(This one’s dedicated to Mr. Rice. We constantly squabble over his word choices, which are appropriate in his mind yet often questionable in mine. Oh, well. Here’s to us. May the squabbling continue!)
When I was a kid, whenever I had my feelings hurt by something another kid said, my mom would remind me: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” While I grasped what she was trying to tell me, I never quite bought it. To me, words mattered.
The next time I gave as much thought to words might have been during a freshman comp session in college. The instructor asked us, “What is the most beautiful word you’ve ever heard?” I can’t remember the exact responses; I suspect they were things like “baby,” “sunshine,” “radiant.”
“No, no,” the teacher said. “I’m talking about beautiful-sounding words. Like enema.”
Not surprisingly, most of us grimaced when he said that. But he told us his class of International students who spoke English as a second language rated enema as a most beautiful word.
The lesson wasn’t yet over. “What are some ugly-sounding words?” he continued. Again, I can’t remember the numerous student responses, just the teacher’s one: “What about f*ck?” I thought I’d die. Then he asked us to share some words and phrases that meant the same thing but sounded less offensive. To this day, the phrase grinding corn still gives me the giggles.
Ah, words. To this day, I remain convinced that how and why we choose them really does matter.
Back in 2019, I started an annual tradition of sorts. I chose a Word of the Year (WOTY), a single word to capture what I needed more of, what I wanted to improve, or what I wanted to focus on in the upcoming year. In 2019, I was twelve months from retirement, burned out, but still wanting to make an impact at work. My mind constantly bungeed from “What do I need to be doing now?” to “What next?” My WOTY choice was easy then: FOCUS.
When 2020 arrived, I chose CULTIVATE. Oh, hellz, yeah, I cultivated in 2020. Who didn’t? What else was there to DO while waiting for this pandemic to end, except to nurture and develop plans for some day?
For better or worse, some day is here, in the form of 2021. Before I tell you what word I’ve chosen this round, I’d like to share some choices a few of my friends have made. Seems I’m not alone in ushering in a WOTY.
Let me start with Karen, whom I met 30 years ago when we both moved from different states into the same suburb north of Atlanta. Karen was almost nine months pregnant at the time, and I asked what she was going to do with her older kids (then three and seven) when it was time to have the baby. She planned to pack ‘em up and take ‘em along to the hospital with her and her husband. I suggested instead she bring them to my house, which she and Gary did. To this day, our families remain good friends. One of Karen and my current bonds is that while our politics are similar, we each have adult children (and their partners) who do NOT necessarily share our views. Can you say, “Oh, wow. What are some safe discussion topics during family Zoom calls?” When Karen chose KINDNESS as her WOTY, I didn’t need to ask her why. (Then again, maybe it’s the ongoing Karen jokes folks dump on her. Regardless, Kare Bear, I wish you an abundance of well-deserved kindness in 2021.)
Next comes Agnes, one of my favorite former co-workers. We met over ten years ago, and a friendship evolved. Back in September 2019, as Agnes approached retirement, I wrote this to/about her: “The lady is classic, mindful, and caring. I have no doubt she seeks—and finds—happiness each and every day. But Agnes is also an achiever, and I sense a frustration in her for not having an answer to a well-meaning question many have recently asked: “What’s next?” So I say this to you, Agnes, with respect and love: “Stop with all the achieving already! Take time to breathe. Regroup. Say ‘NO!’”
Well, now...spring forward to today: Agnes’s 2021 WOTY is OPPORTUNITY! “Oh, oh, Agnes,” I asked when she recently told me this, “what in the world are you planning to achieve now?” She set me straight, though. She is not looking for opportunity. Agnes is tasking herself to see opportunity in whatever comes her way each new day. Sounds like an excellent plan, m’darlin’.
I met Lindsey almost a year ago in a writing class taught by the wonderful Joshilyn Jackson. Halfway through the six-week class, pandemic restrictions caused us to go remote. Disappointing as this was, it taught us we could still work on our writing and revising together via Zoom. Our writing journeys continue, together but also separately and in unique ways. My road is one of an empty nester, not without bumps, but with fewer obstacles than years past. Lindsey’s road is one of jumps and starts as she also juggles the demands of four kids, church, substitute teaching, a husband, extended family, a podcast...I know there’s more, but whew, I’m already tired. Lindsey’s WOTY? VISION. I hear ya, lady...although I suspect you’ll continue to juggle too much, still handling it all with joy and sass and grace. (Sorry, couldn’t help myself.)
And now may I tell you about Kathy? Like Karen, Kathy’s been my friend for going on thirty years. In fact, we all met at the same pool in the same subdivision back when we were the age of the current Millennials. Crazy, I know. Kathy’s the kind of woman you could almost hate...if she wasn’t so gosh-darned nice. She doesn’t cuss, she’s a gracious hostess (of baby showers, happy hours, cookie exchanges, yada), her house and yard are always immaculate, her kids continue to be those kids—you know, the ones with perfect SAT scores, yada again. Now retired, Kathy’s still a worker and a worrier. When I asked for her WOTY, she told me TRUST. Then she burst out laughing and said, “That was my word last year, wasn’t it?” Indeed it was. For 2021, Kathy’s settled on SAVOR. Let’s hope she allows herself to do just that and savor the lovely life she and Mike have made for themselves.
My 2021 WOTY is almost too simple. It’s HOPE. When I first contemplated it, I scoffed. In my mind, hope seemed too damned soft. It reminded me of this phrase: “A goal is a dream with a deadline.” In my mind, hope seemed too much like dream. Fluffy. Not strong enough to anchor a year on.
But then I thought back on 2020. So many hardships touched us. Obviously, the pandemic. But also racial tensions. Economic hardships. Unjust deaths and other travesties. And now here’s 2021. Within a week of its onset, we witnessed an insurrection on our Capitol. We continue to watch our nation move forward but fail to feel it heal and unite.
So here’s the deal. I wish you good things in 2021. May you be sprinkled with an abundance of what you need most, be it kindness or opportunity. Clearer vision. The grace to savor life’s little gifts.
If you don’t get jazzed by words and their meanings, so be it. I still wish you ongoing hope.
My WOTY is HOPE. Can’t help myself. After all, without hope, does anything else really matter?
Cheers ~ Jan
Updated: Nov 24, 2022
(This one’s dedicated to Alison Curtis, who reminded me earlier this month that even adults can experience the magic of Christmas with child-like wonder...if we just try.)
What a year it’s been, no? Who would’ve thought back in February we’d be celebrating this kind of December? So much makes this year different than Christmases past. Yet most of us will still observe some of our annual customs. Like exchanging presents. Most folks find that one of the best parts of the season. But can I be honest? All this gift-giving makes me a little bit crazy. It has for a long time, and I’m just now coming to understand why.
Thinking back to Christmases of my childhood, they were pretty great. In kidspeak, that means there was never a shortage of food or family. Or presents. I remember fun little surprises like charm bracelets and dolls and perfume-mixing (chemistry) sets. And big fat awesome gifts like a pair of snow skis, along with goggles and mittens and long johns, of course. I remember loving them all.
Christmases in my young adulthood might be where my disenchantment with gifting started. For one thing, I was a newlywed living states away from family and friends before the days of Zoom and FaceTime. Everything was unfamiliar, including holiday services at our new church. Gifts seemed secondary to my holiday loneliness. Money was tight, and that was no fun either. If you sprinkle in some starry-eyed idealism, you might see a woman who has struggled for years to balance the season’s mix of faith and over-the-top falala-ing.
I remember the Christmas after Rice and I bought our first house. We over-extended on that purchase. (Doesn’t everyone? At least those of us lucky enough to buy a house?) When I say we lived paycheck to paycheck, that’s a literal statement. We weren’t starving, and we still had heat and hot water. But make no mistake. We were squeaking back then.
We mailed gifts to out-of-state family that year—the postage probably cost more than the presents—but we decided to forego exchanging gifts between the two of us on the 25th. We agreed to treat each other to a little something, but it would be when we shopped the after-Christmas sales together. When I told a co-worker our plan, she was mortified. “Are you that bad off?” she asked. She saw us as destitute. I saw us as practical.
Flash forward to a few years later. Our household now included a baby girl. (Other miracles were yet to come, like cell phones and cybershopping...and two more babies.) That first Christmas as a mom was enlightening. It was the year young women got into bitch-slap fests to claim the last Cabbage Patch doll on the shelf. Talk about the spirit of the season. And I was only just getting a taste of the jolliness.
Like it or not, our society celebrates the season with gifts. Sure, I could’ve made a stand by saying let’s not do things that way. But I didn’t—in no small part because I’m married to a man, God love him, who liked to see his children’s eyes sparkle come Christmas morning.
As the Rice brood grew, we parents started to shop the Black Friday butt-crack-of-dawn sales. We’d split up, visiting different stores to better our odds of scoring the year’s wish-list items. Standing in those lines got pretty boring. Eavesdropping on other parents provided a way to pass the time. One family was buying their kid a TV...for starters. Another confessed they weren’t sure how they’d pay their credit card bills in January. But by God, their kids were going to have plenty of Santa gifts come December 25th.
Did I like hearing all this? No. It didn’t seem practical. Nor did it make me want to run up our credit card bills, just to play a game of one-upping the neighbors. It did, however, cause me to re-visit my struggle with the over-the-top nature of the season. These parents obviously loved their children. They enjoyed showing that love through gift-giving. That didn’t mean they weren’t going to celebrate the Baby Jesus, too. (Whether they did or not wasn’t really my business, of course. The point is, my take on gifting at Christmas started to shift.)
Which leads me to....
Realization #1: Faith and commercialism are separate issues. They can co-exist.
Gaining that insight brought some peace. But gift-giving still caused me heartburn. Why?
Another insight flashed over me, and it’s not one I’m proud to admit. What if I was a scrooge-of-a-gift-giver not because I chafed at the commercialism it represented? What if I was so scrooge-like because I really suck when it comes to gifting?
Oh, my gosh, that’s it, isn't it? I mean, here are some gifts I’ve distributed through the years:
Loaves of homemade orange bread to be reheated Christmas morning, again for friends. Well and good. And yummy. Except I gifted each loaf in a tin that was too tiny for the recipe. One friend admitted the sugary icing dripped out of the pan during baking and caught her oven on fire.
A hand-crafted coupon book for my husband, who isn’t a big fan, but who was—and still is—too kindhearted to remind me I got him that same gift a year earlier.
A Raggedy Ann for our middle child. I’d always wanted one for myself. Wouldn’t she just love it? No. She found it creepy.
A bottle of champagne for an adult sitter. I would’ve liked that. She, I soon learned, probably didn’t. She was a Latter Day Saint.
Cringe-worthy watercolor-illustrated poems...written and painted by moi.
Hand-crafted papier-mache angels for family, friends, and neighbors. I worked on those babies for hours, with love and care. They were filled with the spirit of the season. Looking back now, they resembled ghostly gargoyles. God love my friends, some even displayed those ugly angels for more than one season.
I could go on, but I won’t. The pattern’s clear. I like to give gifts that are simple. Often homemade. Those kinds of gifts have meaning. For me. Here’s a funny thing about gifts, though. They’re meant to be enjoyed by those who receive them. It’s well and good if the gifter gets joy from them, too. But that’s secondary. So.... Realization #2: I suck at gift-giving. I continue to struggle with it, shopping for family and friends, party hosts and neighbors, book-club buddies and office mates. Please note: I LIKE the actual giving. It’s figuring out WHAT to give that’s difficult. The good news for me? This season has bought a bit of respite from over-the-top gifting. But it’s come with a price. My heart feels extra heavy for those suffering from illness, loss, or despair. My thoughts go out to those less directly scathed by 2020 but who still feel its weight, foregoing cherished traditions like travel, decorating, and family gatherings. And I send special hugs to grandparents missing their grands this season. Christmas without little ones nearby can be tough. We count on them to help us see the magic on the mantel, to point out a robust Santa, hohoho-ing, his sleigh overloaded with toys. Children see a sweet Baby Jesus, plump and cozy, lying in a manger filled with golden hay. And Mother Mary, clean and white, gazing down at the Christ child with awe and hope. Without help from eyes of innocence, those same images can look very different. Santa appears pretty damned tired, and his sleigh’s not full enough to do right by every child with a Christmas wish. Baby Jesus still lies nearby, but he’s restless on prickly hay that smells of animal dung. The Madonna gazing down at him is more likely filled with fright and exhaustion than hope. She’s around thirteen years old with brown skin. She’s probably dirty and hungry. Our adult eyes see realities we never could (or should) have imagined as a child. Realities like racism. Poverty. Hunger. Social injustice. Yes, we adults need to see all those things. We can never eradicate them if we don’t recognize them. So yes, we need to focus on them, to talk about them. But not every moment of every day.
Maybe it boils down to this....
Realization #3: Giving and receiving gifts is not a top love language of mine. At least not the tangible kind of gifts.
But lest you fear I’ve forgotten, I do have a Christmas gift for you. Knowing my history of gifting, you may be relieved it is intangible and brief, actually more like a three-pronged wish. It goes like this:
May you be spared of cringe-worthy gifts.
May you feel loved and healthy and safe.
Most of all, may you experience the magic of child-like wonder.
At least for a moment, may you find a way to celebrate the awe that is Christmas. Cheers – Jan
October’s my birth month. It’s my husband Rice’s, too. We often recognize another year’s passing with a special combined celebration. This year, especially, was meant to be “our year,” a time to celebrate one of the best parts about aging: RETIREMENT! Time to slow down. Or travel. We talked about Scotland and Ireland. Maybe in the fall.
Then came 2020. For everyone, not just us.
This October’s been more about rumination than travel. Earlier this month, “my” Bad Girls’ Book Club socially distanced around the fire pit. We’re a mix of Millennials, Gen-Xers, and Boomers, women who are black, white, and brown. This diversity is intentional, although sometimes it reminds me I’m not getting any younger. More often, though, it enriches discussions. Generations tend to see things differently. Our talks enlighten me.
October’s read was Elizabeth Gilbert’s City of Girls, a wonderful story told by a 95-year-old woman looking back on her New York City experiences from the 1940s to the present. It explores themes of love, female sexuality, and promiscuity. We Bad Girls talked about what it must’ve been like to be a single woman living in NYC in the 1940s. All of us winced at the slut-shaming the narrator suffered. A younger member revealed the playing field may be leveling: “Guys who sleep around these days are called f*** boys.” Ah. So are the times a-changing? “No,” a Gen-Xer reminded us. “There’s still a double standard.” And who could argue? A few days after the Bad Girls met, I read a comment on social media. It was allegedly made by a former California state assemblyman. Its content is a reminder that we women may have come a long way, baby..., but we’ve yet to transcend that good old double standard. Here’s the gist: “[Back in 1994...,) the ultimate ‘power broker’ that controlled every aspect of California’s state government was seeing a young girl who was in her late 20’s. He was in his 60’s. She was his mistress and he showered her with gifts and appointed her to a number of State government jobs. [He] launched her political career because she was having sex with him. The idea that she is an “independent” woman who worked her way up the political ladder because she worked hard is baloney. It is common knowledge...that [she] slept her way into powerful political jobs.” Yes, this is a reference to Kamala. And yes, it makes me feel old. Because for years and years, I’ve listened to women of power being shamed by misogynistic comments. Except here’s the glitch. This comment, allegedly started by a man, was re-posted—two times, actually—by a couple of my female FaceBook “friends.” Both started their re-posts by saying: “Very Interesting. I Wonder how many Dems outside California know about all this? ** Lets Pass It Around and Make Sure They Know!”
Here’s the beginning of the comment my female FaceBook “friends” re-posted:
“She is attractive, animated and absurd. She stated that she never had children; yet was a ‘Mother to her husband’s children.’ And she ‘loved being a Mother.’ ...She led her audience to believe that she mothered these kids. I looked her up. She married her husband when the son was in his 3rd year of college and the daughter was in 10th grade and they actually lived with their biological Mother, except for normal visits with their father—so much for Motherhood.”
This part actually gets under my skin even more than the slut-shaming. Because, intentional or not, it belittles blended families. I mean, think about it. The challenges faced by these families are steep enough without this added disparagement. Divorce rates for remarriages with children are at least 50 percent higher. Unless both partners have kids. Then it’s more like 70 percent.
One out of every three Americans is either a step-parent, a step-child, or has some other form of a blended family. That’s 100 million people. Something about human nature pulls us toward loving each other. Toward connecting. Shouldn’t we root for these people?
My mom was widowed three times. I was a step-kid myself, times two. Even with everybody committed to making things work, it wasn’t always one big Brady Bunch picnic. And whether I was in preschool or high school—or even college—I felt the impact, good and bad. I still remember so much about those years. Sometimes the smallest things.
When I was in second grade, I watched—yes, with glee—as my mom raked in repeated prizes at a Mother-Daughter Banquet at church. She won for having the most daughters (five), for having the youngest daughter (a newborn), and having the widest spread in ages among her daughters (zero to eighteen). I overheard another woman at the banquet sniff, “Well, technically, those aren’t really all her daughters.” True, the oldest two were, technically, step-daughters. But it’s a good thing my mother didn’t hear the comment I heard because knowing her, she would have bitch-slapped the sniffling lady but good. Not because Mom was dying to keep all those prizes. Rather because the church basement wasn’t the place to dissect her family into steps, halves, and wholes, especially while celebrating family.
Admittedly, this post has meandered, much like my mind these days. Maybe I should blame it on aging? Except I can’t. The truth is I have sooooo many more thoughts I could share. About life in general, which is somewhat unsettling right now. But also about specific issues, like family. Do we still really think family is mostly a matter of blood? And then there’s the issue of women’s relationships. How long will it take us to realize that girls compete with one another, women empower each other?
These issues are mere starting points. But a piece of birthday cake awaits me. I’ll take that as my cue to move along and propose a toast.
So here’s to book clubs and diverse friendships, to stable families and empowering one another. Here’s to rising up. And lest I forget, here’s to yet another year!
Cheers ~ Jan
