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Creating a Butter, I Mean Better, Me

~ mjdaum ~ 5 Comments

A couple of weekends ago, we ate breakfast at the Waffle House. I love that place. Service is great. Staff is friendly and hospitable. Food is simple and delicious. I am especially enamored with the restaurant’s butter. It’s always soft and creamy and easy to spread on the pecan waffle that’s become my “usual.” Fortunately for me, our server that day gave me a couple of extra packets of my delicious friend. I used two of the three containers on my waffle, but had a full packet left. Much to the chagrin of my husband and son, I put the remaining treasure in my purse. I quickly defended my apparent lunacy. “You know how much I love this stuff, don’t you? It wouldn’t be right to waste it. Never mind the people who are watching me treat this butter like a pallet of gold. They don’t know what they are missing. I feel sorry for them.”

I completely forgot about the butter for a couple of days until I was dining out with a couple of girlfriends. I recall reaching for my wallet when the butter fell out of my purse. I explained my good fortune to my gal pals, but instead of nodding in agreement, they just laughed. I’m not sure if they were laughing at me or with me. Hmmm. Anyway, when I returned home from dinner I put the butter in the refrigerator. Fast-forward to a few days later when I went to retrieve the butter packet from our refrigerator only to discover it was no longer there. I asked my husband, Jeff, about it and he coldly answered, “I probably threw it away.” Threw it away? Threw it away? How could you throw it away? I could fill the heat rising up my neck and into my face as my anger and disbelief grew. No apology was going to fix this. My butter was gone. Trashed. Destroyed. Ruined.

After a few minutes of fuming and pacing, I realized how ridiculous it would be to come to blows over a pat of butter.

Ridiculous, but not necessarily surprising. You see, I’ve always had a weird relationship with food. Always.

This weird relationship has led to a lifelong struggle with my weight. And my weight appears to be winning.

Do I look like I'm about to share this cake with anyone?
Do I look like I’m about to share this cake with anyone?
The evidence supports my assertion. And the evidence is strong. Let’s take a look:

Exhibit A: I was born with a tooth. So from day one I was ready for more than 6 ounces of formula. I was primed for something I could really sink my tooth into – which brings me to Exhibit B.

Exhibit B: My parents say that I seemed to have an insatiable appetite. I cried incessantly. I was inconsolable. They couldn’t figure it out. So they went to the expert. They asked my pediatrician. He determined that I wasn’t getting enough to eat. He instructed them to put ground up meat in a bottle for me. (I’m not sure if that image makes me queasy or want to make a Taco Bell run.)

Exhibit C: See the sentence in the parentheses in Exhibit B. (Sick, right?)

Exhibit D: I currently weight 230 pounds. I visited the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website inserted my numbers into their BMI calculator widget. The verdict was sobering. “Your BMI is 30.3, indicating your weight is in the Obese category for adults of your height.”

Exhibit E: I am the first-born female in my family. According to a recent study, that means I am 40 percent more likely than my younger siblings to be obese. “We can’t do anything about our birth order, but the research could be considered a good reminder for first-borns to be scrupulous about diet and exercise,” says Wayne Cutfield, co-author of the study, which was published in The Journal of Epidemiology & Community Health.

So I guess I’m screwed. Or, maybe my scale is screwed. I sometimes imagine it yelling at me. “Get oooooooff!” “Ouch!” “I can’t breathe!”

dietOK, so she’s not screwed, you’re thinking to yourself. She can fix this. She just needs to lose some weight. I absolutely agree with you. I need to put down the Nutty Bars and Double Stuf Oreos. I need to bypass the QuikTrip and its 5 cent Tootsie Roll bin. I need to exercise more and spend less time lying around watching Netflix and Law and Order reruns.

But here’s the deal – the problem isn’t my inability to lose weight. Oh, I can drop the pounds like nobody’s business. I’ve probably lost 100s of pounds over my professional dieting career. I’ve done them all. I’ve done the cabbage soup diet. I’ve done the Whole 30. Atkins. South Beach. 17 Day. Weight Watchers. I’ve achieved Weight Watchers’ lifetime member status at least twice. I did some weird hot dog and banana diet. I’ve prayed, meditated, screamed. No matter the diet, eating plan or program, the end result has always been the same. I gain the weight back and then some. I lose that 50 and raise you 75 pounds.

For awhile I didn’t get it. I mean, every time I would lose weight, I would promise myself I would never gain the weight again. I would slide under 200 pounds and pinky swear I would never see 200 again. I would hit 189 and wave adios to 190. And on and on and on. But here’s the thing, once I hit that magic goal weight – I could never maintain it. Little by little, bite by bite, the pounds would creep back on.

I consoled myself with a cupcake with buttercream frosting and by recalling a data point I’d read sometime, somewhere that said 95 percent of people who lose weight regain it – and sometimes more – within a few months or a few years. 95 percent. Geez, at least I was in good company, right? Cheers to the 95 percent!

For whatever reason, I recently researched the validity of the 95 percent and found a New York Times article spoke to this statistic “that has been quoted widely over the last four decades, in Congressional hearings, diet books, research papers and seminars.” The article asserted, this statistic “is the reason so many people approach dieting with a sense of hopelessness.” Hopelessness. Check.

The article went on to say, however, that “no one has any idea how many people can lose weight and keep it off” because that 95 percent figure is based on a 1959 clinical study of only 100 people.

Unfortunately for me and other long-term dieters, the physicians and researchers interviewed for the article who had new information about dieting success said there is no “magic-bullet solution” for weight loss. Instead, the experts maintained, successful dieters simply eat less and healthier food and exercise regularly. In other words, they work at it.

decideIn addition, the article shared, two researchers, studying long-term dieters, found that about half the people who maintained a substantial weight loss for more than a year had done it on their own. On. Their. Own. No plan. No program. No lists. No points. These folks exercised, chose to eat foods based on their nutritional value and calories and as a result they lost weight.

The stories I read about people who managed their own journeys to healthier eating and living detailed the exact points in time they decided to cut the crap. None of these aha moments were particularly compelling or dramatic. They will not be the subject of a Lifetime movie, nor will they likely grace the pages of that special weight-loss edition of People magazine. Nevertheless, the bottom line is quite powerful. And here it is, the bottom line. Are you ready? These formerly overweight folks chose health over junk. An apple over high blood pressure and type 2 diabetes. Daily exercise over huffing and puffing while walking up a flight of stairs. A lower BMI over Waffle House butter.

It wasn’t easy for them and it won’t be easy for me as I embark on my own journey to improved health. It’s got to be better though – better than the feeling of not being able to fit into 75 percent of your wardrobe. Better than the remorse that follows binge-eating chips and guacamole. Better than failing your 14-year-old son by settling for something less than you deserve, by giving up or by not doing the work necessary to meet a goal. Better than starting a ridiculous fight with my husband over a pat of butter.

I’d love to hear from you! What is something you would like to change or what is a goal you’d like to set for yourself? How will you get there?

 

 

 

 

 

Dancing Down Memory Lane

~ mjdaum ~ 6 Comments

stupid-shirt-irtI was putting gas in my car over the weekend, when I looked up and saw a woman wearing a shirt that said, “I’m with stupid,” like the one pictured at right. My first thought was to grab my phone and take a picture. I wanted to immediately share this visual with my siblings. It would be a wildly funny text. An inside joke. But, given that the woman wearing the shirt was standing like, four feet in front of me, I fought the paparazzi impulse and returned to my car.

Thankfully, my son, David was in the passenger seat. So I went into storytelling mode, hoping my enthusiastic sharing of memories, would feel as good as snapping a picture and texting the details.

JimmieWalker2You see, I’ve seen this shirt before – on one of my siblings. In fact, I think I played a role in selecting the shirt for said sibling’s wardrobe. If that wasn’t bad enough, I recall adding a J.J. Walker hat to complete the look. It’s true. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for this. I mean, it seems logical to me. You might think it’s a little bit cuckoo. Off center. Not that funny.

Anyway, when I was in seventh grade, I was responsible for watching my three youngest siblings while my mom was at work. My only charge was to make sure they didn’t get hurt. Sounds simple enough, right? Yeah, well – it was far from simple for this nervous Nelly. (Refer to my blog post, “It’s Just a Rash,” for more on my worrisome ways.) You see, we’re talking about ensuring the safety of a little brother, who at age 2, fell and hit his head on an iron planter. In front of a seasoned babysitter. While my mom was still in the house. The subsequent gash on his head required several stitches. This same brother also slipped and fell playing dodge ball at school once. A trip to the doctor on that occasion revealed a mild concussion. We’re also talking about corralling a younger sister, who at around age 4 was supposed to be napping when she removed the chimney from a metal dollhouse and gave herself a “shot” in the knee. Can you say four stitches? So you see, in reality, there was nothing at all simple about this task.

What to do? What to do? Cover them with bubble wrap? Lock them in their rooms?

Initially, I had no idea. Literally, none. Nada. Zero. For many of you younger folks, this will be a difficult concept to grasp. You’re probably thinking to yourselves, “Hello? Disney Channel!” But we’re talking 25+ years ago, well before Jessie, Phineas and Ferb, iPads, cell phones, Nintendos, etc. We were still writing on slate. Not really. I think we had pens and paper. We definitely didn’t have a home computer, nor the Internet. So I couldn’t just browse a few “Ideas for Keeping Young Siblings Busy” boards on Pinterest. And there definitely wasn’t an opportunity to Google, “how to occupy young children until mom comes home.”

I was stumped.

We didn’t have cable TV. DVR technology was not yet invented. So I couldn’t even rely on the hypnotic effects of the boob tube. After one episode of Gilligan’s Island and maybe a few minutes of Zoom, the natives would start getting restless.

midnight starLong story short, it was completely up to me to develop a creative strategy to keep my siblings busy and safe. It’s a scary thought, but I had to rely on my own pea brain for the precise approach. I don’t know where I came up with this idea, but when they were around first and second grade, I decided I would make them dance. I would choreograph some basic routines to tunes by the Bee Gees, Heatwave, Midnight Star or whatever other 45s I had laying around, teach them the moves and then make them rehearse over and over and over again until the clock struck 5:30 p.m. or my mom got home – whichever came first.

In retrospect, this was a pretty good method for keeping three kiddos in line, for two main reasons. First, because I made sure every dance was a group effort, no one was wandering off doing who knows what sort of dangerous thing. There would be no running around with scissors or crossing one’s eyes (because you know they can freeze that way). Second, because I didn’t really know what the heck I was doing, the technical difficulty of the dances was close to a 1 or 2. There were no jumps or lifts or splits and therefore very little risk for injury. Phew!

For whatever it’s worth, my younger siblings were pretty good performers. One year, they took their routine on the road and performed in the school talent show. That’s when they wore the J.J. Walker hats and the silly t-shirts. (In my defense, I had no budget. And I never claimed to be a costume designer or stylist. I was a simple choreographer.)

Anyway, they did really well in the show. I think they came in second to a kid telling jokes with a bag over his head (he called himself the Unknown Comic).

Everyone loved watching them dance, especially my mom. On occasion, my siblings would perform their latest dance routine as soon as my mom got home from work. She loved every moment of these performances. Loved. Loved. Loved them. I used her joy to my advantage. Every once in a while, when these little dancers tried to opt out of learning a new routine, or complained about being too tired, I would bring the ugly big sister pressure, “So you know how much mom loves to see you dance. And you’re telling me you seriously don’t want to be part of that? Mom works soooooooooooooo hard and you don’t want to bring a smile to her face with this dance? Really?” Makes me cringe just typing the preceding. But it usually worked. Guilt was a beautiful thing for this then stressed out teen. Ugh. I think I owe my siblings an apology.

It was at this point in my story telling that I glance over at David and observe that he has this blank look on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was horrified – wondering if his fate would at some point place him on the dance floor when he’d rather be playing a game of Minecraft. Or perhaps he was in disbelief – doubting my assertion that when I grew up we didn’t have iPads, Nintendos or cellphones. I asked him to share his thoughts and his response was simple, “That’s really weird, mom.”

Yeah, it probably was really weird. But it was also quite fun. There was a lot of laughter in between the introduction of each new dance step. And again, it met my ultimate goal. It kept them safe.

memory lane 2jpgYou see, you’ll do just about anything to protect and care for the people you love. You’ll dance. You’ll choreograph. You’ll have your creative differences. You’ll compromise. You’ll do the best you can with the knowledge and experience you have at the time. You’ll do better as you get older. You’ll apologize when you fall short.

And, you’ll smile when you see someone wearing a shirt that says, “I’m with stupid,” because it will remind you of the people you love – people who in spite of all of your weirdness always love you right back.

The Power of Pink Handlebar Streamers

~ mjdaum ~ 4 Comments

If you were anywhere in the vicinity of Creve Coeur Lake last Saturday morning, you may have noticed an emotional woman on a green bike. If you didn’t see her, you probably heard her.

Remember this scene in When Harry Meets Sally? Definitely the big, ugly cry.
Remember this scene in When Harry Meets Sally? Definitely the big, ugly cry.

This woman was doing that really big, ugly cry. You know the one. Gigantic tears spray out of your eyeballs like a fire hose while another nasty liquid simultaneously spews out of your nose. On occasion, it appears as though you’re hyperventilating or convulsing – but it’s really just your breath trying to keep up with the rapid flow of emotion.

A Kleenex is no match for the big, ugly cry. Every once in a while a real handkerchief is useful – if only to hide your face so people don’t see you doing it.

You can’t control the big, ugly cry. You definitely shouldn’t try to talk during it. That just makes it uglier. And you may feel a little bit cuckoo. Your only real recourse is to buckle up and ride it out.

That’s exactly what the woman on the green bike was doing. She was riding it out. She was wiping her nose and her eyes on her pink spandex shirt and riding it out.

How do I know? I know because I was the woman on the green bike. I was the wailing cyclist.

buddhaI wasn’t crying because I hate bicycling. I actually really enjoy it. But about a year ago I screwed things up. I started referring to bicycling as exercise. And it was in that moment that I developed this resistance to what was once a favorite pastime.

For whatever reason, I have always disliked exercise. Exercise is painful. Exercise is boring. Exercise is torture. But because I need to lose more than a few pounds, exercise is a necessary evil.

Isn’t that strange? I once loved a certain activity, but when I started talking about this activity in a different way, I grew to dislike it. Weird? Maybe not.

When my son, David, was about 2 years old, he loved hot chocolate. And he loved hot dogs. And then, seemingly overnight, he developed an aversion to both. I later learned that it was the word “hot” that completely changed his view of these tasty treats. He didn’t want a hot anything. A very clever dad friend suggested I could remedy this situation by referring to hot chocolate as cocoa and hot dogs as wieners. What do you know – problem solved. Not that David’s refusal to eat a hot dog was much of a problem. But I think you get my point.

Our minds are powerful things.

The stories we make up about real and/or perceived happenings can become these subliminal narratives that rule our worlds. They can damage our relationships. They can keep us from being our best selves. They can stand in our way of experiencing joy, contentment, growth, intimacy, etc. They can make us believe we hate something that we actually really, really enjoy – like bike riding.

To get through it, the exercise, that is, I listen to music. I rely on Pink, One Republic, Queen, Kelly Clarkson and even Elvis to keep me pedaling. When I’m going uphill or tempted to quit, I pump up the volume and the pace. You see, I have to quiet that little voice in my head that is resistance. The voice that says, “You can’t do this. You should turn around. You can start exercising tomorrow. You REALLY can’t do this.” I drown out the little voice with my music.

pink handlebar“You can’t do this” is no match for “I Lived,” or “Suspicious Minds.”

Which brings me back to last Saturday. Midway through my torture, or my ride, I’m pumping like a mad woman to get up a hill. I look ahead, hoping to see level ground, and instead I spy another cyclist coming at me. This cyclist doesn’t look like she’s in agony. She actually looks like she’s enjoying herself. What’s more, I see something sparkly on her handlebars. As she gets closer, I realize they are pink handlebar streamers.

We make eye contact for a brief moment and then it happens. The other cyclist smiles and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up. Let the waterworks begin.

Looking back on it now, I’m not even sure why I started crying. It may have been the simple, yet powerful affirmation from a complete stranger that prompted it. It may have been the handlebar streamers and the momentous realization that I can control the narrative. I can choose to reclaim the joy that I once experienced when bike riding. I’m not really certain.

Whatever the case, I just know that the last part of my trail ride was probably the most fun I’ve had on my bike in a long time. I also know that I’m heading to the store to buy some handlebar streamers and maybe even a bell to keep that joyfulness top of mind.

So, if you see a 6’1” lady wearing a pink spandex shirt on a green bike anywhere near Creve Coeur Lake, that’s probably me. I won’t be doing the big, ugly cry this go around. And for that, I give my anonymous friend on the bike trail a huge thumbs up.

I’d really love to pay it forward and to cheer you on in your pursuits. Care to share where you could use some support?

Practical Joking is in the Blood

~ mjdaum ~ 2 Comments

When I was taking David to school one day last week, it suddenly hit me: I. Am. Soooo. Lame.

Let me set the scene. It was April Fools’ Day. Although I thought about waking David up at 6:30 a.m. with some kind of prank – I didn’t follow through. I didn’t come up with a plan. Let’s be honest – I completely spaced it.

We talked about my inaction on the short trek to school and David reminded me that we didn’t prank each other  April 1, 2014, either. What? Are you sure? That cannot be!

nerf gunYou see, I come from a family of practical jokers. You might say that practical joking is in the blood. It’s part of the DNA. It’s our first instinct.

While some kids are taught from a very young age that the telephone is not a toy, I was trained on the art of the crank phone call. I think I learned how to short sheet a bed before I learned how to make one. Not really.

But for me to NOT prank anyone on April Fools’ Day – of all days – blasphemy! I mean I could lose some serious street cred at the next family reunion if the word got out that I let an opportunity to prank someone pass me by. That’s no joke.

The crazy hijinks runs on my dad’s side of the family – the Lortons.

That’s not to say that my mom’s family, the Tripps, aren’t funny. On the contrary, they are belly-busting hilarious. They love a good joke. They love telling a good joke. They love laughing at a good joke. You can’t visit the Tripps without hearing, “Did I tell you the one about?”

For many years, I used to think my Uncle Tommy Tripp should audition for Last Comic Standing. The guy is hilarious. I have always been amazed at his ability to remember so many jokes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him tell the same joke twice.

The Tripps are good at physical humor too. I’ve got lots of Tripp family photos where some family member has pulled his pants up to his chest. You know, the Ed Grimley look? Or, someone has positioned a hat in a crazy funny way.

While the Tripps are quite entertaining, they aren’t big on pulling pranks. Unless you count my Uncle Garry’s “Pull my finger.” They just don’t get into the practical joke space.

The Lortons, on the other hand, love a good practical joke. They are all over it. They can’t get enough. They are pulling pranks 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

That may be a bit of an exaggeration. Or it may be completely on point. I’m not really sure. I just know that there are very few rules when it comes to their pranks. The only real rules are that a good prank is never mean-spirited and a good prank is never intended to humiliate.

Embarrass, sometimes. Humiliate, never.

You’re probably scratching your head right now and thinking to yourself – that can’t possibly be. There must be rules. There must be guidelines. You must draw a line. Listen, if you draw a line then you limit your possibilities. Everything and everyone can be part of the next great prank. Your job, your business, your friends, your neighbors, your children, your pets, your hobbies, complete strangers. These are your resources. These are the main ingredients for the caper, the shenanigans. There are no lines.

You’re still incredulous. I get it. I get that you’re going to assert that a line is drawn when it comes to age. Surely, practical jokes only involve adults, you’re thinking. Well, you’d be wrong.  Just the other day, my niece, Andrea, recalled being on the receiving end of a Lorton prank – albeit a prank on a small-scale. She thinks she was 10. “I remember Uncle Kevin and Uncle David saying that we needed to practice man overboard in grandpa’s boat. Next thing I know I was in the water!” Thankfully the boat wasn’t moving too quickly and Andrea was wearing a life jacket.

FullSizeRender (1)You’re still not sold. You’re now thinking that certain occasions are off-limits. Again, no. Let’s take a look at my wedding. Well, let’s first take a look at my engagement. When Jeff and I announced our engagement in 1999, everyone was thrilled. There were parties. There was fanfare. There was an engagement announcement in the McDonough Democrat, the newspaper that my dad owned at the time. And there was a line in that announcement that mentioned Jeff was a “former member of the St. Louis Blues hockey team.” Jeff is one of the biggest Blues fans I know. He’s been a Blues fan forever. But let me be clear, he has never played for the Blues. The first time we visited my dad, following this newspaper prank, was quite interesting. I won’t go into all of the particulars. Suffice it to say, church was quite crowded, given that the former professional hockey player was making an appearance.

weddingSkip ahead to the wedding. My wedding party, composed primarily of my siblings, had several hours to kill in between the wedding and the reception. So we drove around in our rented limo taking some spontaneous and fun photos. We took pictures in my old dorm, in a hockey rink, at the restaurant where Jeff and I had our first date, and at a gas pump. Everyone thought it would be hilarious if we got a picture of me acting like I’m pumping gas while the limo driver points at his watch. File this under “The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree.” I submitted this photo to the South Bend Tribune. They ran it with a disclaimer that the limo company didn’t really make a bride pump gas before her wedding.

And then there is the prank I didn’t find out about until Jeff and I were on our way to our honeymoon. Jeff says, “Oh yeah, did I tell you what your family did to me at the reception?” It seems that at some point between the Chicken Dance and the Electric Slide one of my cousins told Jeff that my dad wanted to see him…in the men’s room. Jeff followed my cousin into the restroom and was soon surrounded by more cousins, second cousins, my brothers and my dad. My dad, with napkins carefully placed in his cheeks and using his best “Godfather” voice, cautioned my husband of a few hours, if he didn’t take care of me there were men in all parts of the Midwest who would take care of him. I wish I had a picture of that moment, but I don’t. (I do have a picture of a swirling toilet bowl. We did the disposable cameras on every table thing. During the wedding, my dad said that I should be careful when I get the film developed. He was in the restroom when a flash went off in an adjacent stall. My nephew, Billy, walked out of said stall a few seconds later, winding the disposable camera.)

That’s just a sampling of some of the smallest pranks. There are way too many to recount here. Several are way too complicated to recount here. Take my word for it.

soapWhich brings me back to April Fools’ Day. After dropping David at school, I quickly recouped and pulled off two small pranks. Thank you Pinterest!

For David, I painted the bar soap in his shower with clear fingernail polish. For Jeff, I replaced the creamy centers of his Oreos with mayonnaise. Cue the laugh track.

Phew! Maybe I’m not so lame?

Humans of Wherever

~ mjdaum ~ 2 Comments

humans of nyI love Humans of New York (HONY). Initiated in the summer of 2010 by Brandon Stanton, HONY is a photoblog and bestselling book featuring pictures and interviews with people of New York City. According to Stanton, he started HONY because he “thought it would be really cool to create an exhaustive catalogue of New York City’s inhabitants.” His initial goal was to photograph 10,000 New Yorkers and plot their photos on a map.

“Somewhere along the way, I began to interview my subjects in addition to photographing them. And alongside their portraits, I’d include quotes and short stories from their lives,” Stanton explains, adding, “Taken together, these portraits and captions became the subject of a vibrant blog. HONY now has over ten million followers on social media, and provides a worldwide audience with daily glimpses into the lives of strangers on the streets of New York City.”

The pictures are beautiful. The copy, which is generally just a couple of sentences, is powerfully honest and often emotion evoking.

HONY is compelling, relatable and revealing. And some how, some way, HONY seems to really bring out the best in the people who follow it.

I follow HONY on Facebook. Not long ago, there was a picture and interview with a young man who reminisced about his deceased father. This young man shared that he didn’t have a close relationship with his dad because while the family had routines, they never really had conversations. He added, “During the last year of (my dad’s life), when he was really sick, he played solitaire in his office for six hours a day. My main memory of him is his silhouette reflecting off the wall of the corridor by the light of his computer screen.” There are more than 1,300 comments in response to this single post.  For the most part, the comments seek to reassure. They are filled with compassion and encouragement.  Someone named Ry Runge, for example, posted, “I’m sure he loved you more than you will ever know.” And yet another person commented, “Sorry for your pain.”

For this post and almost every HONY post, the comments are a validation, of sorts. The comments let the profiled person know: I see you. I hear you. I care about you.

The pictures and interviews by themselves are amazing. But when combined with the frank and sensitive comments left by fellow humans, the photoblog in its entirety is really a thing of beauty.

I know there are bigger stories around HONY. There is the picture and interview with a young student that inspired the $1.4 million fundraising campaign for his Brooklyn Middle School. I’m also aware of Humans of St. Louis and a related story of a community pulling together to support a family that is working to restore a dilapidated home. But it’s the more personal and tender moments that have captured my attention. I’m not sure why.

quoteWhat I do know is that we all too frequently focus on what’s wrong with the world, our communities and ourselves. It’s uplifting to see such positive and tender interactions between humans.

I’ll also assert that through HONY, Stanton reminds us of our capacity to support and encourage our fellow humans and he fosters opportunities to demonstrate that capacity via “Likes,” “Comments,” and “Shares.” As Humans of Wherever, we have been afforded that same opportunity. It’s up to us to take advantage of it.

Beginning at the End

~ mjdaum ~ 11 Comments

This blog has been 51 years in the making. OK – so that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But it sure feels like I’ve spent a lifetime talking about writing something – anything. And I’m sure for my family and friends, it feels like a lifetime of encouraging me to write something – anything.

But until now, I could never seem to get beyond organizing concepts in my head. I had all sorts of ideas. Great ideas. Amazing ideas. And I was always inspired. That song. That favorite movie. That famous quote. I can’t tell you the number of times I left a movie theater, determined to write the next Academy Award-winning screenplay. I remember actually telling myself I could be the next Ben Affleck or Matt Damon. In the very late 1990s, in fact, I researched and found a place that sold real screenplays. I bought a copy of Good Will Hunting. I told myself that if I could see the structure of this award-winning piece, THAT would be the key to me being able to write my screenplay.

The screenplay - Good Will Hunting.
The screenplay – Good Will Hunting.

It never happened. I never made it happen.

I started several times. I never finished. I have the first 50-some pages of a screenplay on a disk somewhere. I launched two previous blogs. I can’t tell you the name of either blog – nor do I remember my sign in name or password to get back to them. I also have the first part of a book started by one of my brothers. The original thought was we’d pass it back and forth – each writing a few chapters. I don’t think I added a single line. Pretty lame. I know.

But, in my defense, I had ALL of the best excuses:

  • There just wasn’t enough time.
  • I needed to flesh out my ideas a little further.
  • I’d get to it – later.
  • And then there was the very best excuse: I write for a living – I don’t want to spend my free time sitting at the computer – writing.

Are you kidding me?

The real truth to why I never wrote the big masterpiece was because I was afraid. Afraid of failure. Afraid of mediocrity. Afraid of offending someone. Afraid of being misunderstood.  Despite everyone’s best efforts to buoy my confidence and cheer me on to greatness – I couldn’t fully get over this paralyzing fear. I doubted my ability to make it happen.

ruby slippersI guess that’s how these things go sometimes, right? We’re often the last ones to know or to acknowledge what everyone else can plainly see – we can do it. It’s like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. It took battling the wicked witch and those crazy flying monkeys before she got to the heart of the matter –  she had the ability within herself all along to get to where she wanted to go.

So – here I am pounding out my first blog post in sweats and a t-shirt – sans ruby slippers.

I’ve named this blog, “Life After Ted,” in honor of Fr. Theodore Hesburgh. Fr. Ted died late Thursday, Feb. 26. At 97 years of age, a man who had served several presidents, popes, foundations, international commissions and the University of Notre Dame, passed away. He was a widely known and beloved public figure. Beloved by many because he loved everyone so deeply and shared his mind, heart and faith so fearlessly.

"Fr. Ted Hesburgh in his Office at the University of Notre Dame" by Know1one1 - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fr._Ted_Hesburgh_in_his_Office_at_the_University_of_Notre_Dame.JPG#mediaviewer/File:Fr._Ted_Hesburgh_in_his_Office_at_the_University_of_Notre_Dame.JPG
“Fr. Ted Hesburgh in his Office at the University of Notre Dame” by Know1one1 – Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons – http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fr._Ted_Hesburgh_in_his_Office_at_the_University_of_Notre_Dame.JPG#mediaviewer/File:Fr._Ted_Hesburgh_in_his_Office_at_the_University_of_Notre_Dame.JPG

On facing one’s fears, Fr. Ted once suggested, “Don’t, be afraid of life. Don’t be afraid of people. Don’t be afraid of yourself. Don’t be afraid of God. Fear of God is something that is respectful that we are so low and He is so high. But fear is not what He talked about. When you go through the Gospels, you have an awful lot of things in the Gospel about love and about caring and about being thoughtful and generous and kind and good. But I think you find very, very little about fear. And that’s a good thing.”

Fr. Ted encouraged everyone to give the gift of themselves. I am sorry that it took so many years for me to finally heed this urging.

And so I dedicate this blog to Fr. Ted and to the many other courageous and now heavenly heroes who gave the gift of themselves so fearlessly, including my brother, David; my godfather – my Uncle George; my Granny and Grandpa Tripp; my Grandma and Grandpa; my Uncle Don; and my cousin, Matt; among many others.

I close this initial post with one of Fr. Ted’s prayers, “Lord, give us the ambition to do as much as we can, as well as we can, as long as we can, and the resolve not to despair over the things we cannot do. Amen.”