I work in some funny places. Freelancing affords that kind of freedom, attached to which is the responsibility to get the work done. That has necessitated whipping out the ol' laptop wherever I can: in various waiting rooms, coffee shops, the back deck of the boat, the laundry room, the car ("Could you pull over at that Nice 'n Easy, Brian? They have wi-fi and I need to upload this stuff...").
Tonight, it means enjoying a fleeting pleasure. I wait every winter for it: A balmy, breezy, moonlit night dotted with fireflies. And oh, these breezes. They're reminiscent of South Carolina evenings by the ocean -- softened by humidity, like the sigh of a warm summer day as it settles in for the night. They don't last here in the northeast, though, which is why I am sitting in a lounge chair by the pool at midnight with my trusty PowerBook for a nightlight.
The nearly full moon is so bright that I'm casting a shadow. This has unnerved one of the dogs so much that she nearly stomped to the door and waited nervously to enter the more familiar haven of artificial light inside.
Or maybe she senses what I do: just a hint of foreboding. It's faint and formless, but definitely weighing on us both. This night is too perfect, too beautiful, too overwhelming not to exact a price. The sky is clear, but I feel the approach of a distant storm just as I always have since I was a baby. Back then, it would send me into a squall of panic and crying. And even though I've grown to love summer storms since then, I know when they're coming. The sensation is impossible to explain, a sort of lightness tinged with energy. Never mind -- I told you it's hard to explain...
As much as I don't want to, I'm heading inside, chased by the swarm of mosquitoes drawn by the laptop's light. Turning to shut the patio door, I see a lone cloud sailing across the moon like recon for an army.
A night 12 years ago felt just like this. And it spawned what we in these parts call the Labor Day Storm -- a spectacular green-tinged light show with nonstop thunder and 80-mph winds that shook the house. The storm took out many of the old trees on the Hill (Syracuse University) and all around central NY, damaged countless structures, caused a power outage that lasted days in some places. And it killed an exhibitor camping at the New York State Fairgrounds. If you lived here then, you remember that storm. And two hours before it drifted onto radar screens, I was going around the house shutting windows, to my husband's dismay. "It's hot up here! It's clear out! It's not going to rain..." I couldn't sit still and just chalked it up to one of those inexplicably sleepless nights, or some hormonal weirdness due to my new pregnancy. But when I heard odd noises in the distance, like popping popcorn or muffled gunshots, I knew why I couldn't sleep. I'm still not sure why that storm sounded so odd in its approach, but I knew in my bones it was bad.
The tempest was exciting, terrifying and intriguing, and the morning after brought the neighbors together with coffee from gas stoves and help with fallen trees. I don't wish to repeat it, though.
Back inside, the Weather Channel confirms storms to our west. I'm shutting the windows. It's that kind of night.
Entries Tagged as 'Musings'
A vote for honesty
March 25th, 2010 · No Comments · Musings, Stuff I like
Ah well... so much for keeping up with the blog. I hope to write more in the coming weeks, but in the meantime, I want to share something beautiful that I accidentally ran across. Its simplicity, directness and honesty make me want to find the bit of Native American hidden somewhere in my heritage.
The Invitation By Oriah Mountain Dreamer, a Native American elder
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting in your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit in pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tip of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God's presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Ah well... so much for keeping up with the blog. I hope to write more in the coming weeks, but in the meantime, I want to share something beautiful that I accidentally ran across. Its simplicity, directness and honesty make me want to find the bit of Native American hidden somewhere in my heritage.The Invitation By Oriah Mountain Dreamer, a Native American elder
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting in your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit in pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tip of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God's presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Tags:
Lessons from a little rowboat
April 11th, 2009 · 2 Comments · Musings
This time of year brings me back to shivery mornings in an old boatyard barn, where my father readied our boat for launch each spring. A child then, I watched in awe as he sanded every inch of that huge wooden hull and lovingly applied glossy white paint and black stripes. I waited patiently for the boat's launch — and that of the little dinghy Dad had given me, where I contentedly spent so much of my childhood. It was there that he taught me the most about life, and about staying afloat after he and my mom were gone.
The following essay was first published by SheKnows.com. After my father's death in 2005, when we found a copy among some papers he'd saved, I knew that he'd heard me — and that he knew I'd heard him, too. Shortly thereafter, my husband and I bought a boat of our own. Now, as then, I feel closest to them there, on the water. Happy spring ;-).
*****
In a heart-shaped brass frame on my desk, my mother beams up at me. She is radiant and youthful, hamming it up for my father, who relaxes, feet and hands crossed; they are both afloat, in a small wooden rowboat. The remarkable thing is that my mother was deathly afraid of water.
