Continuous Partial Attention

I actually got something done at work today. It's been weeks since I've been able to devote more than 10 minutes attention to anything between the hours of 8 and 5. Something's got to give.

Hot on the Trail

I really think if I could choose a new career right this instant, if I could snap my fingers, and poof, become something new – I would be…. (you’re holding your breath right now–right?)…. a private investigator! Yep – Julie Nelson Meers, PI.

I’d be in great shape (so I could chase people and jump over tall fences), I’d carry very simple white business cards and I’d drive a really cool, black sports car with tinted windows. Also, I would be a night owl, which would mean I could actually stay awake past 11pm in the evening. This would be critical to my success as a PI, because everyone knows that nothing worth spying on happens until after eleven o’clock at night.

I think I might be able to make a living at it (though I probably wouldn’t be able to live in Brookside) because I have it on good authority that it costs about $65 an hour to hire a PI. I also understand that I could require a $650 retainer fee up front before I even began. I know this because one of my friends just hired a PI named Ed to spy on her husband. Her husband is an unlucky son-of-a-bitch (among other things), because Ed claims to be a really good PI – one of the best in fact! We’ll see about that I guess.

I wonder if Ed would take on an apprentice? I think I was born with a good deal of natural talent in this area, but I’m sure there is much I could learn from a pro like Ed. For one thing I would need to learn how to use all those cool electronic gadgets. Last night, Ed shot a video of my friend’s husband making nice with the woman he’s “just friends” with. He shot the video inside a dark and smoky bar with strobe lights flashing all around. I’m sure he didn’t stand at the edge of the dance floor pointing his digital camera at the happy couple, so I am curious what he used. A video cigarette perhaps?

Mostly I just like the idea of being a PI. I like the idea of watching and listening and collecting random bits of information. But what I really love is the adrenaline rush of connecting it all together – of figuring it out. I also love the black sports car. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll realistically be able to stay up much past 11:00pm. Even on a good night.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

We had a free day on Sunday, Sam and I. We didn’t have to go into the office and we didn’t have a hundred things to do around the house. It’s not often those days come around so we weren’t sure what to do with ourselves. We decided after not much deliberation to take a driving tour by the homes of the people I work with.

We live on a busy street and lots of people know which house is ours. But I’ve worked at the same company for the past 10 years and have never once wondered where anyone else lived. (See – it IS all about me!) I know in general of course –this person lives up north, this one in Leawood, and this one in Olathe, but I’ve never wondered about the specifics. A few weeks ago, after I realized my old house had been torn down, I started wondering about it. Where did my co-workers live? What did their houses look like?

We went to Culvers so Sam could have a ButterBurger (I had a diet Pepsi) and while we were there we looked up home addresses from our Christmas card list. We planned our route and started off. The first several were in Leawood, a couple more in Overland Park, a drive thru Mission Hills and a final pass through Westwood.

It was interesting, and more so than I expected. I found myself a little apprehensive as we stopped for a moment in front of each house. I felt like I was spying, or reading a private journal, and I couldn’t tear myself away. Sam would be inching the car forward and I would be pleading with him to give me just one more minute to take it all in. Some of the houses were more or less what I expected. Some were not. Each house reminded me that there was a full life being lived outside of the hours I spend with my co-workers.

I wished I could draw some profound wisdom from this experience. I think there is something there because in the 24 hours since the tour, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it, and I even dreamed about it. I’m just not sure how to put it into words. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

A Losing Battle

You know that feeling you have when you think you're fighting a losing battle? I have a friend, and she is between a rock and a hard place. And she’s been fighting like hell to gain some ground, but she doesn’t feel like she’s making any headway. And it’s wearing her out. She’s getting tired of fighting. And who could blame her?

Not me.

So today she told me she’s ready to throw in the towel. I pleaded with her to keep trying. I reminded her of all the reasons why the fight was a good one. I assured her that the battle was sure to get easier. I told her I didn’t want her to quit. And she said yeah, but she really was tired.

