Posts Tagged ‘women’s issues’
Cindy on January 21st, 2009
Last year, a dear friend of mine fell from a ladder while working on a home-improvement project. She needed emergency surgery to repair her shattered knee, and had to spend weeks recovering at home with a battery of medical equipment.
My injured friend had a family to care for — not to mention a full-time office job that had to be put on hold while her injury healed. Meanwhile, she practiced her physical therapy, learning how to use crutches and trying not to collide with the furniture. But her biggest challenge, as she put it, was “learning how to give up control” while she rested on the couch with her leg propped up.
Nobody likes being injured or ill, but I’m convinced it’s twice as hard for mothers who suddenly find themselves incapacitated for weeks at a time. It doesn’t matter if we’ve been hit by a bus or a flu bug. Moms are programmed to be nurturers and fixers. We roll up our sleeves and pitch in when someone needs to be fed, bandaged, or chauffeured to softball practice. We’re more comfortable offering help than asking for it. Sitting still goes against our maternal grain.
While the moral of this story could be: “Girlfriends, never do home repairs that require a ladder,”I promise it is not.
Watching my friend move gingerly on her walker, I was reminded of the time I found myself in the same position seven ago after I had bilateral hip-replacement surgery.
A serious health crisis can be an excellent teacher — albeit a tough one. And this much I know for sure: I never would have grasped the full meaning of the word generosity had I not limped my way through several months of surgical rehab. During that time, a number of incredibly nice people conspired to make my life easier. Neighbors drove my son back and forth to school. Friends baked casseroles and delivered them to my family while I recovered in bed. In particular, I remember the savory chicken noodle soup a friend dropped off at exactly the moment I craved the taste of comfort.
I often wondered what I could ever do to return so much kindness. The answer came from one of the terrific nurses at William Beaumont Hospital who took care of me after my second surgery.
“Watch for opportunities to help someone else,” the nurse told me. “Be there when the time is right.”
Even the smallest acts of kindness, after all, are links in the great chain of generosity. Whenever we receive an abundance of love or care, our well overflows and we have more to share. Better yet, real generosity is boundless. It isn’t about keeping score or simply repaying the same people who’ve done favors for us. (I’ve been thinking about this a lot this week, after hearing President Obama’s call to community service.)
So, as soon as I learned about my friend’s accident, I headed straight for the kitchen and did what I’ve learned to do best in this type of emergency: I made enough minestrone to feed a family, then delivered it in Tupperware containers to my friend’s house. The following week, I made chicken soup and a batch of stew, alternating with other friends from church who had offered “meals on wheels.”
I don’t deserve special recognition for doing this; cooking for my friend was a selfish act. It made me feel better (or at least not so useless) in the face of her misery.
Recalling her long weeks of recovery, my friend told me recently that she couldn’t imagine how she’d ever repay all the generous people who’ve been so helpful. I told her that she doesn’t owe any of us anything in return, and I meant it.
“Next time someone else falls from a ladder,” I added, half seriously, “it will be your turn to bring the soup.” And I’m sure that’s what she’ll do. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on January 12th, 2009
“I take rejection as someone blowing in my ear to wake me up and get going, rather than retreat.” — Sylvester Stallone
This week I’m filling out entry forms and taking photos of my work for an art competition. I’m new at submitting my artwork to gallery competitions — and nervous about subjecting myself to a brand-new form of rejection. Here’s a column I wrote a few years ago about learning to deal with rejection as a writer. . . .
The Slings and Arrows of Rejection
I meet them every time I attend a cocktail party or a business function. They’re the stressed-out professionals who’d love to quit their jobs and try “something more fun.” Most of them want to get published. I was cornered by one of these aspiring authors at a seminar last month. A colleague of my husband’s, the man works as a designer for a high-profile architecture firm, but he really wants to be recognized for his byline.
The colleague said he wrote essays occasionally. He had experienced the fleeting thrill of seeing a couple of his pieces in the local paper — “a real high,” as he put it. He wanted to publish more often in Sunday newspaper magazines, and he wanted to earn some money for his writing. But after receiving several rejection slips, he was ready to give up.
