Posts Tagged ‘Columns & essays’
Cindy on April 1st, 2008
Dear D.: Your 50th is coming up this month. Rather than send you a bunch of black balloons and one of those dumb cards with a joke about adult diapers, I’m writing you a letter with some advice. I offer it with a full heart and the seasoned experience of someone who’s all of three years older than you are.
There’s no denying that 50 is a landmark birthday. A turning point. The Big One. Over the next few weeks, you’ll be paying more attention to the mirror in your bathroom. Reading your face like a road map, you’ll scrutinize your eyelids and check the skin around your cheekbones. You might notice, for the first time, a couple of age spots that can’t quite pass as freckles. You’ll wonder if your jaw line isn’t as sharp as it used to be.
As soon as I turned 50, I noticed for the first time that even my hands were starting to look like a topographical survey. Today, the pale blue veins over my knuckles are more prominent now, and the skin is etched with fine lines and small valleys. But I’m really OK with all of this — and you will be, too.
Just before my 50th birthday, I remembered the lyrics from âMiles from Nowhere,â an old Cat Stevens song I loved when I was in high school:
Lord, my body, it’s been a good friend,
But I won’t need it when I reach the end.
After all these years, my body has been a very good friend. It endured years of ballet and highland dancing classes. Its knees were skinned and bruised countless times. Its tonsils were removed; it was hit by a car; it gave birth to one spectacular child. It survived a couple of blood transfusions and two complete hip replacements. And despite the injuries, it managed to travel all over the United States and parts of Europe. I marvel at how my body still works, and I’m forever grateful that it does. (This is why I get so damned mad at the fashion magazine editors and advertisers who keep telling me there’s something wrong with my body — just because it isn’t 30-something anymore.)
Age spots aside, what you’ll notice most after turning 50 is that you become more philosophical, less hurried. You’ll care care more about things that matter in the long run â deep relationships; good health. You’ll get wise to the advertising and marketing tricksters, and you won’t be as influenced by the trendy or the superficial. You might watch a lot less television and read whatever intrigues you, not just the books Oprah endorses, or the ones that make the best-seller lists. Hopefully, too, you’ll start wearing clothes that work for you — not necessarily what’s promoted in fashion magazines. Best of all, you’ll stop seeking so much approval from others. You’ll finally trust your own opinions.
In years to come, you might start thinking about making a real difference in your community, your world. But oddly enough, awards, accolades, and celebrity won’t interest or impress you quite as much anymore. Before taking on any new assignments or volunteer work, you’ll find yourself pausing to examine your real motivations. At least that’s what happened to me after I turned 50. I found I wanted to give from the heart, not the ego. To borrow from Thoreau, I wanted to live deliberately.
For me, living deliberately has come to mean spending more time with the people I love most, and more time on the projects I love best. Since there are never enough hours in a day, this means I have to be careful before I say “yes” to anyone or anything else. One of the gifts of middle age is that we finally realize we cannot be all things to everyone — and what a relief that is!
Once you’ve crossed the threshold between 49 and 50, you’ll have to look beyond the media for authentic, mature role models. American film directors and fashion magazine editors rarely celebrate the strength, power, and beauty of older women. And the few fashion magazines that do cater to our age group still insist on using models that look closer to 35 than 55. Regardless, resist the foolish temptation to dress like your daughter or your son’s girlfriends. We must show younger women what 50 really looks like — and prove that maturity isn’t something to be ashamed of.
It helps to have older friends as you age. Older women friends will help you navigate the thornier parts of middle age, including the empty nest and suspicious mammograms. Like senior discounts and a good eye cream, they are definitely worth seeking out. When you find them, cherish them, and listen to what they have to say.
Another friend who turned 50 a few years before I did has held up a light for me every step of the way, insisting that the fifties can be wild and juicy years if you get your priorities straight. I love her attitude. âI quit being a doormat and I don’t try to please everyone,â she once told me. âI know who I am now.â
Isn’t it a shame that we have to travel through five decades to figure this out? So the thing is, you must celebrate this birthday for all the good things it represents, for being a signpost to the richly textured life ahead of you. You are a wise woman and a beautiful friend, and I’m here with you on this incredible midlife journey.
