Andrea Weir's Blog, page 2
January 26, 2015
Neither Good Nor Bad
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
— Hamlet
Act II, Scene II
— Hamlet
Act II, Scene II
January 24, 2015
Your Story as You Know It
Our experiences have tremendous power. They help us define ourselves in many ways, and can reinforce whatever we've been taught to believe about ourselves and about our place in the world.
Too often, though, we base our perceptions of ourselves — and our inherent value — not on the truth and what we know is real about ourselves, but on what we allow others, through their own actions, to say about us. And it all goes on inside our own heads.
What we're willing to take as fact is just a piece of someone else's fiction.
If you're going to believe anyone's story about you, believe your own. Because you know better than anyone the truth of who you really are.
Too often, though, we base our perceptions of ourselves — and our inherent value — not on the truth and what we know is real about ourselves, but on what we allow others, through their own actions, to say about us. And it all goes on inside our own heads.
What we're willing to take as fact is just a piece of someone else's fiction.
If you're going to believe anyone's story about you, believe your own. Because you know better than anyone the truth of who you really are.
January 19, 2015
Right and Wrong
Thought for today: Sometimes you have to risk being wrong in order to be right.
November 21, 2014
Lessons of the Fall
It was a spectacular fall. And I don’t mean the season. I mean being upright one minute and flat on the ground the next, wondering what the heck happened.
I won’t go into the (boring for you, embarrassing for me) details, but suffice to say I hit the ground with a resounding thud. It wasn’t the first time something like this has happened — I’m not particularly clumsy, but I am a little aggressive on my mountain bike and have taken my share of spills, many of which resulted in skinned knees, road rash and, on one occasion, stitches in my elbow (and a splint that ran the length of my arm from wrist to shoulder).
This time, though, it was different. And, I have since discovered, entirely necessary.
So here I am, laid up with my fractured foot encased in an orthopedic boot only Frankenstein would appreciate. I’m hobbling around on crutches, very much at the mercy of family and friends, and moving at the speed of molasses on a cold winter day.
I’ve had a fair amount of time over the past few weeks to contemplate my predicament and the circumstances that landed me here. At first I railed on myself for allowing it to happen. Rather than consider the factors that contributed to this mishap — such as my own inattention — I focused on the ramifications. I had work to do and places to go. I had a plane to catch. I didn’t have time for this kind of nonsense.
But then it occurred to me, as though some benevolent being had pulled the realization like a string from the deep recesses of my brain, that this misfortune was, in reality, quite fortunate. It was exactly what I needed.
Like many people, I tend to live my life in a mad rush, moving smartly from one thing to the next, not really paying attention to the moment at hand. This particular injury, however, brought all my activity to a halt.
And my subsequent immobility has given me pause.
As breaks go, mine is fairly run-of-the-mill. It will heal on its own, and in six to eight weeks I’ll be back up to my usual frenetic pace.
But then again, maybe not. Maybe the lessons I'm learning in the aftermath of that fateful fall — and there continue to be many — will stay with me long after my broken bone has healed.
So what have I learned?
1) Be present and aware in every moment. Now, my first response to this little nugget — and seeming cliché — was that the skinned knee, road rash, and bumps and bruises would have sufficed. A broken bone was wholly unnecessary, right? Wrong. I know very well that a skinned knee and some road rash wouldn’t have stopped me. They may have slowed me down for a couple of days, but the overall effect would have been minimal.
A broken bone was necessary to get my attention. To make me stop and think about my way of being. And I thank my lucky stars it worked. Because if it hadn’t, the next set of circumstances could have been much more dramatic. The Universe has a way of delivering the lessons we need in the most effective way.
2) It’s all right to ask for — and accept — help. That’s a tough one. My utter dependence and lack of autonomy have been harder to cope with than the pain caused by the broken bone. While medication relieves the latter, the former are much harder to treat.