“How do you handle the rejection?” he asked. “I just hate rejection.”
“Well, I deal with it the same way architects do when their designs get shot down,” I told him.
“Oh, no,” he said. “That’s not as personal.”
Rejection and its evil twin, Criticism, are part and parcel of the writing life. I don’t care much for either of them, yet both keep in touch with me periodically. And while it’s true that rejection letters can sting for a few days, eventually you get used to them. You learn to accept that you can’t hit the editorial bull’s-eye every time.
A fellow writer once offered this consolation, and I believe she’s right: If you’re not getting rejection letters, you’re not aiming high enough or sending out enough material. You have to toughen up, get busy, and hold your breath every time you open the mailbox. And you must start the process all over again.
As I reminded the guy from the architecture firm, “personal” rejection is hardly the sole province of publishing. Anything you dearly hope to achieve, including love itself, holds the possibility of loss. That said, I’ll admit that the very word “rejection” dissolves bone marrow and turns warm blood to ice water. On a really bad day, it can make even the most aggressive self-promoter drop her best ideas and run home.
That’s why I often share a favorite story about Madeleine L’Engle, whose award-winning children’s book, A Wrinkle in Time, was rejected by more than forty publishers before it finally went to press. “Every rejection slip was like the rejection of me, myself,” L’Engle wrote. But she believed in her book, believed in its power to inspire children, and absolutely refused to let it die. Today it remains a beloved best-seller for young people.
It also helps to remember that the craft of writing offers second and third chances. As Frank Lloyd Wright said, “A doctor can bury his mistakes, but an architect can only advise his client to plant vines.” Thankfully, redemption is so much easier for writers. We can reorganize, revise, revamp, and send our stuff out into the world again.
But the real secret to coping with rejection — aside from keeping faith in your own abilities — is to enjoy the process, the work itself. You have to fall in love with words and take pleasure in the way you string them together. And it’s essential to remember that publishing, as novelist Anne Lamott once said, is an addictive drug. Your last hit will never feel like enough.
Still, the small victories are sweet. Not long ago, one of my favorite pieces was rejected by a regional magazine. Several postage stamps later, it was accepted by a national publication for more money than I’d expected — and I hadn’t changed a word. That doesn’t happen as often as I’d like, of course. Just often enough to fuel my hopes and make my work more fun than architecture. – Cindy La Ferle
*This piece was first published in The Daily Tribune, Royal Oak, MI, then in my book, Writing Home. Last year it was excerpted in Sixty Candles: Reflections on the Writing Life, published by the American Society of Journalists and Authors.
Cindy on November 13th, 2008
Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly?” — lyrics by Paul Simon, “Old Friends”
As busy as we are these days, it’s hard enough to find the time we need to nurture our most important family relationships. Keeping up with close friends can be twice as challenging. This month, my regular column in Michigan Women’s Forum addresses the delicate topic of how some friendships change or fade over time, and how, sometimes, we have to let go. –CL
Cindy on October 14th, 2008
Now I understand that all my hours aren’t billable; finding a quiet center in which to create and sustain an authentic life has become as essential as breathing.” — Sarah Ban Breathnach
Few things in life are more fun than rediscovering an old friend. Last weekend, while reorganizing my kitchen bookshelves, I found Simple Abundance sandwiched between two cookbooks. Written by Sarah Ban Breathnach, this popular daybook enjoyed only moderate success until Oprah endorsed it in the mid-1990s. Luckily, the book found its way into my hands when I needed it most — when my son was a child and I was trying to strike a healthy balance between my writing career and family life.
Compiled for women in desperate need of “sanctuary” from overbooked lives, Simple Abundance contains inspirational essays for every day of the year. In her introduction, Ban Breathnach explained that she wrote the essays while wrestling with her own discontent. She had many blessings to count, she said, yet she was never satisfied.
“Money was an enormous, emotionally charged issue that controlled my ability to be happy because I let it; money was the only way I could measure my success and self-worth,” Ban Breathnach wrote. “If I couldn’t write a check on my accomplishments, they didn’t exist.”