Her fear was not hereditary, however. I grew up on the water, relishing summers on the boat my father always kept on Oneida Lake. In actuality, it was a yacht, but my father is an unpretentious man who would never use the word. So it's only fitting that he taught me the most important life lessons not from the helm of a 40-foot Owens but from the bow of the 8-foot dinghy that came with it. If it were possible to return to a single place, a moment in time, I would choose any of the innumerable afternoons Dad and I spent together there -- freeze it in time like that photograph.
There's not much about life I didn't learn on our voyages together:
1. Don't stand up in the boat. This, his very first lesson, was one of acceptance. Respect the water, respect the physics of the situation, accept what is. Don't stand up in the boat if you know you can't change the soggy results.
2. But don't forget to rock it once in awhile. See what it can do, see what it takes to capsize it so you know its limits. And if you land in the drink, swim a little and enjoy it.
3. Know that, once in a while, something big is bound to come down the river. One enormous barge, the Peckinpaugh, routinely came through, sucking water from the bays and marinas as it passed. The trick in preventing our little boat from heading to Sylvan Beach along with the barge was just in grabbing ahold of something stable and trusty, and hanging on until the waters stopped churning.
4. Remember that storms, like barges, pass. Sometimes, all you can do is wait it out. And the very best place to be then is inside with family.
5. Take a few chances, but know when to duck. Seems Dad and I would just get going and a dock would present itself right in our path. So we'd have to make a decision: Go around, or go under. We'd usually choose the latter, zooming right under the dock with glee and ducking low enough to avoid injuring ourselves or getting spiders in our hair. When the water was high, we'd lie nearly flat and hope against any unexpected waves.
6. Respect all things living. Even those spiders have their purpose, and we let them be. We'd row over to the reeds to see if the ducks had hatched their eggs or to watch silvery minnows dart just below the surface. Once in a while, we'd fish, usually landing a carp nearly as big as our little dinghy -- but we'd always return the big-lipped, frightened behemoth to its watery home.
7. Give something back. Often, we'd feed the many ducks with whom we shared the lake bits of bread, crackers and corn. And the same carp we sometimes hooked enjoyed the free treat, too -- no strings attached.
8. Take care of your boat. If you don't keep it ship-shape, it's not going to float for long.
9. Have fun. Row in circles. See how fast you can go. Go over boat wakes. Make your own waves.
10. Stop to savor a sunset. There are moments in every day that deserve our wonder and our attention. When the sun set over the bridge leading the river, we simply set an anchor and watched in the goldenness.
I learned so much more from Dad in that little boat, so much that I use in my life every day. The most valuable gift of the time he spent with me there, however, was a simple one: Comfortable silence. I learned more about my father in those hours than at any other time or in any other place. And none of that I can express sufficiently, nor should I; it is all between us, wordless and private and precious.
From all this, I know something about my mother, too; I know why she is smiling in that old photo. Her deepest fears meant far less to her than what she learned of my father between the gunwhales so long ago. And someday soon, I'm going to buy a little dinghy for myself. I owe my father a few excursions (this time, I will row). Besides, I need to teach my own four children a few things.
This time of year brings me back to shivery mornings in an old boatyard barn, where my father readied our boat for launch each spring. A child then, I watched in awe as he sanded every inch of that huge wooden hull and lovingly applied glossy white paint and black stripes. I waited patiently for the boat's launch — and that of the little dinghy Dad had given me, where I contentedly spent so much of my childhood. It was there that he taught me the most about life, and about staying afloat after he and my mom were gone.
The following essay was first published by SheKnows.com. After my father's death in 2005, when we found a copy among some papers he'd saved, I knew that he'd heard me — and that he knew I'd heard him, too. Shortly thereafter, my husband and I bought a boat of our own. Now, as then, I feel closest to them there, on the water. Happy spring ;-).
*****
In a heart-shaped brass frame on my desk, my mother beams up at me. She is radiant and youthful, hamming it up for my father, who relaxes, feet and hands crossed; they are both afloat, in a small wooden rowboat. The remarkable thing is that my mother was deathly afraid of water.
Her fear was not hereditary, however. I grew up on the water, relishing summers on the boat my father always kept on Oneida Lake. In actuality, it was a yacht, but my father is an unpretentious man who would never use the word. So it's only fitting that he taught me the most important life lessons not from the helm of a 40-foot Owens but from the bow of the 8-foot dinghy that came with it. If it were possible to return to a single place, a moment in time, I would choose any of the innumerable afternoons Dad and I spent together there -- freeze it in time like that photograph.
There's not much about life I didn't learn on our voyages together:
1. Don't stand up in the boat. This, his very first lesson, was one of acceptance. Respect the water, respect the physics of the situation, accept what is. Don't stand up in the boat if you know you can't change the soggy results.
2. But don't forget to rock it once in awhile. See what it can do, see what it takes to capsize it so you know its limits. And if you land in the drink, swim a little and enjoy it.
3. Know that, once in a while, something big is bound to come down the river. One enormous barge, the Peckinpaugh, routinely came through, sucking water from the bays and marinas as it passed. The trick in preventing our little boat from heading to Sylvan Beach along with the barge was just in grabbing ahold of something stable and trusty, and hanging on until the waters stopped churning.