And I understand that. Of course I do. But it’s scary. I don’t want her to give up. I don’t want her to go.

I am full of encouragement for her. I do everything I can to make sure her glass is half full. But how do you know when enough is enough? For her? For me? When is it ok to say – “It's over?”

We’re about to find out, she and I.

Strawberry Sleep

I am sitting on the bed in our Hampton Inn hotel room in Flagstaff, Arizona, having spent the last 6 hours learning all there was to know about Northern Arizona University as a potential college destination for Katherine.

It’s late afternoon and I am the only one of the 3 of us that is awake. Katherine is in the bed next to me, with the pillow over her head, snoring softly. Sam is in the other bed, pillow under his head, snoring loudly. Their snores are just opposite each other. Sam’s loud snore is followed by Katherine’s soft one, and then back again. Its like wearing stereo headphones programmed with the sounds of a sleep lab. And it’s cute. It’s really, really cute.

My friend Carrie often talks about strawberry moments, those moments when the stars align and things are so perfect you hold your breath for fear of disturbing it.

As I sit here listening to the sleep sounds of the two people I love the most, I realize this is a strawberry moment. But I don’t hold my breath. Instead I take long, deep gulps of air, filling every cell in my body with oxygen, and savor the moments until they wake up.

The Care and Feeding of an Invisible Rhino

There’s an invisible rhinoceros that lives in our house. I know that probably seems strange, but she’s become quite a valued member of our family.

Her name is Tulip and she came to live with us from the Zoo. A couple of summers ago, after a rhino was born to the Kansas City Zoo, the Star held a contest to name the 250 lb. baby. Sam and I discussed it and settled on the name Tulip. It was spring. She was 250 lbs on her way to 2700 lbs. We thought she might feel self conscious about her weight as she got older, not to mention her nose, and so we thought a delicate name like Tulip would be perfect. And did I mention it was spring? We filled out our ballot, sent in the form and waited.

The results were announced several weeks later, and Tulip was not the winning entry. The Star and the Zoo chose a Swahili name, which certainly spoke to her African heritage, but we were nonetheless, non-plussed.

And apparently, so was Tulip, because a couple of days later she showed up at our house and has been living here ever since.

You would think she would take up a lot of room, but she really doesn’t. She’s quite tidy and very quiet. In fact, sometimes we forget she is here. She reminds us with a gentle poke to our ribs with the tip of her horn. I’ll be going about my day, minding my own business, when out of the blue, I’ll feel her poke me in the side or in the stomach. She is always very gentle and has a delightfully playful spirit. She’s also a very good sport. Anytime something turns up missing, one of us will exclaim, “Tulip must have taken it!” Normally we find that we’ve just misplaced it, but she is a good sport about this and doesn’t seem to mind our blaming her.

My 5-year-old nephew Garrett, knows about Tulip. She sometimes goes with me to his house to help baby-sit. He knows that if he feels a little poke to his ribs that “that ol’ rhinoceros” has come along to help baby-sit. Garrett has two invisible friends, Sikki and Sakka and I suggested that they might like to play with Tulip some night. “No” he replied. “They don’t like to play with rhinoceroses. Someone might get hurt.” Very wise advice from a 5-year-old.

No one thinks twice about a 5 year old having an invisible friend, but I am sure that you, like most others who have read this post, are wondering how on earth an otherwise normal family of reasonable people could honestly believe they have an invisible rhino living under their roof.

It’s a fair question. And I’ll just leave it at that.

Tax Time Made Easy

Sarah, Katherine and I were having lunch last week and Sarah and I were complaining about our taxes. We both owe money this year and are none too happy about it. Katherine, who is 17, asked "“You don'’t always owe money do you?"” And then, without missing a beat, answered her own question. "“You should probably just always go to H&R Block. They always give you a refund."

Exactly!

Who says advertising doesn'’t work?