I grew up taking care of myself. When I was sick, I took care of myself. When I was hurt, I took care of myself. That’s what I do. So to give in and ask someone for assistance (which, by the way, I would be happy to provide if the situation were reversed), well, that’s a lot easier said than done. For me, creating extra effort for anyone, or being the source of any perceived consternation is unthinkable. Not to mention that it’s a sign of weakness. Except, in reality, it isn’t. Because relationships are built on that kind of give and take, helping and being helped.
3) My compassion for people with any kind of physical challenge has grown enormously. As I’ve struggled to open a heavy door while on crutches or make my way up a flight of stairs or cross a busy street, I am more aware of the strengths and abilities I have taken for granted. I am fortunate that my infirmity is temporary; many people live their entire lives this way — or worse — and a touch of consideration and human kindness can make a big difference.
4) I’ve learned patience. Patience with myself, and patience with others. For the most part, we’re all doing the best we can — even the slowest among us — and trying not to be in the way.
I won’t go into the (boring for you, embarrassing for me) details, but suffice to say I hit the ground with a resounding thud. It wasn’t the first time something like this has happened — I’m not particularly clumsy, but I am a little aggressive on my mountain bike and have taken my share of spills, many of which resulted in skinned knees, road rash and, on one occasion, stitches in my elbow (and a splint that ran the length of my arm from wrist to shoulder).
This time, though, it was different. And, I have since discovered, entirely necessary.
So here I am, laid up with my fractured foot encased in an orthopedic boot only Frankenstein would appreciate. I’m hobbling around on crutches, very much at the mercy of family and friends, and moving at the speed of molasses on a cold winter day.
I’ve had a fair amount of time over the past few weeks to contemplate my predicament and the circumstances that landed me here. At first I railed on myself for allowing it to happen. Rather than consider the factors that contributed to this mishap — such as my own inattention — I focused on the ramifications. I had work to do and places to go. I had a plane to catch. I didn’t have time for this kind of nonsense.
But then it occurred to me, as though some benevolent being had pulled the realization like a string from the deep recesses of my brain, that this misfortune was, in reality, quite fortunate. It was exactly what I needed.
Like many people, I tend to live my life in a mad rush, moving smartly from one thing to the next, not really paying attention to the moment at hand. This particular injury, however, brought all my activity to a halt.
And my subsequent immobility has given me pause.
As breaks go, mine is fairly run-of-the-mill. It will heal on its own, and in six to eight weeks I’ll be back up to my usual frenetic pace.
But then again, maybe not. Maybe the lessons I'm learning in the aftermath of that fateful fall — and there continue to be many — will stay with me long after my broken bone has healed.
So what have I learned?
1) Be present and aware in every moment. Now, my first response to this little nugget — and seeming cliché — was that the skinned knee, road rash, and bumps and bruises would have sufficed. A broken bone was wholly unnecessary, right? Wrong. I know very well that a skinned knee and some road rash wouldn’t have stopped me. They may have slowed me down for a couple of days, but the overall effect would have been minimal.
A broken bone was necessary to get my attention. To make me stop and think about my way of being. And I thank my lucky stars it worked. Because if it hadn’t, the next set of circumstances could have been much more dramatic. The Universe has a way of delivering the lessons we need in the most effective way.
2) It’s all right to ask for — and accept — help. That’s a tough one. My utter dependence and lack of autonomy have been harder to cope with than the pain caused by the broken bone. While medication relieves the latter, the former are much harder to treat.
I grew up taking care of myself. When I was sick, I took care of myself. When I was hurt, I took care of myself. That’s what I do. So to give in and ask someone for assistance (which, by the way, I would be happy to provide if the situation were reversed), well, that’s a lot easier said than done. For me, creating extra effort for anyone, or being the source of any perceived consternation is unthinkable. Not to mention that it’s a sign of weakness. Except, in reality, it isn’t. Because relationships are built on that kind of give and take, helping and being helped.
3) My compassion for people with any kind of physical challenge has grown enormously. As I’ve struggled to open a heavy door while on crutches or make my way up a flight of stairs or cross a busy street, I am more aware of the strengths and abilities I have taken for granted. I am fortunate that my infirmity is temporary; many people live their entire lives this way — or worse — and a touch of consideration and human kindness can make a big difference.
4) I’ve learned patience. Patience with myself, and patience with others. For the most part, we’re all doing the best we can — even the slowest among us — and trying not to be in the way.
How the Novel Came to Be
As a writer, I’ve always been interested in exploring universal human emotions — love, hope, fear, loneliness — and how they impact our actions, our choices, and the assumptions we make about ourselves and the world.
My mother died when I was very young, and I have struggled with that loss throughout my entire life. That experience informed who I am and, by extension, all the significant choices I have made.
Several years ago, I learned of a program — I Have a Friend® — created by Hospice of Santa Barbara that would enable me to use my experience in a productive way. The program matches adults who lost a parent as a child with children who have recently lost a parent. The adult serves as an example to the child that one can experience such a loss and still become as happy an adult as any other. Perhaps more important, though, the adult understands exactly how it feels to be in the child’s shoes, and no explanations are necessary.
At one point during my involvement, one of the counselors very offhandedly mentioned the idea of my writing a handbook of sorts for surviving parents.
That would have been extremely difficult to do because of all the variables — the ages of the children, whether they are boys or girls, whether the surviving parent is a mother or a father, the circumstances of the parent’s death, etc. — and because, my own experience aside, I am not a mental health professional and I bring no specific expertise.
Still, I was intrigued by the idea, so I decided to use fiction as a means of exploring the grief and sense of loss children experience when they lose a parent — in this case, a mother — and how the surviving adults can help them through the process of healing.
As I moved through the storyline, it occurred to me that when a child loses a mother, a mother and father have lost a child and siblings have lost a sister. Their grief is equally profound and has its own manifestations. I decided to explore those losses as well, and that’s where the protagonists and real conflict of the storyline originate.
The title of the novel references a line in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay Self-Reliance. “A foolish consistency,” he writes, “is the hobgoblin of little minds.” I read the essay for the first time as a junior in high school, and that line has stuck with me. I take it as an exhortation to be open-minded, think for oneself, and not cling to beliefs or thought processes that don’t serve us. Those, I believe, are the hobgoblins.
As much as the novel focuses on loss, however, it is not a sad story. Rather, it is about finding the joy that exists on the other side of grief and accepting life in all its iterations.
My mother died when I was very young, and I have struggled with that loss throughout my entire life. That experience informed who I am and, by extension, all the significant choices I have made.
Several years ago, I learned of a program — I Have a Friend® — created by Hospice of Santa Barbara that would enable me to use my experience in a productive way. The program matches adults who lost a parent as a child with children who have recently lost a parent. The adult serves as an example to the child that one can experience such a loss and still become as happy an adult as any other. Perhaps more important, though, the adult understands exactly how it feels to be in the child’s shoes, and no explanations are necessary.
At one point during my involvement, one of the counselors very offhandedly mentioned the idea of my writing a handbook of sorts for surviving parents.
That would have been extremely difficult to do because of all the variables — the ages of the children, whether they are boys or girls, whether the surviving parent is a mother or a father, the circumstances of the parent’s death, etc. — and because, my own experience aside, I am not a mental health professional and I bring no specific expertise.
Still, I was intrigued by the idea, so I decided to use fiction as a means of exploring the grief and sense of loss children experience when they lose a parent — in this case, a mother — and how the surviving adults can help them through the process of healing.
As I moved through the storyline, it occurred to me that when a child loses a mother, a mother and father have lost a child and siblings have lost a sister. Their grief is equally profound and has its own manifestations. I decided to explore those losses as well, and that’s where the protagonists and real conflict of the storyline originate.
The title of the novel references a line in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay Self-Reliance. “A foolish consistency,” he writes, “is the hobgoblin of little minds.” I read the essay for the first time as a junior in high school, and that line has stuck with me. I take it as an exhortation to be open-minded, think for oneself, and not cling to beliefs or thought processes that don’t serve us. Those, I believe, are the hobgoblins.
As much as the novel focuses on loss, however, it is not a sad story. Rather, it is about finding the joy that exists on the other side of grief and accepting life in all its iterations.