4. Remember that storms, like barges, pass. Sometimes, all you can do is wait it out. And the very best place to be then is inside with family.
5. Take a few chances, but know when to duck. Seems Dad and I would just get going and a dock would present itself right in our path. So we'd have to make a decision: Go around, or go under. We'd usually choose the latter, zooming right under the dock with glee and ducking low enough to avoid injuring ourselves or getting spiders in our hair. When the water was high, we'd lie nearly flat and hope against any unexpected waves.
6. Respect all things living. Even those spiders have their purpose, and we let them be. We'd row over to the reeds to see if the ducks had hatched their eggs or to watch silvery minnows dart just below the surface. Once in a while, we'd fish, usually landing a carp nearly as big as our little dinghy -- but we'd always return the big-lipped, frightened behemoth to its watery home.
7. Give something back. Often, we'd feed the many ducks with whom we shared the lake bits of bread, crackers and corn. And the same carp we sometimes hooked enjoyed the free treat, too -- no strings attached.
8. Take care of your boat. If you don't keep it ship-shape, it's not going to float for long.
9. Have fun. Row in circles. See how fast you can go. Go over boat wakes. Make your own waves.
10. Stop to savor a sunset. There are moments in every day that deserve our wonder and our attention. When the sun set over the bridge leading the river, we simply set an anchor and watched in the goldenness.
I learned so much more from Dad in that little boat, so much that I use in my life every day. The most valuable gift of the time he spent with me there, however, was a simple one: Comfortable silence. I learned more about my father in those hours than at any other time or in any other place. And none of that I can express sufficiently, nor should I; it is all between us, wordless and private and precious.
From all this, I know something about my mother, too; I know why she is smiling in that old photo. Her deepest fears meant far less to her than what she learned of my father between the gunwhales so long ago. And someday soon, I'm going to buy a little dinghy for myself. I owe my father a few excursions (this time, I will row). Besides, I need to teach my own four children a few things.
Tags:
In hard times, be selfish
March 10th, 2009 · No Comments · Musings
Back in December, the inspiring Speaker/Author/Coach/Consultant Tom Justin wrote in his blog about a simple act of kindness that made all the difference in an otherwise stressful day. The key here: He was the giver, not the recipient. Reading it has inspired me to share two similar experiences.
Back in December, the inspiring Speaker/Author/Coach/Consultant Tom Justin wrote in his blog about a simple act of kindness that made all the difference in an otherwise stressful day. The key here: He was the giver, not the recipient. Reading it has inspired me to share two similar experiences.
Both happened at a local thrift store, where I both donate and buy. It's the ultimate in recycling — I give the many clothes my four kids constantly are outgrowing, then shop there a bit to replace their play clothes, grab some work clothes for my mason husband and snag some unique goodies for myself. Who benefits? The organization. The environment. My family. My outlook.
Incident #1
One afternoon, as I lingered over a very cool chair considering its possibilities, I overheard a conversation between a salesperson and a woman with at least four kids in tow:
"I'd like to buy these four pairs of socks. Could you possibly consider cutting the price?" the woman said.
"No, I'm sorry, we can't adjust prices...we have a 'no haggle' policy," was the reply.
The woman sighed and said to her kids, "I'm sorry, I just don't have enough to get these today. Maybe next time."
An older girl with the woman whispered, "But mom, their socks all have holes in them..."
The woman shook her head and said she'd come back later.
I looked at them all -- not very different from me. Lots of kids, a mom just trying to make ends meet. If construction were to dry up any more than it has in this town, or if I were to hit a dry spell with my work, I might not have money for socks, either. And here I was, looking at a chair I didn't need. I had $20 in my pocket.
I walked over and discreetly stuffed it into the woman's hand. She looked at me, mouth open. "I bought a coat here last week and there was a 20-dollar bill in the pocket. Maybe somebody upstairs wanted you to have it. Grab the socks before someone else does — they're a good bargain!" It was a white lie, but I didn't want to do anything to embarrass her. She thanked me, bought the socks, and in so doing, did me the best favor anyone had in a very long time. My husband was laid off at the time, but the woman, in her gracious acceptance, made me feel rich in spirit.
Incident #2
When my youngest child finally passed the age of carseats, changing tables and sundry other baby-raising paraphernalia, I bundled up those things to which I hadn't attached too much sentimental value and headed off to the thrift store. I stopped in the bakery next door first, where I got chatting with the very young cashier. She was quite obviously pregnant. "An unexpected blessing, you could say. I wish my parents felt the same, but I was stupid. And now my boyfriend and I have a baby to raise, but we'll be okay," she said. She was on her way over to the thrift store on break, so she walked out with me. We chatted about due dates, labor and all the other things Women Who Have Become Mothers gab about. I asked her about the baby's room. It turned out that she needed all the things I was going to donate that day. I asked her to pull her car up next to mine, opened my trunk and offered her my stash.
