Radical Shift
Every year–and I mean every year for as long as I can remember– I have written my annual goals in January. Last December as the new year approached, I kept reading admonitions about how writing goals is useless. “It doesn’t help,” said people I trust.
One writer said that writing goals is detrimental because in the act of writing you trick your brain into thinking the thing is done, and so you aren’t motivated to accomplish the goal anymore. I could see the truth in that as some of my goals had remained on my list year after year–things like establishing a regular meditation routine and saying “No” more frequently.
Another writer, suggested simply picking a word to guide your new year. I picked patience and was promptly assaulted with all the ways I’m impatient, especially when it came to getting my major writing project done, the biography I’m working on about local family physician who died in 2010. I wrote about managing this project back in October. I did well until the holidays descended, and then the routine I’d put in place to make progress dissolved. I kept telling myself that as soon as January came, I’d hit the ground running. But when January came my elderly uncle was in the hospital 3 hours away and then he died without a will and there was much to do to get him buried and deal with his things. Suddently, it was the middle of the January and I’d made no progress on my project. I was swirling in self-recrimination, confusion, and impatience.
By the way, I had written out my goals as I always do despite warnings to the contrary, and near the top of the list was: Make significant progress on the Bogquist project. So I was definitely beating myself up. But then my teeth helped out when I chipped one and older crown fell off. I left for the dentist angry about yet another turn of events that was thwarting plans to work on the project. The estimate for the dental repairs was an astronomical $2000 throwing me into a total dither, so much so that I couldn’t get my temperamental older car started (it needs focused attention to start). The weather was bitter cold, and I sat freezing, hungry (I hadn’t eaten since the crown fell off at 4pm the day before) and utterly miserable. I reached for my mobile phone and proceeded to cancel everything on my schedule for the day.
I went home and worked for eight hours on the project. What happened? I experienced a radical internal shift–a shift guided by stuff I’d written in my plan for 2013:
- Drastically shift my priorities
- If necessary abandon sleep, people, and television
- Patience requires effort
I put in 21 hours on the project this week. I’m on a roll. If I stay on this side of the shift, I’m confident I will make significant progress on the project this year.
What do you think about writing New Years goals? What works for you?
For several years I’ve been wanting to have a dog in my life again. It’s been over 20 years since I last owned a dog, but for the first 40 years of my life I was never without one. Not sure what sparked the recent urge; perhaps it was just a dormant ember that never went away.
My dog has almost arrived on three different occasions. First, I found a Beagle on a rescue site whose mistress had died. The surviving spouse was moving into a small apartment and didn’t feel he could keep the dog. On the day I was supposed to go meet her, I got cold feet and called the gentleman. Relief flooded through me to hear him say he took my change of heart as a sign that he needed to keep the dog after all.
The next dog who nearly came to live with me was my grandson’s dog, Baxter, who actually spent a week visiting. At the time, my daughter and her family were considering a move out of the area, and it was going to be difficult to take Baxter with them. She asked if I would consider keeping Baxter when they left. I said, “Yes” because I’d enjoyed this companionable dog and walking him several times a day. But then the move fell through, and Baxter stayed with the family he’d known most of his life.
Solo is the 3rd dog. Several weeks ago my brother emailed that Solo, a sweet Baja hound, had been abandoned by his gringo owners. Andy thought Solo would be the perfect dog for me. I fell in love immediately.
- The email and picture of Solo came hours after I learned of my Uncle Buddy‘s death, which drew a firm line between my love of animals and my Uncle, who in many ways cultivated that love.
- My brother and my son reminded me of the unique love a dog gives, which is undoubtedly a thing a long for.
- When Cindy stopped letting the decision be all mine and joined whole-heartedly in imagining Solo as our dog, the picture of him in our home grew vivid and alive. I could really feel what it would mean to grow our family with the presence of this dog. The reality was wonderful and also sobering.
- Several weeks ago, I wrote in my journal that I planned to radically change the priorities in my life in 2013. Solo was a test of what that meant to me, for adding him to my life would certainly be a radical change. But suddenly this morning I knew that what I meant by radical change was letting go of wanting and making more space in my life.
I wrote to my brother and his wife saying I declined the offer of Solo. As much as I appreciated being their choice and as much as I wanted him, I knew I needed to look a different way.
Uncle Buddy was nothing like my dad, his brother. He was bald, smoked a pipe, and listened to classical music. For a good part of my childhood, he lived in an apartment behind my dad’s shop. We lived in the flat upstairs–we being my mom and dad and four siblings. I was the eldest, and I always felt like I was Uncle Buddy’s favorite.
That may or may not have been so, but what I do know is that I loved going down to his apartment to pet Uncle Buddy’s Siamese cat, Spookie, until my eyes reddened and tears spilled from allergies. We had a dog upstairs, but I liked cats despite being allergic to them. Mostly, however, I enjoyed sitting in the sunny peaceful apartment in a pall of pipe smoke and drifting cat hair, listening to a Tchaikovsky piano concerto and mesmerized by the spinning turntable of my uncle’s record player. It was a quiet interlude from the busy household upstairs.
When my best friend, moved from San Francisco to San Bruno when I was 7, it was Uncle Buddy who took me to see her on Saturday afternoons. It seemed like I had to beg him to take me. “Please, Uncle Buddy, can you take me to see Nancy?” And it seemed like he always did. I can’t imagine what he did while I played with my friend for several hours. All I remember is the foggy drive back to the city on Skyline Boulevard.
When our family dog was hit by car, I was devastated. A few months later, Uncle Buddy took me to pick out a puppy to replace her. It was Uncle Buddy who taught me how to potty train the puppy and teach it to walk on a lead. I know I eventually tired of this responsibility and my mom took over Lucky’s care, but I think I learned a lot because Uncle Buddy believed I could do it. He also showed me how to feed the wounded pigeons I brought home and he brought the beautiful green parrot that lived in a cage in our dining room for many years. I know my love and appreciation of animals was stirred by this man.
Uncle Buddy taught me how to drive in his 1956 Jaguar–a stick shift. He had me practice in the quiet streets in the Sea Cliff district until I mastered the clutch. And then he took me on busier streets and taught me how to stop and go on the hills of San Francisco and how to parallel park on Clement Street. I passed my driver’s test on my 16th birthday on the very first try. The following summer, he let me have the Jaguar for the month of August in Twain Harte where we had a summer cabin. But first he made sure I knew how to check the oil, fill it with gas, and change a flat tire.
My adult relationship with Uncle Buddy was distant and somewhat strained. I don’t think he wanted me to grow up. But a few weeks ago, I visited him at the VA hospital. He was 90 years old, blind, hard of hearing, and frequently delirious, but in a moment of lucidity he said, “Ah, Patsy. Your hair is grey now. I saw a picture of you in your boat. Beautiful! You will live a long time.” He was remembering a card I’d sent him 9 years earlier when he could still see a little. I held his big hand and let the tears drop on the bedsheets.
The blessings of elders are special. Uncle Buddy blessed me with loving attention as a child, but this blessing a few days before his death on January 6, 2013 was a treasure.
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