Legos in the Elevator Shaft

I moved my desk at the bank from the Mezzanine to the third floor. The third floor is beautiful, but I didn’t want to go. And now that I am there, I still don’t want to go. I’ve sat on the Mezz for nearly 10 years and all 10 of those years I’ve sat next to Jim. Jim likes to pretend he doesn’t like me, but I know he does. (You know - as soon as you write something like that, you start to wonder if it’s true. You are just pretending – right Jim?)

Anyway, I’ll be 40 this summer. That means I’ve spent nearly a quarter of my life sitting at that desk, sitting next to Jim. It’s a great place to sit. You wouldn’t think so at first. There’s no office, no privacy, it’s completely out in the open. The desks are ancient, and the lighting is awful. But it allows me to see my customers as they come and go from the bank – and even more importantly, it allows me to throw pithy comments over my shoulder to Jim at any time throughout the day.

As Steve, our IT guy disassembled my computer I sat down at Jim’s desk, tears welling up in my eyes. Jim was on the phone so could only look at me with concern and helplessness until he finished his call. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he put down the phone, his voice full of fatherly concern. I pointed to Steve and my voice wavered. “It’s time. I’m moving.” My eyes spilled over and a big fat tear ran down my cheek. “Well it’s about time!” Jim quipped. “Goodbye!” and back to work he went.

This of course broke the spell and made me laugh; something Jim has always been able to do. “But won’t you miss me?” I whined. “No, not really. Now, don’t you have any work to do?” Maybe I am a glutton for punishment, but I love this sort of abuse from Jim. His sharp, quick wit has kept me chuckling for 10 years. But it’s not just Jim. There’s a lot of camaraderie that exists between the lenders as we all sit there in the open together. We are a team. We are friends. And that, more than anything else, was what I didn’t want to leave.

But it was moving day, so I found a cart and loaded it up with all the stuff that was sitting on top of my desk. Among “all the stuff” was my Lego job description. A lot of people have job descriptions, but I am willing to bet not many have a Lego sculpture of their job.

I did, and I was really proud of it. I built it a couple of years ago as part of a strategic planning retreat and I’ve had it sitting on my desk ever since. I’ve always liked it because, although I didn’t realize it at the time, I’d built something that so accurately represented the many facets of my work life, as to be uncanny.

The sculpture looks like this…..

There is a little guy wearing a crash helmet that sits on a rotating pedestal in the middle of the sculpture. Not only does the little guy spin around, but also he has arms that extend from his base with wheels that spin on each arm. The whole thing is in motion, and represents all the plates I have to keep spinning in order for my job as a lender to work. But if any of the wheels start spinning too fast, they fly off the pedestal. Just like in real life.

Also, there is a bridge from the little guy that extends out to the side. There used to be another little guy that sat at the end of the bridge. He had crazy, wild hair that stood straight up on his head and his pedestal was built with brightly colored pieces. That part represented my responsibility for Marketing and all the fun, crazy things I got to do in that part of my job. But if you put even a tiny bit of pressure on the little guy with wild hair, the entire sculpture would topple over. About a year ago, the little guy with wild hair just disappeared. I never knew what happened to him, but realized later that he disappeared about the time I hired a Director of Marketing and had to let go of much of what I had considered “my baby”. (See what I mean about it being uncanny?)

When I envisioned my new office (a thought that was never pleasant), I always saw my Lego sculpture sitting on the credenza. So when I began packing up my desk, it was one of the first things I took.

Anyway, like I said, I loaded up this cart with all my stuff and took the elevator up to the third floor. As I was pushing the cart off the elevator, a wheel caught on the threshold and the cart tipped precariously. This caused the folders and notebooks I’d balanced on top to slide off, crushing my Lego sculpture in the process. The Lego pieces spilled over the edge of the cart onto the floor, and …. I kid you not….fell into the tiny space just in front of the elevator….. and down into the elevator shaft.

I’ve now told several people this story, and the universal response has been out and out laughter, but laughter was not my response in that moment. Instead, I burst into tears.

This little sculpture, which had seemed almost magical for the last several years, had just broken into 30 pieces and half of them had fallen into the elevator shaft. As I looked at the remaining pieces that lay strewn on the floor, it was clear that my fear about this move had been well founded. My “job” lay in shambles. The little guy in the crash helmet, being nowhere in sight, had presumably fallen three stories to his death. This couldn’t be good.

So I moped and was teary eyed, and generally played doomsday scenarios in my mind until finally I had the good sense to go talk to my friend Julie about it. Julie was in the process of cleaning her office (two floors down) with the help of a woman who specialized in energetic healing. I’d never met this woman before, and began to blurt out my story without even introducing myself.

Julie and I laughed about it, and then I cried again, and then this woman, whose name was Pat, asked if she could share some insight with me. I readily agreed and she started by asking why I was so upset about moving to the third floor. I explained that I was sad and scared about being separated from my team. Only a few of us are moving, the others are staying on the mezz. I think our sitting together is very important and I fear that this separation will break down the sense of teamwork we feel.

Pat listened carefully and then began to explain that the Lego sculpture represented the past and that its’ destruction was indeed symbolic. Not symbolic of a doomed career as the result of the move however, but rather, symbolic of my needing to leave the past behind. She assured me that what happened had not been a coincidence, but an indication that it was time for me to embrace my future, my fresh new life in the new space. She said I had to let go of my attachment to the past (the mezz) in order for my new life to begin. She also said that I was a leader, an influencer, and that my work with the people who were remaining on the mezz was done. She said it was time for me to turn my attention to the team I would be working with on the third floor.

You know, I believe in the sort of energy stuff she practices, but even if I didn’t, you have to admit what she says makes a whole lot of sense – right? (Jim is rolling his eyes right now) Yes! It does. It was probably also NOT a coincidence that she just happened to be in Julie’s office on the day this all happened.

So that’s how I am going to play this. I wish my team could stay together, but at the moment, we can’t. So I am going to break with the past and take this move on as a fresh start, a new adventure. My work on the mezz is done. My work on the 3rd floor is just beginning. And all is as it should be.

Thanks Pat. (Goodbye Jim – you old fart!)

The Big Hole

Several weeks from now, I’ll be checking in to the hospital for surgery. It’s not major surgery. Certainly nothing scary. But there is a possibility I’ll be losing an organ. A major organ. For a woman, THE most major organ. It’s only a possibility though, and unfortunately I won’t know until I wake up what happened. Which means I have to decide before I go under what I want to do.

I’ve gotten second opinions. I’ve searched the web for information. I’ve talked to friends and family. I’ve cried a few tears. I still haven’t decided what I’ll tell the surgeon before they put me under.

The organ in question is my uterus. My womb. It’s never been used. I’ve never been pregnant. I don’t mind that really. I’ve known for years I wouldn’t have a baby. I haven’t wanted one. But I’ve always known I could change my mind.

The uterus is only about the size of your fist. It feels bigger though. A friend told me she imagined her uterus to be about the size of a watermelon. I think that sounds about right. If I let them take mine, what would that leave? A hole the size of a watermelon? Sam says no, but I’m not sure. How do you measure that kind of hole?

Last week I was driving to meet my personal trainer. I was running late as usual and decided to take a short cut. I turned on 50th Street, took a right, and then another. And then suddenly, right there in front of me, right there where I use to live, right there in that little studio apartment on the second floor… The one with the black & white kitchen and the bedroom I painted orange. The one with the claw foot bathtub in which you couldn’t stand up straight to take a shower without bumping your head. The one where Jorge serenaded me from below my window and Kris left a trail of rose petals up the steps. The one where I nursed my cat Panther back to health and where I killed that GIANT spider and felt proud of myself for not screaming as I did it. The one where I hooked up my first real quality stereo system and where Scotti lived when we first became roommates. That place. The house at the corner of 48th & Holly. Was gone.

I was confused at first. I recognized the house next door. It looked just the same. But where my house had been – nothing. Nothing! Just a big hole. Not a hole in the ground, but a hole in the neighborhood. A hole in the air. A hole in my stomach. And another in my chest. There was fresh dirt where my house used to sit. Fresh dirt covered with yellow straw. And a sign that said “Lot For Sale.”

I turned the corner and drove the remaining few blocks to meet my trainer. I took the holes with me.

Don't Lose Your Child

I opened my e-mail today and found this message from my Dad.

On 2/20/06 11:55 PM, "Dad" wrote:

“Julie, don't forget to tell Katherine the beautiful story of salvation about Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior! I hope that you haven't forgotten! --- I don't want to lose you??? It is so important! I lost a brother, or maybe two because I didn't spread the GOOD NEWS! the gospel, the truth. Don't lose your child!! Love you, Dad”

I can’t stand this sort of “Christian-speak”. It drives me crazy! It feels weird and terrorizing and sounds like an excerpt from a promo for the local evening news.

“Did you know that thousands of teenagers are going to hell right in your own neighborhood? Is your child on the fast track to damnation?

Find out how to save your child through the Good News Story of Salvation before it’s too late. We’ll tell you how, exclusively on Channel 41 News tonight.

Don’t lose your child!”

I’ve developed a profound dislike for fundamentalist Christianity and this sort of message is the epitome of why I dislike it so much. It feels long on rhetoric, fear and arrogance, and short on compassion, understanding and love. Within moments of reading this email from my Dad, my stomach had tied itself in knots and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck are standing up in a perfect row.

How should I respond to a message like this? Mostly I want to forget about it and do nothing, but I won't. I try typing a few lines of my reply. The words come slowly. It doesn't feel right.

I don't agree with his fear based understandng of Christianity, and haven't for a very long time, but don't really want to turn this into a debate about our religious viewpoints. I feel angry, and frustrated and a little defensive in response to his message. Should I be honest with him about that? Or would that only serve to further fuel the flames. I keep typing, then erasing, typing then erasing.

As I think about it, I realize there is actually a good deal of fear expressed in the urgency of his email. “This is SO important – I don’t want to lose you!” This makes sense as I think about the context of his message to me. Fear is inherent in his belief system.

For just a moment, I find myself stepping into his shoes. I catch a glimpse of how this might look through his eyes. I imagine how scary it must be to think that the people I love are headed for the fiery lake! I reread his email, I take myself out of the equation, I don’t take it personally, and this time it feels different to me.

“Please, Please!!” he says. “This is so important! I really love you and I really love my granddaughter and I am afraid I might lose you both!!! That is a terrifying thought to me! My brothers have died without me telling them how to save themselves and I feel terribly guilty and sad about that. I won’t make the same mistake again!

Please listen to me – this is what you have to do to save your self (and to save me from losing you!) Tell my granddaughter the story about salvation. And tell yourself also. This is so important! Please! I love you and am terrified of losing you!”

It is actually very sweet and touching when I take myself out of the equation. My Dad is just being human. He is full of emotion, love and fear, regret and guilt.

So how should I respond? I try a new approach and this time the words flow effortlessly.

Dad -

I just read your note from earlier in the week. It is clear that you love Katherine and me very much. I am grateful for your love and feel the same for you.

I could also tell you felt afraid for us. I want to assure you that we are ok. I know that our beliefs differ, but I feel confident and secure that God loves and treasures each of us.

I also hope you won’t be hard on yourself regarding your brothers. Feeling you have “lost” them must be a terrible feeling, but one belief I think you and I share is that God works in mysterious ways and we understand only the tiniest bit of his/her plan.

Thanks for caring so much Dad - Love you!

Julie


Taking myself out of the equation, not taking things personally - it really is freeing. Maybe my salvation is to be found in the act of remembering that it is not all about me.