She burst into tears. "How did this happen? How did you know?"
I didn't, of course.
What these two incidents have in common is the way they happened. I was in a place that exists to meet needs coming and going. An opportunity presented itself both times. And I happened to be listening. I wonder how often the universe presents these delicious chances to feel so good? Yeah, yeah, I did it to help. I'd love to say I did this stuff because it's just the right thing to do, yadda yadda. But let's be human and honest here. There's something else: I like feeling useful and generous, and I admit it. Why is that so bad? So I felt like Mother Teresa for a few minutes — it's okay. She'd think that was grand.
The best part was, as Tom mentions in his blog, the feeling reverberates. One kind act begets another and another. It wasn't like I handed over everything I owned; neither gesture hurt in any way. But the feeling it produced changed my outlook. After all, I remember both these women, and that was at least five years ago. Unexpected, unplanned giving — those small "random acts of kindness" — is addictive.
I have an elderly neighbor on a fixed income who, I'm certain, gives something to someone every single day she breathes. And she speaks nothing of it, ever. Even our neighborhood's squirrels, chipmunks, birds, rabbits and dogs benefit from her soft light. She is awake and aware of opportunities, and she acts on them whenever possible.
When the news tells of a cynical world full of corruption and greed that's rewarded with bailouts and tax breaks, turn the tv off and then listen. Really listen. See what you can do, right there in the moment. I promise: You will always feel better if you can give something, anything, to anyone — and I don't mean money, necessarily. It could be just a few spare minutes with a child. Or maybe you tell the checkout lady that, gee, she should wear pink all the time because it lights up her face. Or maybe you pick up something a stranger drops. Little courtesies are the hors d'oeuvres of life, and you can serve them up anywhere. Let the universe use you for good whenever you're able. And if someone tells you you're a sap or an idealist, or calls you "naive," just know that you, in all your secret selfishness, feel better than they do.
Back in December, the inspiring Speaker/Author/Coach/Consultant Tom Justin wrote in his blog about a simple act of kindness that made all the difference in an otherwise stressful day. The key here: He was the giver, not the recipient. Reading it has inspired me to share two similar experiences. (more...)
Back in December, the inspiring Speaker/Author/Coach/Consultant Tom Justin wrote in his blog about a simple act of kindness that made all the difference in an otherwise stressful day. The key here: He was the giver, not the recipient. Reading it has inspired me to share two similar experiences.
Both happened at a local thrift store, where I both donate and buy. It's the ultimate in recycling — I give the many clothes my four kids constantly are outgrowing, then shop there a bit to replace their play clothes, grab some work clothes for my mason husband and snag some unique goodies for myself. Who benefits? The organization. The environment. My family. My outlook.
Incident #1
One afternoon, as I lingered over a very cool chair considering its possibilities, I overheard a conversation between a salesperson and a woman with at least four kids in tow:
"I'd like to buy these four pairs of socks. Could you possibly consider cutting the price?" the woman said.
"No, I'm sorry, we can't adjust prices...we have a 'no haggle' policy," was the reply.
The woman sighed and said to her kids, "I'm sorry, I just don't have enough to get these today. Maybe next time."
An older girl with the woman whispered, "But mom, their socks all have holes in them..."
The woman shook her head and said she'd come back later.
I looked at them all -- not very different from me. Lots of kids, a mom just trying to make ends meet. If construction were to dry up any more than it has in this town, or if I were to hit a dry spell with my work, I might not have money for socks, either. And here I was, looking at a chair I didn't need. I had $20 in my pocket.
I walked over and discreetly stuffed it into the woman's hand. She looked at me, mouth open. "I bought a coat here last week and there was a 20-dollar bill in the pocket. Maybe somebody upstairs wanted you to have it. Grab the socks before someone else does — they're a good bargain!" It was a white lie, but I didn't want to do anything to embarrass her. She thanked me, bought the socks, and in so doing, did me the best favor anyone had in a very long time. My husband was laid off at the time, but the woman, in her gracious acceptance, made me feel rich in spirit.
Incident #2
When my youngest child finally passed the age of carseats, changing tables and sundry other baby-raising paraphernalia, I bundled up those things to which I hadn't attached too much sentimental value and headed off to the thrift store. I stopped in the bakery next door first, where I got chatting with the very young cashier. She was quite obviously pregnant. "An unexpected blessing, you could say. I wish my parents felt the same, but I was stupid. And now my boyfriend and I have a baby to raise, but we'll be okay," she said. She was on her way over to the thrift store on break, so she walked out with me. We chatted about due dates, labor and all the other things Women Who Have Become Mothers gab about. I asked her about the baby's room. It turned out that she needed all the things I was going to donate that day. I asked her to pull her car up next to mine, opened my trunk and offered her my stash.
She burst into tears. "How did this happen? How did you know?"
