched all of the pants that were more than one size away from my current size. All the while feeling ambivalent because I know my history and wondered if I was throwing away things that may fit, unfortunately, a year from now. In the end, it made me feel empowered to toss those size 16 and 18 jeans - a good incentive to keep my weight off.

As I tied up the bag stuffed with old clothes, I reflected on the thought process I just went through. Deciding on what to keep and what to let go is something we do every day. It could be facts we collect on our jobs that ultimately don't become part of the final result, or people we meet that we feel are fine as acquaintances but don't click with enough to count as good friends. 

But it was the sentimental piece of the process that I found the most enlightening. What memories do we value? How much do we hold onto even though it doesn't fit who we are anymore?

Memories are powerful forces in our lives. Forces that nudge both smiles and tears. There are times I wish I could clean out my mind like I do my closet. It should be easier to get rid of moments that are yesterday's bad fashion statements and keep only what makes me feel good about myself when I look in the mirror.

I came to the conclusion that, although convenient and tidy, I don't want to treat my memories like my closet. I am me because of everything that was given to me or chosen by me - even if it no longer fits.

Here's to friendship

I'm just back from my monthly dinner with friend Kathleen. We met almost 10 years ago at a really wacky company. I was only there for 2 1/2 months and we really didn't start hanging out together till my last couple of weeks there. In fact, I think our first night out was the day I was fired. Yes, I was fired. It's a great story and I'd do it all again. A blog post for another day...

When I was a kid, I used to think that having more friends was better than having a few close friends. Now I have both scenarios yet see the value in quality over quantity.

I find it comforting to have a few very close friends to whom I can trust my heart. They love me unconditionally. They stand by me no matter what I tell them. They never judge. And they are completely and lovingly honest. If I say anything even close to bullshit, Kathleen calls me on it.

I wish I could be as courageous with everyone I know. It is courage, after all, isn't it? To risk saying something that someone needs to hear and still feel that it's worth losing the friendship? Or is it being that secure in your friendship that you both know that what is said, is said out of love?

Honesty doesn't mean callousness, however. I don't want someone to take my emotions and discount them as silly. But friends like Kathleen can take my story and help me see the lesson in it. And sometimes that lesson isn't pretty. Most of the time, it is eye-opening and I am always so happy to have her perspective.
When the lesson is completely discussed, then comes the time for laughter. For without humor, a lesson becomes a lecture or a self conscious moment. Humor gives you perspective and an ability to laugh at your humanness.

I think that's a friend's greatest gift. Helping you to take your life moments and turn them into pearls of wisdom. Then laughing with you when you realize that it is just one moment in your life that doesn't define you.

And when that's done, she orders chocolate bread pudding with whipped cream and nuts - with two spoons.

Unexpected blooms

It's been a funny week. Well, a funny couple of weeks. I've been working as a contractor at HP off and on for almost 8 years. In that job I've worn the hat of agency site lead, writer, editor, business systems analyst, and party organizer.

Today the agency I work for finished up its contract with HP for the work done by me and most of the other contactors. It was bittersweet. I've begun to take my writing to a different audience, and HP has changed into a place that I barely recognize anymore. The peers and immediate managers I worked with are great, and I will miss them - the upper echelon, not so much.

As I was wrapping up things with HP last week, I reinjured my shoulder. I had fallen last October while taking seizure-ridden Alex outside. In an attempt to keep him from falling down the stairs, I took the fall for him. X-rays at the ER showed no breaks so I was sent home with exercises and an ice bag.

The shoulder has never been completely back to its pre-October days, and it's been regressing in the past week. So, I made an appointment with my PCP, Dr. Feldman.

The good doctor is not very traditional. She does "traditional" medicine (with some great holistic advice on the side), but her personality is not so traditional. Years ago, she and I connected over books and our somewhat irreverent, wiseass senses of humor. She's been very supportive of me and my CFS struggles even though she admits she can't fix it.

After we discussed my shoulder, she asked about the CFS and said I looked brighter than the last time she saw me. I told her about the non-technical writing career I'm finding myself falling into and was obviously beaming.

We wrapped things up but she turned as she was headed out the door. "Bloom where you're planted," she said. I smiled and thought about it. "You know how sometimes you'll be walking along and you'll see a flower in a place where there are no others? Or in soil that you never thought would grow anything?," she continued.

"Well, that's you," she said. "Bloom where you're planted." And then she walked away.

It was perfect timing in a week of transitions for me. And it gave me some frame of reference for my 7+ year struggle with CFS. My life might not always be a bed of roses, but I'm somehow still finding a way to blossom.

The old stigmas

I was out card shopping the other day with a long list of upcoming birthdays, anniversaries, and weddings. Most of the birthday cards were for women and those are so much fun to choose. The wording on each one is usually very heartfelt and sentimental. Feelings are expressed openly and without restraint - especially if the card is woman-to-woman.

After I made my way through the "For Her" section of the cards, I got to the section of my list that was "For Him". I needed to get cards for a nephew and two of Ron's brothers (May is a big birthday month in Ron's family. February must be a pretty romantic month for those conservative Canadiens.)

The first thing I noticed was that there were very few cards for male birthdays. It was a one-size-fits-all sort of affair. And all the cards had pictures of boats, golf courses, fishing rods, or mountains on them. No pictures of men with arms around anyone - even, God forbid, other men. In fact, I can't remember seeing a card with any living thing on it at all.

When I opened all of these generic-looking cards, the writing told an even bigger story. In place of the heartfelt words and open feelings were a few lines about "taking it easy", a "job well done", and, my personal favorite, "I know we don't talk much, but...."

Missing were words like "love", "affection", and "heart". I found it to be a pretty sad statement on gender evolution. The 60s and 70s were going to change all this, weren't they? I see changes all around me when it comes to fathers and their relationship with their children. Men seem so much more involved with their kids than before, even when it's time for a tea party or dance lesson with their girls.

I did find a couple of cards that had at least some sentiment and bought them. But, still, I shook my head. Why don't greeting cards encourage, or even allow for, the expression of feelings to and between men? It doesn't have to be all flowers and cupids. But how wonderful would it be for a man to walk into a card store and pick up a card to his brother that says "I love you" - right there in print?

I worry that cards like that wouldn't sell. That men would still buy the "job well done" card and continue the stigma. I find that most men still don't know how to talk about their feelings - and it's not just my generation and older. Maybe Hallmark has done some market research and found that it's not worth the money to print "gushy" cards for men.

If so, how sad.

Synchronicity

One of my pet peeves is the misuse of the word "synchronicity". Sting got it right. Others use it as a substitute for the word "synchronous". Since I'm a Carl Jung fan, the misuse makes me even crazier.

To quote Wikipedia: Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events that are apparently causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner. To count as synchronicity, the events should be unlikely to occur together by chance.

The concept of synchronicity popped into my head this afternoon as I sat on my deck. It is a gorgeous spring day and I dug out my lawn chair for the sole purpose of sitting in the sun and watching the birds at the feeder.

Ron joined me with the newspaper in hand. I was content to just listen and watch nature. I heard a russling in the woods next to my house. It was my reclusive, elderly neighbor. He spends a lot of time picking through and pruning the woods behind his house. Both of our homes abut conservation land and we seem to appreciate the serenity of it.

I thought about what a lonely life he has. Cloistered in his house. Hardly ever mingling with any of the neighbors. His house is surrounded by trees and shrubs to the point of being engulfed by them. I'm told that he never married and I've never seen any visitors at his house.

As I contemplated my neighbor's solitude, Ron leaned over and said "Pssst". I looked his way as he pointed to a wild turkey that has been hanging out in our yard on occasion. There it was, poking its way through our yard, headed to the bird feeder.

I watched it for a long time. It slowly made its way back into the woods behind our house where it sat and groomed itself. I was drawn to watching my neighbor at the same time. Both of these creatures at home alone in nature. How similar are their lives, I wondered.

I've never seen this turkey with any other turkeys. Not even little baby turkeys. My neighbor and the turkey didn't appear to know the other was there. But maybe they did and are used to each other by now. Pecking their way through the natural world, content to be alone together.