Complicated Simplification

Sometimes it can be dangerous to share a fabulous idea.  Case in point…  Sitting innocently on the church pew one morning, I heard reference to an article in our denominational magazine.  The article was about a guy who rid himself of 100 things in 100 days.  To someone who feels somewhat paralyzed when surrounded by too much clutter, this sounded like a wonderful idea. 

I went home and revamped the idea, molding it into a doable project for my life.  I created a chart upon which to record each item I would release. Making my own rules, I decided that letting go of things like bitterness and negativity count as well as the tacky flowerpot I’d been saving since my teens. The first day in January seemed a good time to start. I would give myself and my surroundings a clean sweep so I could start fresh with a simpler feel to my environment.  I was energized by the notion. 

I’m not much of a loner, so in predictable pattern, I invited my friends and family to embark on this cleansing experience along with me.  Ten friends in my women’s group were the first enlistees.  And via email I’d soon invited another 50 or so of my favorite people to join me in the great purge.

It didn’t take long for me to discover that shedding one item per day was not at all sacrificial.  In my nearly half-century, I’d managed to accumulate more junk than was reasonable.  So to keep the integrity of the process intact, I changed my own rules.  Along with each daily unwanted object, I made myself choose a second item that was harder to relinquish. These items were much more complicated.  Things to which I had formed a schmaltzy attachment were the worst.  But I had to ask myself, how much dusty sentimentality boxed in the attic is really necessary?  It was a little painful, but as time went on and my pile for the local MCC thrift shop started to bulge, I began to feel lighter.  Releasing 200 things in 100 days was having the desired effect.

All was well and good.  I was hearing from others who were feeling the same freedom.  Closets were flushed out and drawers were emptied.  Country décor and maternity clothes were flying into cardboard boxes for donation at record speed.  Attics were organized and the local thrift shops were experiencing a windfall. It was awesome… 

But then the call came. A woman I’d never met wanted to do an article on my experience.  Like that old shampoo commercial about “friends telling friends” my email had leapfrogged to someone who decided this story needed to be included in a newsletter published by the company for which she works.

I tried to tell her it wasn’t an original idea.  Though I’d made it fit my own wishes, the basic premise had already been shared.  But she didn’t think that mattered and pressed on with what was described as a simple blurb.  I’ve never been good at saying no, so I allowed her to ask me a few harmless questions. 

Hearing nothing more for a little while, I was hopeful the idea had passed.  But then I received a draft of her writing and was asked for permission to go to print.  Feeling she had spent her time writing and I would be unnecessarily inflexible if I declined, I agreed.  However, she then mentioned that a photographer would be calling.  I asked if this was necessary and was assured it would be “quick and easy.” 

I can not, even under a set of perfectly arranged circumstances, be considered photogenic.  There is a reason I’m the family photographer, keeping my face safely behind the camera instead of in front of it.  But I consoled myself because I was confident in my talents of persuasion.  I figured that if and when the photographer called, I could just convince him to copy the headshot used for my monthly column in Purpose. I put my angst on the back burner and managed to forget about it. 

My naïve disregard was lovely until I received a call from a well-known local photographer telling me he needed to take my picture.  It had been over a month since the draft approval, so I’d assumed the bullet had been dodged and I was off the hook.  No such luck.   Lowell (the photographer) sounded quite pleased with his assignment and wanted to know my schedule for the following week.

It should be said that I had met and actually LIKED Lowell before he called me.  He took my son’s high school senior pictures and was quite personable.  His amusement at my distress upon discovery that they didn’t just want a headshot, but “something very specific” made me feel a bit less enthusiastic about our camera-toting friend.  I wasn’t a happy camper. “Don’t tell me I need to come to your studio for this picture!”  His delight was ill-concealed as he answered, “No, but I have to come to YOUR HOUSE for the photo.”  Apparently, the marketing person at the company for which the article author worked had other more ridiculous ideas about how this photo should happen. Lowell explained.  “They want the photo taken in your NEW AND UNCLUTTERED ENVIRONMENT.”  HA!  The notion that ridding myself of 200 items would leave me with clear walls and nothing to dust was laughable and I told him so.  Lowell wanted to know if I was a “pack rat” and I assured him I am not.  Adding insult to injury and with not a little glee, he offered to read the rest of the assignment he’d been given.  It went something like this…. they wanted him to capture Brenda Shelly “celebrating in her new clutter-free environment…preferably DANCING or TWIRLING in the photo.”  Clearly these people were insane.    

I assured Lowell there would be absolutely NO dancing or twirling and that we would be hard-pressed to find a space in my house that was free from debris.  He was undaunted and scheduled an appointment for the following week.  He had pathetically little regard for my distress.

In hindsight I realize there were several points at which I could and should have utilized the word NO.  But owning lips that do not form that word effortlessly, I arrived home from work just minutes before the dreaded photo was to take place.  I left the inside door ajar and when Lowell knocked, I stupidly invited him in.  I told him I had been sorely tempted to lock my door against his entrance and that in all truthfulness (and despite my aversion to dentists) I’d rather have a root canal.  He thanked me for bolstering his self esteem and told me that my remarks were not as piercing as the woman who preferred her gynecologist to his camera.

I wondered aloud why they needed a full shot photo for a simple “blurb.”  Lowell imparted a bit of information I could have done without. “It isn’t a simple blurb, from what I understand, you are the BACK COVER.”  He said I should smile nicely because even the mail carriers would be seeing this picture.  I found his revelation rather heartless. 

He set about rearranging my home décor.  Things were taken down from the wall and placemats were removed from my kitchen table.  Shades were opened and camera flashes were bounced from the stand containing my daughter’s guitar music.  His camera was clicking away at such a rapid pace, I soon became numb to the sound of the photo shoot and resigned that with his wild snapping, he was sure to capture the most outlandish pose and expression in the history of photography. He would sometimes pause and ask me to look a particular direction or gesture in a certain way. I reminded him that inviting me to gesture at that exact junction in my life might prove to be a mistake. He told me to be nice.  (I contend that his very presence in my house as he assailed my eyes with flashing bulbs spoke VOLUMES about my niceness…)  During all of this uncomfortable attention, I was attempting to quiet my pounding heart by yearning for time-travel back to the day I pressed SEND on my email invitation to purge.  It was like a bad dream. And the longest 40 minutes of my life.

There was no dancing or twirling, just a sea of anxiety.  I can’t be sure how it all turned out because I zoned out at some point and became oblivious to his barely disguised attempts to make me gesture and change expression.  He managed this by asking questions and then clicking away as I attempted to answer with my mouth hanging open like a cod fish and my arms gesturing riotously to accompany my response.  I should have thought to sit on my hands. 

All in all, I think Lowell made the best of a bad situation and for the sake of his reputation as a professional, I hope he managed to come up with at least one decent shot in the seemingly hundreds he snapped.  Even if a myriad of mail carriers end up seeing the picture while folding it into people’s mailboxes, my sincere wish is to NEVER see the end result.  I hope my “helpful” friends can spare me from donating their extra copies to my church mailbox.

Lowell saw a coworker of mine after our time together and sent me a ruthless message.  “I spoke with the company and they said they were disappointed with no dancing in the shoot. They say we need to schedule another one.”  A very funny man….

So you see, sometimes an attempt to simplify your life can make things much more complicated than you imagined.  I’ve yet to discern what I am supposed to be learning through this experience.  But I can tell you one sorry result.  Soon after the photo shoot, it was annual school picture day.  Having had recent ample time in front of a camera lens, I stubbornly refused to smile.  As a result, this school nurse looks like a serial killer in the shot. That should look FABULOUS in the yearbook. 

The Tongue is a Fire

This is a story I wrote several years ago. I was reminded of it yesterday when I was sitting in the dentist chair hoping history would not repeat itself.

Three years ago, I was systematically having the amalgam fillings in my teeth replaced with something less ancient. I said systematically, not expediently.  For of all the things I despise, sitting in the dentist’s chair is pretty high on the list.  And so I was scheduling these replacement fillings with as much space between appointments as humanly possible. I was nearing the end of the process when I returned to see my dentist.

The appointment was made for morning as I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.  I can not, even with the most overstated and exaggerated adjective, ever describe myself as a brave sort.  Despite being a nurse and having no problem probing other people with needles, the notion of having a person insert a needle into my gum is something else altogether. But in this case it was necessary, so I persevered.

It was quick, and truth be told- relatively painless.  And I was out of there in record time with some newer sleeker fillings.

It was around bedtime I began to notice something odd.  Though my gums and lips had returned to normal, my lazy tongue was still resting.  And when I woke in the morning for work, the slumber persisted and continued through the weekend.   The entire right side of my tongue was acting perfectly normal.  But the left side was dead as a doornail.  It was a challenge not to inadvertently bite it in half.  And it made some words very tricky to say without spitting or drooling.  Most unattractive.

By Monday morning there were some tiny signs of life.  Not pleasant signs, but life nonetheless.  You know the pins and needles feeling of a limb which has been deprived of blood supply as it wakens?  Imagine that same piercing feeling all over the side and tip of one’s tongue and you can appreciate the point at which I found myself as I phoned the dentist’s office and relayed my story to the receptionist.  In her most comforting voice she suggested I call back if the problem persisted.

A week later, strange sensations were persisting. My tongue was nearly awake by this point. Awake in the way a tongue being grazed by an electric sander would be awake.  I found that in a pitiful uninformed way I began missing the ‘dead as a doornail’ feel.  And the discomfort was getting old.  Internet blogs about persons to whom this rare side effect also occurred were most distressing to read.  They suggested that the impairment could last weeks to months. I suspected those bloggers were just trying to slay me with their words. 

But as everything seems to happen in my life, the timing was practically perfect.  Because my friends and I had recently embarked on a journey to stop the gossip in our lives. 

Gossip is sticky.  Sometimes when you hear it- it sounds remarkably like a prayer request. I’m not saying we should stop praying for one another, but I need to remind myself to be sure my intentions when sharing a concern are for purposes of widening the circle of prayer - rather than passing along a tidbit that isn’t mine to pass.  Sometimes tidbit intention is hard to discern…

And sometimes well-meaning people can make themselves believe that if they sandwich their blows between compliments, it somehow doesn’t count as gossip.  But it does. 

An example for those who don’t recognize the difference between blatant gossip and sugar-coated gossip:  I share this from a book I recently read (but have changed the name to protect the innocent.)….. “Brenda has the loveliest hair.  She’s a little too fond of the bacon bits, but goodness, that hair is shiny!”

So back to my friends and I.  We tackled this topic, studying the undeniable warnings in scripture and talking endlessly about our struggles and our goals.  The ten of us had all lived through the guilt and misery of being the gossiper. And we had all endured the agony of being the one about whom the gossip was spread.  We began striving to keep one another accountable while endeavoring to show kindness with our tongues.  We found tools to help us along our way and were optimistic as we realized we were more than capable of using our mouths for encouragement.  You CAN actually control your tongue if you constantly remember your God-given purpose.

And so: In nearly flawless timing, my own crazy tongue had become a CONTINUAL prompt to me.  That fiery muscle.  Just sitting idle in my mouth and waiting to wreak havoc.  But half of it had become almost comically incapacitated.  And BOY was that an ever-present cue. 

So while I hoped my tongue would return to normal, I trusted my strange and timely discomfort would forever etch in my mind the glaring reminder that my tongue is indeed a fire.

It took about 6 months to absorb the lesson and to thankfully realize my tongue had returned to normal. 

I still have to stop myself occasionally when my mouth has ambitions that my heart finds objectionable. I guess we all do. 

Despite local anesthesia, yesterday’s dental visit was without a repeat performance of the dead tongue show.  In fact my tongue is probably more awake than the rest of me this morning.  I’m going to find a lollipop to celebrate.