I didn't, of course.
What these two incidents have in common is the way they happened. I was in a place that exists to meet needs coming and going. An opportunity presented itself both times. And I happened to be listening. I wonder how often the universe presents these delicious chances to feel so good? Yeah, yeah, I did it to help. I'd love to say I did this stuff because it's just the right thing to do, yadda yadda. But let's be human and honest here. There's something else: I like feeling useful and generous, and I admit it. Why is that so bad? So I felt like Mother Teresa for a few minutes — it's okay. She'd think that was grand.
The best part was, as Tom mentions in his blog, the feeling reverberates. One kind act begets another and another. It wasn't like I handed over everything I owned; neither gesture hurt in any way. But the feeling it produced changed my outlook. After all, I remember both these women, and that was at least five years ago. Unexpected, unplanned giving — those small "random acts of kindness" — is addictive.
I have an elderly neighbor on a fixed income who, I'm certain, gives something to someone every single day she breathes. And she speaks nothing of it, ever. Even our neighborhood's squirrels, chipmunks, birds, rabbits and dogs benefit from her soft light. She is awake and aware of opportunities, and she acts on them whenever possible.
When the news tells of a cynical world full of corruption and greed that's rewarded with bailouts and tax breaks, turn the tv off and then listen. Really listen. See what you can do, right there in the moment. I promise: You will always feel better if you can give something, anything, to anyone — and I don't mean money, necessarily. It could be just a few spare minutes with a child. Or maybe you tell the checkout lady that, gee, she should wear pink all the time because it lights up her face. Or maybe you pick up something a stranger drops. Little courtesies are the hors d'oeuvres of life, and you can serve them up anywhere. Let the universe use you for good whenever you're able. And if someone tells you you're a sap or an idealist, or calls you "naive," just know that you, in all your secret selfishness, feel better than they do.
Tags:
The funniest forum exchange I’ve seen in a long time
February 19th, 2009 · 2 Comments · Musings, The Wall of Why: English Anguish
From Slashdot.org (thanks to @PhilJamesRoxby on Twitter):
Disgusting grammar.
by XcepticZP (1331217) on Thursday February 19, @11:05AM
What a disgusting display of English grammar. Come on, Slashdot! I thought you editor's had better standards.
Re:Disgusting grammar.
by Anonymous Coward on Thursday February 19, @11:12AM (#26917645)
If you are going to criticize someone's grammar. Your post should be grammatically flawless. And your post isn't. That's laughable.
Re:Disgusting grammar.
by Anonymous Coward on Thursday February 19, @11:39AM (#26917979)
If YOU are going to. criticize someone else's. Grammar. Don't use sentence fragments to do. It.
Re:Disgusting grammar.
by hairykrishna (740240) on Thursday February 19, @12:38PM (#26918911)
Shatner, is that you?
From Slashdot.org (thanks to @PhilJamesRoxby on Twitter):
Disgusting grammar.
by XcepticZP (1331217) on Thursday February 19, @11:05AM
What a disgusting display of English grammar. Come on, Slashdot! I thought you editor's had better standards.
Re:Disgusting grammar.
by Anonymous Coward on Thursday February 19, @11:12AM (#26917645)
If you are going to criticize someone's grammar. Your post should be grammatically flawless. And your post isn't. That's laughable.
Re:Disgusting grammar.
by Anonymous Coward on Thursday February 19, @11:39AM (#26917979)
If YOU are going to. criticize someone else's. Grammar. Don't use sentence fragments to do. It.
Re:Disgusting grammar.
by hairykrishna (740240) on Thursday February 19, @12:38PM (#26918911)
Shatner, is that you?
How not to begin a sentence
February 16th, 2009 · 2 Comments · Musings, The Wall of Why: English Anguish
A full day of copyediting today reminded me of another pet peeve: Goofy words at the beginning of sentences.
They're the lazy guy's way of communicating, the equivalent of n in an algebraic equation. In these sentences as in algebra, the objective is to get rid of the n and replace it with something meaningful. And when we're successful, the whole equation—the sentence—adds up more sensibly.
Two n words stand out:
A full day of copyediting today reminded me of another pet peeve: Goofy words at the beginning of sentences.
They're the lazy guy's way of communicating, the equivalent of n in an algebraic equation. In these sentences as in algebra, the objective is to get rid of the n and replace it with something meaningful. And when we're successful, the whole equation—the sentence—adds up more sensibly.
Two n words stand out: "there" and "it." In this post, I'm focusing on "there." (Next week, we'll move on to "it.")
Check out how much better these sentences become when we solve for n:
Bad: There is a dog on the sofa.
Better: A dog is on the sofa.
Aside from the fact that a canine is smelling up your furniture, that first sentence stinks. Everything in the universe is somewhere...either "there" or "here," depending on your vantage point. There is a pencil! There is a chair! There is a superfluous exclamation point!! Are we really asking the question, "Where is the dog?" Nope. We're just saying, hey, a dog is drooling on your couch cushions. Why not say it crisply? A dog is on the sofa, damn it! Get him off! Much more direct than the wimpy, "Ooh, there is a dog...not here, there..."