Glancing through Simple Abudance after years of neglect, I was struck by its call to practice simplicity, humanity, and gratitude. We’re all reeling from a massive economic crisis and the nastiest, ugliest presidential campaign in history. We’re wondering what’s in store. Who couldn’t use a little advice on how to find inner peace and happiness in the midst of chaos and uncertainty? – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on September 17th, 2008
This essay ran last spring in Strut magazine. With all the talk about “lipstick” lately, it’s a good time to give it another spin….
There’s got to be something seriously wrong with a 50-something woman who keeps 36 tubes of lipstick in her bathroom drawer. That woman would be me. I’m a beauty product junkie on a perpetual quest for the perfect shade of lipstick. As every lipstick junkie knows, temptation is everywhere â at the local drugstore or in upscale department stores. And the names of the colors alone are as irresistible as a box of Godiva chocolates: Double Fudge ⦠Rum Raisin ⦠Molten Caramel ⦠Chocolate Ice. Other shades, with seductive names, such as Stiletto, Voodoo, French Kiss, or Red Hot Mama, promise a whole new life of high drama. Who can resist?
âEven women who don’t wear makeup will wear lipstick,â begins Read My Lips: A Cultural History of Lipstick, by Meg Cohen Ragas and Karen Kozlowski (Chronicle Books). As the authors note, 92% of women wear lipstick as part of their beauty routines and buy an average of four tubes a year. âNothing can keep a girl from her lipstick,â they write, âwhich may explain why it’s one of the most commonly shoplifted items.â
I should add that I’ve paid for every single one of the 36 tubes I own. And while I’ve always enjoyed cosmetics, my lipstick fetish didn’t get out of hand until I hit middle age. After turning 45, I suddenly needed two things to face the second half of my life: contact lenses and the absolute-perfect shade of red lipstick. Of course, the clever magicians who conjure beauty products know full well that women of any vintage are suckers for marketing wizardry and gorgeous packaging. We want to believe that the potions inside those shiny little pots and tubes at the Clinique or Chanel counters have the power to turn heads. We want to believe that the mere flick of a lip-gloss wand can transform any desperate housewife into a goddess.
My lipstick lust is linked to childhood memories â to the beloved paternal grandmother who wore crimson lipstick to church and family parties. Her nickname was Ruby, for Robina, and I’m sure her preference for red wasn’t just a cosmetic coincidence. When my parents traveled, I spent many childhood weekends at Grandma Ruby’s home in Detroit. Escaping boredom (and the wrestling matches on my grandfather’s TV), I would often sneak upstairs to Ruby’s dressing table, where a tempting trove of makeup awaited my exploration.
More than anything, I coveted her elegant gold tubes of dark red lipstick. Their texture was dry and crayonlike â as most lipsticks were in the 1960s â making it nearly impossible to draw a perfect pout on my small mouth. But despite my amateur artistry, I was sure I resembled Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz.
Years later, during college breaks and holidays, I worked in the cosmetics department of a major department store. Waiting on women of all ages and lifestyles, I discovered that lipstick is so much more than a beauty product. A newly divorced customer, for example, once told me that a new tube of lipstick was more therapeutic and much less expensive than a good hour with her psychologist. I also learned that the right shade of lipstick, like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, is downright empowering â and almost as hard to come by. You have to keep experimenting until you fully approve of the woman gazing back at you in the mirror. For some of us, this can take a lifetime.
Still, the question remains: Should I consult a psychiatrist about those 36 tubes of lipstick in my drawer? After all, if Carl Jung was right, the most important work of midlife is to peel away our false layers and masks, to reveal the authentic self. I’ve always been intrigued by Jung’s theory, and I have no problem parting with a few of the false layers I’ve amassed over the years. I can easily unload my outdated clothing, blue eye shadow and all those anti-wrinkle serums that really don’t work. With a little more willpower, I can give up gossip and carbohydrates, too.
But no, I’m not parting with my tubes of Passion Fire and Chocolate Ice. I hope I never stop reinventing myself â or continuing my quest for the perfect shade of red. — Cindy La Ferle
Last year, a dear friend of mine fell from a ladder while working on a home-improvement project. She needed emergency surgery to repair her shattered knee, and had to spend weeks recovering at home with a battery of medical equipment.
