Sometimes I feel like the coal miner’s daughter of the internet writer’s
world. No, I wasn’t raised in grinding
poverty and the land here is pretty flat, but as a published writer I am
constantly aware of the limitations imposed on me by my background, especially when I compare myself with other writers. I am, and will always be, unsophisticated and small-town. Or, as one of Dominick Dunne’s characters
would put it, I am the type of person who “pronounces the “t” in often.” But I digress.
My first novel was published over
six months ago in EBook form, but since Kindle and Nook are words from a foreign
tongue that is not spoken much where I live, none of my friends or family have read The
Complete Lily Lansing. Okay, I do
have one friend who read it, we’ll call her Michele, and Michele said some
passages moved her to tears. This
bolstered my self-esteem significantly, and even though Michele spends most of her
free time playing a game called corn-hole instead of reading, I’m sure she
knows quality when she sees it.
For those of you whose only knowledge of south jersey is gleaned from watching
spray tanned people curse and have sex on TV, I should probably explain what its
really like here, so you can have a better idea of where this advice is coming
from.
Picture a small, three county
oasis of people who should have been born south of the Mason-Dixon Line but
weren’t. Instead, we drive our pickup
trucks and build our fire pits in the middle of a large metropolitan area, surrounded
by Camden, Philadelphia and New York. To the city people we must seem like
hicks. Instead of shopping at Banana Republic
we buy our clothes at Target and instead of buying stocks, we own things like
dirt bikes and dune buggies. Okay,
sometimes we buy stocks too, but we just don’t talk about it much.
I have a friend who visited once from north jersey and was amazed that
we owned things called “snow pants.” I
was pretty amazed that she didn’t.
But the best way I have ever
heard our little demographic described is “hillbillies with money.” That does not mean we are rich, not by any
means, but instead of tar-roofed shacks we live in relatively nice houses and we
can afford regular dental care.
A few summers ago my cousin,
we’ll call him Troy, did make one of those truck bed swimming pools, the kind
you see jokes about on the internet. But
it was no joke to Troy, his kids were hot and he needed to entertain them so he
lined his truck bed with something rubbery, got out the hose, and his two kids
had a pool for the day. He now has his own
built in pool complete with an authentic-looking Tiki-bar, and we all politely
pretend the truck-yard pool thing didn’t happen. Don’t worry Troy, your secret’s safe with me.
Now, despite my humble upbringing, somehow at the age of eighteen I left
for college, armed with a suitcase full of clothes I bought that summer on the boardwalk
and an accent that fell somewhere between a southern drawl and Ebonics. I quickly realized that my off- the-shoulder
sweatshirts with neon letters boldly spelling
out the name of the most partying shore town weren’t cutting it. So I applied for and received my first credit
card and headed to the closest Macys, where I traded in my Madonna rags for a weeks’
worth of more presentable clothing.
Shortly thereafter, dressed a
little better for success but still more coal than diamond, a professor
suggested speech lessons, rudely pointing out to me that the first day of the
week wasn’t pronounced “sun-dee.” Her words stung, but speech lessons turned
out to be unnecessary. Somewhere, deep
inside myself in a place I hadn’t know
existed, I knew how to speak the queen’s English as if I were born in the Upper
East side of Manhattan and accidently transplanted here. Switching back and forth between proper
speech and my hometown dialect was literally like a switch I could throw on and
off. In college? “The
rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”
Back Home: “Youse don’t know nothin’. He said so hisself.”
But the most life-altering event of my college years occurred when in my
junior year, a copy of the book Siddhartha fell into my hands. I read it, and then I read it again, and then
I read it again. Suddenly everything about
my life made sense. I knew what I wanted,
and most importantly, what I had to give.
I had all the answers to the questions I had never even thought to ask.
Which brings me to today—I am
still a practicing Buddhist living in a postcard-worthy small town, who has
never met another Buddhist living in these parts. So as
for my spiritual studies, I go it alone, practicing my own blend of homemade
Buddhism, as I have for the past twenty-some years.
Mornings are spent meditating,
doing yoga, and then trying to write the great American novel, (again.) But sometimes, if I’m being honest with
myself, I still let my background and my geographical placement on this little
blue planet hold me back.
In practical terms, this means I
am so slow with anything computer related, that I pay my teenage daughter to post
pictures to my blog. This is the same daughter who corrected me last week for
pronouncing our presidents first name as if it rhymed with “attack” (it doesn’t.) What can I say, I haven’t watched television
news in years I’m more of a reader, and sometimes the learning isn’t just a
curve for me, it’s a an ice covered slope and I’ve forgotten my climbing gear
and snow pants.
But worst of all, having reached
middle age (a place just as foreign and bizarre to me as middle earth) I have
only learned a handful of things that I feel fit to write about on my new blog.
Yes, my NEW blog. My publisher’s
requirement and my worst nightmare. I
feel a little like the neighbor with the worst house on the block, standing on
my weed-choked lawn and frowning in bewilderment at the peeling paint, the
tattered shutters, but having no idea how to fix it.