Try flipping sentences that begin with "there" around, and you'll see that it forces you to come up with action words and concrete constructions:
Bad: There can be no other explanation.
Better: No other explanation makes sense.
Bad: There is no easy way to say this.
Better: I can't find a way to say this easily.
Bad: There are instances when editors are annoying.
Better: Sometimes, editors are annoying.
Maybe it's just me.
P.S.: My dog is always on the sofa.
A full day of copyediting today reminded me of another pet peeve: Goofy words at the beginning of sentences.
They're the lazy guy's way of communicating, the equivalent of n in an algebraic equation. In these sentences as in algebra, the objective is to get rid of the n and replace it with something meaningful. And when we're successful, the whole equation—the sentence—adds up more sensibly.
Two n words stand out: (more...)
A full day of copyediting today reminded me of another pet peeve: Goofy words at the beginning of sentences.
They're the lazy guy's way of communicating, the equivalent of n in an algebraic equation. In these sentences as in algebra, the objective is to get rid of the n and replace it with something meaningful. And when we're successful, the whole equation—the sentence—adds up more sensibly.
Two n words stand out: "there" and "it." In this post, I'm focusing on "there." (Next week, we'll move on to "it.")
Check out how much better these sentences become when we solve for n:
Bad: There is a dog on the sofa.
Better: A dog is on the sofa.
Aside from the fact that a canine is smelling up your furniture, that first sentence stinks. Everything in the universe is somewhere...either "there" or "here," depending on your vantage point. There is a pencil! There is a chair! There is a superfluous exclamation point!! Are we really asking the question, "Where is the dog?" Nope. We're just saying, hey, a dog is drooling on your couch cushions. Why not say it crisply? A dog is on the sofa, damn it! Get him off! Much more direct than the wimpy, "Ooh, there is a dog...not here, there..."
Try flipping sentences that begin with "there" around, and you'll see that it forces you to come up with action words and concrete constructions:
Bad: There can be no other explanation.
Better: No other explanation makes sense.
Bad: There is no easy way to say this.
Better: I can't find a way to say this easily.
Bad: There are instances when editors are annoying.
Better: Sometimes, editors are annoying.
Maybe it's just me.
P.S.: My dog is always on the sofa.
Am I an “us” or a “me”?
January 31st, 2009 · 1 Comment · Musings
I am not a pretentious person. I am an even less pretentious entrepreneur.
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. I am not a pretentious person. I am an even less pretentious entrepreneur.
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. When you call me, you will not get a complicated network of extensions and procedures; you'll either get me, my voice mail, or occasionally a "secretary" -- one of my four kids or my husband. You might hear in the background the dogs barking, the birds singing, music playing, the doorbell ringing... And my conference room? Usually the nearest Panera.
Yes, I am professional, and I always give my utmost in serving my clients. I have a fully equipped home office (though I'm often writing from the comfort of my sofa on my Macbook), and (being a gadget geek) I'm up on the latest technology. When necessary, I can draw on the resources of the graphic designers and other professionals in my network. And I'm told that I'm good at what I do, and that I'm easy to work with. Isn't that what matters most?
So there's the conflict: Do I continue to bill myself as a company, or as an individual? Does it matter to those who may hire me?I am not a pretentious person. I am an even less pretentious entrepreneur.
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. (more...)I am not a pretentious person. I am an even less pretentious entrepreneur.
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. When you call me, you will not get a complicated network of extensions and procedures; you'll either get me, my voice mail, or occasionally a "secretary" -- one of my four kids or my husband. You might hear in the background the dogs barking, the birds singing, music playing, the doorbell ringing... And my conference room? Usually the nearest Panera.
Yes, I am professional, and I always give my utmost in serving my clients. I have a fully equipped home office (though I'm often writing from the comfort of my sofa on my Macbook), and (being a gadget geek) I'm up on the latest technology. When necessary, I can draw on the resources of the graphic designers and other professionals in my network. And I'm told that I'm good at what I do, and that I'm easy to work with. Isn't that what matters most?
So there's the conflict: Do I continue to bill myself as a company, or as an individual? Does it matter to those who may hire me?
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. I am not a pretentious person. I am an even less pretentious entrepreneur.
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. When you call me, you will not get a complicated network of extensions and procedures; you'll either get me, my voice mail, or occasionally a "secretary" -- one of my four kids or my husband. You might hear in the background the dogs barking, the birds singing, music playing, the doorbell ringing... And my conference room? Usually the nearest Panera.
Yes, I am professional, and I always give my utmost in serving my clients. I have a fully equipped home office (though I'm often writing from the comfort of my sofa on my Macbook), and (being a gadget geek) I'm up on the latest technology. When necessary, I can draw on the resources of the graphic designers and other professionals in my network. And I'm told that I'm good at what I do, and that I'm easy to work with. Isn't that what matters most?