Love and Happy Birthday to you,
Cindy
*copyright 2008; by Cindy La Ferle
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While we’re on the topic of 50-something …
I was recently invited to be a blogger on a brand-new site for 50-something Moms. I’m really excited to be part of this, as it was conceived by the popular Silicon Valley Moms, who’ve launched several successful blogs around the country. As soon as the blog is officially launched, I’ll announce it here too — stay tuned!
Cindy on February 3rd, 2008
For years I’ve collected inspirational quotes on writing and the creative life. Browsing through one of my daybooks recently, I ran across a beautiful paragraph I’d recopied from bohemian poet and writer Peter Altenberg:
âI never expected to hold the great mirror of truth up before the world. I dreamed only of being a little pocket mirror, the sort that a woman can carry in her purse; one that reflects small blemishes, and some great beauties, when held close enough to the heart.â
It struck me that Altenberg’s words describe the real work of the personal essayist. Those of us who write short essays hope to capture and highlight small epiphanies. It doesn’t matter whether we’re describing our mother’s recipe for chocolate-chip cookies or our weird relatives in Toledo. It’s our job to reveal glimmers of universal truth in our âordinaryâ experiences.
To me, there’s nothing more satisfying than a well-crafted essay that charms, provokes, or somehow engages the reader while it illuminates a key issue. And I always admire clear, honest writing that reflects the author’s humanity. I believe the personal essay should be accessible, which simply means it ought to be written in such a way that it can be read and enjoyed by many readers â not just a handful of people who are working toward doctorates in English literature.
This sort of essay usually rests somewhere between the dubious categories of âcommercialâ and âliterary.â Commercial essays are often trendy or overly sentimental, while too many literary essays come off as lofty or pompous or long-winded. And yes, a personal essay is supposed to be personal — but like the ideal guest at a cocktail party, a great essay is never totally self-absorbed. No matter how brief, a great essay is engaging, making the reader feel as if s/he’s part of the conversation. It doesn’t show off or whine or overstay its welcome.
Like haiku, a beautiful short essay can evoke a mood and make an elegant point in relatively few words. That is its challenge and its duty â to leave us longing for another glimpse in the pocket mirror. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on January 31st, 2008
“I will write myself into well-being.” — Nancy Mairs
I swear, the folks who write the Daily Om are looking in my windows and rummaging through the secret corners of my mind. They’re spying on my life. Each day’s essay speaks to an issue I’m wrestling with, or a project I’m working on. Here’s a line from today’s Om: “Expressing ourselves fully on paper is a safe way to begin exploring the murky territory of the unconscious.” It goes on to discuss the need to uncover difficult truths we’ve been avoiding; to dig under the dark places under which we’ve buried old hurts and wounds.
Writing by hand in a journal produces material that is so much more raw and tender than what I usually type on my keyboard. When I type, I edit and censor myself. (I’m doing that right now.) I’m overly conscious of how my sentences flow — and how they break into paragraphs on the screen. It’s as if I can sense that people are already reading what I’ve committed to the page; I’m like those vain young women who are always glancing over their shoulders to see if other people notice their power and beauty. But journaling by hand — at least in the early stages of a writing project — coaxes the real stuff out from our dark places. I have notebooks to fill. — CL
Cindy on January 10th, 2008
“Self-respect is a matter of recognizing that anything worth having has a price.” – Joan Didion
“Is it unprofessional to write for free?“ is a question often asked in my writing workshops. And it’s tough one. Those of us who work from home — writers, accountants, and marketers included — often find it hard to establish boundaries between business and pleasure. Some of us are actually half serious when we joke about loving our work so much that we’d do it for free. But it’s all too easy to cheat ourselves out of a decent living if we’re not careful. Or if we don’t respect our worth.
Putting monetary value on freelance work is especially difficult for those in creative fields. In my writing workshops, for instance, I often meet new writers who’ve been encouraged to write for non-paying markets (or for ridiculously low rates) with the promise that gratis assignments help build portfolios. This logic often works because it is hard to get your work published if you haven’t already had something published. And there are hundreds of low-budget publications managed by editors who take full advantage of the fact.
Sadly, as every professional writer has learned, good content isn’t always fully valued by publishers. The lesson is simple: Don’t keep working for those people. A successful features writer points out that many of the freely distributed “new age” publications feature pieces on “attracting abundance and personal wealth” — yet typically expect their writers to provide copy for free. As the features writer puts it, “How ironic is that? If these publishers can afford to pay their printers, well, they could cough up a few face-saving bucks for their writers.”
The difference between “a professional” and a hard-working volunteer is often just a paycheck. If you’re just getting started in a freelance writing career, providing content for non-paying markets might be your only way to break in. In the early stages, that’s not a bad way to hone your skills or to see how the business works. But no matter how exciting it is to snag a byline or recognition of any kind, you must reach a point where you value your experience and talent, and charge an appropriate fee for it.
As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, nobody can take advantage of you without your permission. Whatever the work at hand, if you want to be treated like a professional, you must act like one. Expect to be paid what your work is worth. Nobody would dare ask an architect to design a house or a building for free. Nobody approaches a doctor and expects a thorough diagnosis without a bill. If you don’t value your time, talent, or expertise, who will? — Cindy La Ferle
P.S. Several writers left helpful comments on this topic. Please visit the comment section above, and feel free to add your own.
Cindy on December 6th, 2007
No matter how old you are, losing a parent is a thorny rite of passage. My own father died suddenly when he was 65. I was 38 and my mother was alive, but I still felt unmoored and abandoned — as if I’d been exiled to a strange frontier without a map. In some ways, I had.
At that point, none of my closest friends had lost a parent. Few could fully comprehend the depth of such a loss — or why my sorrow turned to anger during the holidays. And I couldn’t begin to articulate my grief. Writing about the loss of her own father in Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, Anne Lamott said it best: âSometimes, when I’ve done something fabulous, I feel like a gymnast who has performed a flawless routine in an empty auditorium.â
Before my father died, I usually avoided funeral homes and memorial services. On the rare occasions when I did attend them, I struggled to find the right words for the bereaved. Since I didn’t have a real grip on my own philosophy of life, there was no way I could look death in the eye and make peace with it. But a lot of things changed when my father died — and so did I.
In the weeks and months after he was buried, I recalled everything that had been important to my dad: home, family, hard work, honesty, humor, and kindness. In his honor, I recommitted myself to the values he had hoped to pass along. Most important of all, I stopped taking for granted the people I loved most. The road back to normal was long, but I made it. Stumbling through several tearful holidays and anniversaries, I finally regained my footing and felt whole again.
Today, many helpful guides are available for the grieving. The one I recommend most often, Always Too Soon: Voices of Support for Those Who Have Lost Both Parents offers hope to those struggling with the loss of one or both parents. Author Allison Gilbert, who was parentless by age 31, discusses the stages of her own grief in the book’s introduction.
âMy first parentless Thanksgiving came two months after my father died,â Gilbert recalls. âI was no longer somebody’s child going home for the holidays. I felt overwhelmed, and despite my husband and brother’s support, utterly alone. I was also filled with self-centered anger.â
Always Too Soon includes Gilbert’s interviews with more than a dozen celebrities who were willing to talk about parent loss, including Hope Edelman, Rosanne Cash, Yogi Berra, Dennis Franz, and Rosanna Arquette. It also includes moving insights from not-so-famous people who lost parents in the Oklahoma City bombing and the September 11 terrorist attacks. It’s a book I’d recommend highly to friends in need of comfort — and these days there are quite a few.
Within the past year and a half, two of my former college roommates watched their mothers lose long and painful battles with Parkinson’s disease. Another friend recently answered a late-night call announcing that her father had died unexpectedly of a heart attack.
Lately, visits to funeral homes and memorial services have become routine. I don’t always know the ârightâ things to say, but I understand that my presence is important. I try to be the kind of friend I needed when my father died 14 years ago. I try to be honest. I tell my grieving friends that recovery from such a huge loss takes its own bittersweet time, and that the first few holidays without a loved one are rarely easy.
I also remind them that grief is a remarkable guide, if we’re willing to stay with it through the darkest places on our journey. We learn from our losses and grow stronger. Then we return to help each other heal. – Cindy La Ferle
*(Part of this review was originally published in my Daily Tribune (Royal Oak) newspaper column in December 2006.)
Dear D.: Your 50th is coming up this month. Rather than send you a bunch of black balloons and one of those dumb cards with a joke about adult diapers, I’m writing you a letter with some advice. I offer it with a full heart and the seasoned experience of someone who’s all of three years older than you are.