So I procrastinate. I make
excuses (all true, but still they fall on death ears.) Because in the end my editor gently insisted
I post something to my blog and fresh out of new excuses and a habitual
pushover, I uploaded this post.
In my defense, I am still
recovering from a pit bull attack and can only type with one arm. And since its summer, I’m eager to head outside
and work in my vegetable garden. So even though this piece could use another
edit or three, I think I’m gonna stick a fork in it and call it done.
RX DRUGS.
Cause as many illnesses as they cure.
I read somewhere that each prescription drug has an average of seventy
side effects-some life threatening. Now
I’m not saying don’t take them, rather be mindful of what you are taking. Even
common ones like allergy and asthma medicine can cause symptoms ranging from sore
throats to suicidal thoughts and depression.
The best
way to stay healthy is to live a healthy lifestyle, which means doing some form
of exercise every day and sticking to a healthy diet. But most doctors won’t
look up long enough from their prescription pad to tell you that.
GET A
HOBBY-A while back, I taught English at a school for kids deemed “at risk.” That meant they were given the choice between
school and jail time, and they reluctantly chose school. There was also a smattering of soon to be
teen moms.
Sometimes they asked me for life advice, but
they were never concerned about important things like how to pay for the
diapers once the baby was born or the fact that being in a gang shortened their
life expectancy to the equivalent of dog years.
The questions they posed were always about relationships. Like most people I know, the problems
with their love life, or their lack of
one, had eclipsed everything else that was going on in their lives.
And for every scenario they presented, my answer
stayed the same. GET A HOBBY. Find something that you enjoy and do it
often. Because setting time aside to do something you enjoy, purely for the
enjoyment of doing it, increases your self-worth and allows you to become the
type of person who is worthy of a real
relationship. And when the time is right
you will find one. Until then, don’t waste your life engrossed in constant
conflicts with people who very plainly don’t care about you. You are far t0o busy doing (insert your new hobby
here.)
GIVE ANNONYMOUSLY. I’ve had my own charity for about 8 years. No one knows about it except for my
daughters. It is 100 percent funded by
me. I want to make the world a better
place. I believe in the ripple
effect. If I can make just one person
feel better, their smile can travel the globe, touching one person at a time. I
hope someday it touches you.
ADOPT A PET.
Your local shelter has a variety of animals, not just cats and
dogs. Birds, guinea pigs and hamsters need
love, too. And studies show that having
a pet improves your health by lowering your stress level. Save a life and everyone wins.
MINDFUL EATING.
Stop grazing like an antelope in a field full of wheat thins and think about what you’re eating. Then you won’t be tempted to eat until your
stomach feels like it’s going to explode.
And you will learn to be more selective about everything you put into your body.
Buy organic whenever possible. Avoid GMO’s as a rule.
Google “Monsanto” and read as many articles as
you need to understand that we as Americans have the poorest quality food
available to us than almost any other country in the world.
And don’t buy into that “eat a bunch of small
meals all day” nonsense. Give your stomach time to digest your food, usually
2-3 hours. Then give it another hour just
in case.
WALK. Every
day for at least 30 minutes. An hour is
better. And in case you should come upon
a wayward pit bull, yell loudly and
carry a big stick.
MEDITATE. Every day.
Let it become a habit.
Meditation will
end those weird arguments you have in your head with other people, where
you’re like Marcia Clarke pleading your case to Judge Ito. It will also silence that annoying inner voice
that constantly reminds you how much you have to do whenever you try to relax, or numbers the ways in which your body is ugly, and confirms that despite even your best efforts, you
will never be good enough. Meditation stops racing thoughts. And then you are at peace.
Here are
two of my favorite meditations. Stop reading and try them now. Feel the miracle of your body and mind when
they are at peace.
Meditation
1…
On your in breath say to yourself:
breathing, I know that I am breathing in.
On your outbreath: breathing,
I know that I am breathing out.
Meditation
2…
Breathe
in for a count of 7. Breathe out for a
count of 11.
How simple is that?
BE KIND TO EVERYONE. And not because you want people to think
you’re a good person or because you’ll get a karma credit somewhere down the
line. Rather, develop an understanding
that most people you will meet carry inside of them a well of pain that is
possibly as great as or greater than any pain you’ve ever experienced. R.E.M.
said it best: Everybody Hurts.
DRESS FOR A PARTY-EVERY DAY. My
youngest daughter went through a stage where she dressed like a clown. Okay not literally, but her brightly colored
skirts, paired with logo tees and patterned knee-highs clashed louder than my
metal trash cans when the raccoons knock them over.
But she was a treasure to behold when she came
down the stairs each morning, and her
self-esteem was through the roof. I could
tell she felt beautiful. That’s the important part--dressing in a way that
makes you feel good about yourself.
Because your dream job, dream date or the
opportunity of a lifetime could be just around the corner, and if you’re
wearing your “I’m just running out for a pint of Haagen-Dazs” sweats, you might
have to book in the opposite direction.
I learned this lesson the hard way when I took
my girls swimming at a local lake, wearing one of my mom’s old swimsuits that
was about four sizes too big for me and so worn out that it sagged in the butt even
when she wore it. Somehow, I had gotten it into my head that the cedar water
would permanently stain my cute little bikini and that since the lake was at
least two miles from my home, I couldn’t possibly run into anyone I knew. But
that’s a story for another time.
EMBRACE YOUR WIERDNESS UNIQUENESS. It was only in the past few weeks that I finally
learned not to care about what other people think of me. That’s a whole lot of
years of worrying about every mistake I made and the ways in which others would
judge me for them. Looking back, I was
like a timid turtle with a diseased shell made from a life’s accumulation of
petty, unimportant things.
For example, it took me almost an entire month
to get over the humiliation and feelings of remorse after I brought food to a neighbor’s
party on a tray from the dollar store. This
happened a few summers ago, but I can still recall the scorching look she gave
me when I asked for the tray back, as if its small price automatically disqualified
it from returning home with me. (In my defense, I bought it at one of those
dollar stores where not everything is a dollar, but that’s hardly the point.)
I’ve
finally let that incident go, and If I find myself backsliding and feeling
guilty for not being good enough in someone else’s eyes, I say this mantra “Who cares what other people think. There is no spoon.” If you follow my advice and watch The
Matrix, you will understand the reference. It is very empowering.
WATCH THESE MOVIES.
The Matrix—Remember, there is no spoon.
8 Mile—Spoiler: Near the beginning there
is a scene where Rabbit walks in on his mom having sex. (Ick.) Just hit fast forward like I do.
The Pursuit of Happiness—the title says it all.
Musicals--watch them frequently with family or friends and sing along. My
favorites are Grease, Mama Mia, and (even though it’s not a musical) Pitch
Perfect.
Avoid movies with excessive violence. They are poison for the mind.
READ THESE BOOKS.
The Power of Now and A New Earth—Eckhart Tolle
You Can Heal Your Life—Louise Hay
True Love—Thich Nhat Hanh
Outliers—Ten thousand hours. I think it
really can be that easy.
Siddhartha-I keep a copy in my car on CD.
The Complete Lily Lansing--Help me turn my dream of being a stay at home
mom to two needy teens and two lonely poodles who miss me terribly when I am at work into a beautiful reality <3
NEVER WEAR FLIP-FLOPS AS SHOES.
Even though it’s been years since the actress
whose name begins with a “G” made them popular, people are still wearing cheap,
rubber shower shoes as shoes and thinking it’s okay. Each season, they rush in herds to Old Navy to
stock up during the two pairs for five dollars sale, before all the good colors
are gone (this year I got dark pink, light pink, and lavender). Anyway, it’s a lazy habit and it took a brush
with death (not mine) for me realize it.
Here’s what happened:
As I’ve mentioned, I was recently attacked by a
pitbull. And I was wearing flip-flops. So not only was I unable to get in a good
kick in, but I was very easily knocked to the ground and mauled. I can (almost) make jokes about it now, but
in truth I am quite traumatized and one of my poodles was almost killed during
the incident.
But back to the flip-flops: as I struggled,
limping, to get away, the pit actually gave me a flat tire as a final
humiliation.
If I had
not been wearing flip-flops, I believe I could have fought the dog off better.
So the next time I walk my dogs I’m borrowing my daughter’s Doc Martins.
They say time heals all wounds. Sometimes it heals them so well that you
actually forget them. So it is with
utter disappointment in myself that I remember another injury, some summers
back, and a broken vow to never, ever wear flip-flops as shoes again, unless I
was at the beach or living in an alternate universe where I frequently had to
use public showers. Anyway, the incident
took place in my own bathroom.
I was in the process of painting the walls a
pretty peach color from some famous clothes designer’s new line of pastels. The radio was playing, the curtains fluttered
in the breeze, and I was feeling pretty good about myself until the little
rubber thing between my toes that held my flip-flops to my foot broke and that
little bit of momentum sent me careening backwards off the ladder where, paint
brush in one hand, paint can in the other, I landed hard in the bath tub,
smacking my head. It’s not as bad as it
sounds because it was at that moment, looking up at the walls from the vantage
point of the ground, that I realized the
paint was a little too orange, like a
Johnson’s baby aspirin, and I decided to start again with something closer to a
ballet-slipper pink.
Anyway, to sum things up, I don’t expect anyone
to learn from my mistakes, just because I wrote about them in my blog. Sometimes even I don’t learn from them until I’ve made them a few more times. And if
you find yourself backsliding, like I did yesterday when I wore my daughter’s
periwinkle flip-flops to the mall because they matched my new sundress perfectly, take a moment and forgive
yourself. Then repeat after me: Who
cares what other people think. There is
no spoon.
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