So there's the conflict: Do I continue to bill myself as a company, or as an individual? Does it matter to those who may hire me?I am not a pretentious person. I am an even less pretentious entrepreneur.
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. (more...)I am not a pretentious person. I am an even less pretentious entrepreneur.
Still, following the advice of credible-sounding experts and sage columnists, I have been Sands Communications for the past 20 years. But I am not a CEO overseeing a building-full of little gray cubicles and fancy conference rooms; I don't commute to an elaborate, glassy office building filled with the cacophony of ringing phones, shuffling feet, elevator music and suited-up employees driven to "out-hip" each other.
Nope. It's just me, being paid (most of the time) to craft messages and websites that motivate, inspire, inform, entertain or otherwise serve. When you call me, you will not get a complicated network of extensions and procedures; you'll either get me, my voice mail, or occasionally a "secretary" -- one of my four kids or my husband. You might hear in the background the dogs barking, the birds singing, music playing, the doorbell ringing... And my conference room? Usually the nearest Panera.
Yes, I am professional, and I always give my utmost in serving my clients. I have a fully equipped home office (though I'm often writing from the comfort of my sofa on my Macbook), and (being a gadget geek) I'm up on the latest technology. When necessary, I can draw on the resources of the graphic designers and other professionals in my network. And I'm told that I'm good at what I do, and that I'm easy to work with. Isn't that what matters most?
So there's the conflict: Do I continue to bill myself as a company, or as an individual? Does it matter to those who may hire me?
Tags: business
Tired of thinking
October 16th, 2008 · No Comments · Musings
I am tired of thinking. Absolutely, positively burned out.
I watched the final presidential debate tonight after attending a benefit for Francis House, a hospice staffed by angels who kindly and gently help the terminally ill with their journeys into peace. Well-fed, well-entertained and well-wined, I find that I am exhausted. I am tired of thinking. Absolutely, positively burned out.
I watched the final presidential debate tonight after attending a benefit for Francis House, a hospice staffed by angels who kindly and gently help the terminally ill with their journeys into peace. Well-fed, well-entertained and well-wined, I find that I am exhausted. I'm completely sick of thinking about democrat vs republican, bailout bills, out-of-control spending, abortion rights, an unpopular war and an economy that threatens to drift back into the 1930s. I am so tired of trying to figure out college financing, home budgets, career decisions. Should I vote this way or that? What do I do with seething anger over the economic crisis? How can I convey to my kids the enormity of the debt they are undertaking in getting through college? How do I rail against a system that has crushed the middle class, without taking responsibility and initiative?
But, the benefit reminds me that we all will die someday, no matter how much we own, what party we lean toward, which career path we take. In the face of death, all else becomes irrelevant. Small. Well, almost everything.I am tired of thinking. Absolutely, positively burned out.
I watched the final presidential debate tonight after attending a benefit for Francis House, a hospice staffed by angels who kindly and gently help the terminally ill with their journeys into peace. Well-fed, well-entertained and well-wined, I find that I am exhausted. (more...)I am tired of thinking. Absolutely, positively burned out.
I watched the final presidential debate tonight after attending a benefit for Francis House, a hospice staffed by angels who kindly and gently help the terminally ill with their journeys into peace. Well-fed, well-entertained and well-wined, I find that I am exhausted. I'm completely sick of thinking about democrat vs republican, bailout bills, out-of-control spending, abortion rights, an unpopular war and an economy that threatens to drift back into the 1930s. I am so tired of trying to figure out college financing, home budgets, career decisions. Should I vote this way or that? What do I do with seething anger over the economic crisis? How can I convey to my kids the enormity of the debt they are undertaking in getting through college? How do I rail against a system that has crushed the middle class, without taking responsibility and initiative?
But, the benefit reminds me that we all will die someday, no matter how much we own, what party we lean toward, which career path we take. In the face of death, all else becomes irrelevant. Small. Well, almost everything.
Tags:
She’s home
November 18th, 2007 · 1 Comment · Musings
I have a daughter to whom the world just opened itself.
See, she's 17 1/2 -- a soulful, sensitive, intelligent and beautiful girl who stands at the crossroads between childhood and adulthood. From here on out, everything changes. And from my middle-aged point of view, I know that the rest of life is fraught (or blessed, depending) with change, like a sky's parade of clouds and sun, storms and blue.
She came home today, breathless after her very first weekend away from home without me. After her first plane ride, her first out-of-state college visit. And now there's no going back: She knows.
In one short weekend, she's discovered that the stage on which high-school dramas play out looks very, very small from 35,000 feet in the air. She's learned that her life can take her anywhere, with the right ticket... that education is a multifaceted experience that happens both inside and outside a classroom... that kindness can be found even in a great wide frightening world (thanks to a certain friend's grandma who played a very gracious host)... And most importantly that even as she flies from the nest, the nest stays put. Home is and always will be home, and her family will always be the one constant -- the keeper of histories, the protector of her soul, the solid, unshakeable sanctuary in a world that shifts with the wind.
When the time comes for her to go to college, I will miss her beyond words. But I will relish watching her open her life like a big birthday present, like I've done so many times before.
She is my heart, the tiny baby who changed my life, the little dynamo who knows me, perhaps, better than anyone. So for the time being, I am happy and relieved that she is here, and will be for many months yet. It's easy to talk to her about change. It's much harder to listen.I have a daughter to whom the world just opened itself.
See, she's 17 1/2 -- a soulful, sensitive, intelligent and beautiful girl who stands at the crossroads between childhood and adulthood. From here on out, everything changes. And from my middle-aged point of view, I know that the rest of life is fraught (or blessed, depending) with change, like a sky's parade of clouds and sun, storms and blue.
She came home today, breathless after her very first weekend away from home without me. After her first plane ride, her first out-of-state college visit. And now there's no going back: She knows.
In one short weekend, she's discovered that the stage on which high-school dramas play out looks very, very small from 35,000 feet in the air. She's learned that her life can take her anywhere, with the right ticket... that education is a multifaceted experience that happens both inside and outside a classroom... that kindness can be found even in a great wide frightening world (thanks to a certain friend's grandma who played a very gracious host)... And most importantly that even as she flies from the nest, the nest stays put. Home is and always will be home, and her family will always be the one constant -- the keeper of histories, the protector of her soul, the solid, unshakeable sanctuary in a world that shifts with the wind.
When the time comes for her to go to college, I will miss her beyond words. But I will relish watching her open her life like a big birthday present, like I've done so many times before.
She is my heart, the tiny baby who changed my life, the little dynamo who knows me, perhaps, better than anyone. So for the time being, I am happy and relieved that she is here, and will be for many months yet. It's easy to talk to her about change. It's much harder to listen.
See, she's 17 1/2 -- a soulful, sensitive, intelligent and beautiful girl who stands at the crossroads between childhood and adulthood. From here on out, everything changes. And from my middle-aged point of view, I know that the rest of life is fraught (or blessed, depending) with change, like a sky's parade of clouds and sun, storms and blue.
She came home today, breathless after her very first weekend away from home without me. After her first plane ride, her first out-of-state college visit. And now there's no going back: She knows.
In one short weekend, she's discovered that the stage on which high-school dramas play out looks very, very small from 35,000 feet in the air. She's learned that her life can take her anywhere, with the right ticket... that education is a multifaceted experience that happens both inside and outside a classroom... that kindness can be found even in a great wide frightening world (thanks to a certain friend's grandma who played a very gracious host)... And most importantly that even as she flies from the nest, the nest stays put. Home is and always will be home, and her family will always be the one constant -- the keeper of histories, the protector of her soul, the solid, unshakeable sanctuary in a world that shifts with the wind.
When the time comes for her to go to college, I will miss her beyond words. But I will relish watching her open her life like a big birthday present, like I've done so many times before.
She is my heart, the tiny baby who changed my life, the little dynamo who knows me, perhaps, better than anyone. So for the time being, I am happy and relieved that she is here, and will be for many months yet. It's easy to talk to her about change. It's much harder to listen.I have a daughter to whom the world just opened itself.
See, she's 17 1/2 -- a soulful, sensitive, intelligent and beautiful girl who stands at the crossroads between childhood and adulthood. From here on out, everything changes. And from my middle-aged point of view, I know that the rest of life is fraught (or blessed, depending) with change, like a sky's parade of clouds and sun, storms and blue.
She came home today, breathless after her very first weekend away from home without me. After her first plane ride, her first out-of-state college visit. And now there's no going back: She knows.
In one short weekend, she's discovered that the stage on which high-school dramas play out looks very, very small from 35,000 feet in the air. She's learned that her life can take her anywhere, with the right ticket... that education is a multifaceted experience that happens both inside and outside a classroom... that kindness can be found even in a great wide frightening world (thanks to a certain friend's grandma who played a very gracious host)... And most importantly that even as she flies from the nest, the nest stays put. Home is and always will be home, and her family will always be the one constant -- the keeper of histories, the protector of her soul, the solid, unshakeable sanctuary in a world that shifts with the wind.
When the time comes for her to go to college, I will miss her beyond words. But I will relish watching her open her life like a big birthday present, like I've done so many times before.
She is my heart, the tiny baby who changed my life, the little dynamo who knows me, perhaps, better than anyone. So for the time being, I am happy and relieved that she is here, and will be for many months yet. It's easy to talk to her about change. It's much harder to listen.
Tags: perspective·politics
Where I’ve been
October 6th, 2007 · 1 Comment · Musings
Get your map here.
Get your map here.
Tags: