Patience and Perfection

We recently discussed a talk on 'Patience" by President Dieter Uchtdof in our Family Home Evening.  Our discussion focussed particularly on the importance of applying patience to the journey we all have as we work our way toward perfection.  We noted that many people are so burdened by feelings of inadequacy and a lack of belief in themselves that it's especially hard to continue on in the face of repeated failures to accomplish perfection.

So I wanted to pass on a thought I've had about our need to be patient with ourselves:

http://www.practicingparents.com

Babies, children, toddlers are wonderful!  They try, and try, and fall or fail, and try again, until they 'get it'.  We know that eventually, they will walk, talk, toilet themselves, say 'Mummy, I love you'; even learn to ride a bike, swim across the pool, and read by themselves.  Eventually, their toes will touch the floor while they are sitting on the pew in church; their fingers will eventually reach the doorknob, the top of the doorway, (and sometimes, in the case of teenage boys straining to be picked for the basketball team), the ceiling.  These things will all, in the normal course of life, always be achieved, just as surely as a 10 kilo snack of chocolate is going to show up on the scales.   

Babies don't ever ponder the possibility of failure.  It just never seems to occur to them!  So they keep trying, until they do advance; achieve; succeed.  And we take their eventual success just as much for granted; we also believe that their destiny is to be successful.  (Except for the universal proviso of young mums who sometimes wonder if their child will ever sleep through, or ever be toilet-trained, or stop wetting the bed.  They will  :)

Little Ballerina's Dream painting by Roberta Martin

To look at a baby or a small child, it could seem incredible that they will be able to accomplish so many intricate, fabulous things one day.  Except that we know what is possible, and probable, because we have already managed it ourselves.  How sad it would be to ever see a baby just give up on trying - to walk, or talk, or feed themselves, knowing as we do know, the progress that would have occurred if they had just continued their efforts.   

I wonder if this is the way that Heavenly Father looks at us.  He sees us fall over, again and again, and I think that His response probably somewhat mirrors our response to our own children: a warm and vitally interested desire to encourage and support, and a feeling of overwhelming love for the child: walking or not; successful or, not just yet.  Perhaps He loves us in the same way that we love our babies, even when they can't do anything much yet!  Perhaps He smiles understandingly, as we occasionally do, when the baby who is learning to sit up, puddles over onto their side, or sometimes falls flat on their face, or even when one throws a tantrum.  Maybe it really doesn't bother Him that much that it takes us a while to learn what we need to - since He knows that eventually, with His help, we will, inevitably, succeed - if we will only choose to disregard all notions of failure.

Pinterest

I remember with a lot of loving humour the picture of our oldest daughter, Tammy, learning to play her first piano piece for the Beginner's exam.  She sat at our piano each day, plonking out the few simple notes, trying over and over again to play the childish tune, before throwing her hands to her eyes and crying, with real anguish one day, "I can't do it, I just can't do it!  I'll NEVER be able to learn this - it's too hard!"   

Fast forward to her seventeenth year, to the exceptionally difficult and lovely music pieces she practised each day then, in preparation for her Diploma of Music exam.   How wonderful it was to hear her filling our home with such intricate and beautiful melodies..

How wonderful to know that our stumbling, occasionally faltering, and even our sometimes emotionally hysterical attempts now to sound a tune, are one day, most certainly, if we 'continue in patience', destined to become performances of great beauty too!

http://academyblog.wordpress.com

Climbing Mountains

I only ever went on one school camp, that I can remember. It was when I was about 15 years old and in year 10. Our grade of about 300 students traveled up from Adelaide to stay in cabin accommodation in the South Australian Flinders Ranges. The highlight of our week was to be a climb to the top of the highest point in the Ranges, St. Mary's Peak.

I was worried leading up to the day we were to make the climb.  I was very skinny back then, and not particularly strong.  I was afraid that I might embarrass myself in front of all the other students by being too weak to make it to the top.  The teachers took us to a hill near our camp on the day before the climb, as a kind of practice.  I remember making it only part of the way up before I sat down, puffing, feeling exhausted, and quite hopeless about my prospects for the next day.

The climb up St. Mary's began with a gentle walk for the first few kilometres.  We were in single file, and I wasn't doing well from the first.  I was about two thirds of the way back in the line of students and teachers, and failing fast.  It didn't look as if I would get very far.  So - I put on a big burst of strength in order to pass all of the people in front of me, until I reached the front of the line.  Eventually, I was one of only nine people to reach the top of the mountain, and was the only girl or woman to get there.

It was good to stand on the peak and spend some moments enjoying the view.  It was wonderful to know that I had achieved the goal, and had not dropped out along the way.  Surprising that so many had. More than that though, I learned a lesson that has helped me out many times since.

ramblingsdc.ne

I have no doubt that had I stayed back in the line, I would have failed to get very far.  By getting out in front of the crowd, the rest of the line seemed to propel me forward, actually bolstering me with the strength I needed to get to the top.  I realize that everyone is different - that perhaps line position would not have been so pivotal in importance to others. But it was for me.  Why?  It just seemed easier when I could see the goal ahead clearly, and did not feel that I was being held back by anyone, or that I had to travel at someone else's pace.  It was easier to be succeeding than it would have been to be failing.

I was reminded of my experience with this some years later, when I read the story of 'The Five Dollar Lawn', as retold by Bishop Vaughn J. Featherstone in Conference, 1973.  If you would like to read it the story is here.

I really love that story!  It seems to echo my own experience, and now my belief, that we have to aim for the highest and the best if we hope to succeed with the best of what we have in ourselves;  that failure comes more often from setting our sights too low rather than from aiming too high.

A good brother in a Sunday School class questioned whether aiming for perfection is just too daunting for some. I think that not aiming for perfection is much more so!  I believe that we are children of God, and that eventual perfection is our true and natural endowment.

To achieve that end, I believe in my heart that we need generally to ask more of ourselves, not less.


(This is a reprint)

Two Stories About Integrity.

Tammy's post here touched on the theme of integrity and put me in mind of these following two stories - 

A man I knew quite well told me the following true story:

A friend of his visited a building site.  He found the demountable site office open but unattended, so entered and sat upon one of the metal seats.  While waiting, he noticed a paper bag under one of the seats and being bored, he looked inside. Surprised, he found that it was filled with cash.  He spent some time counting it.  The paper bag contained over $330,000. He stood and looked outside.  There was nobody on site and nobody had seen him there.   He had not been expected and nobody but himself knew that he had any reason for being there that day.  It seemed that he could take the bag and the cash and nobody but himself would know what he had done.  What should he do?  

He held the bag until someone arrived that he could hand it on to.  "I think that I am an honest man," he told my friend, "but I know that I am at least $330,000 honest."  

How honest am I?  Am I - or are you - willing to sell our integrity for $1?  Probably not.  What about $1,000?  We hope not. What about $330,000? ..  or $1,000,000?  Is there any price for which I am willing to sell my integrity; to sacrifice honesty?

I used to ask our children this, when they seemed inclined to lie in order to escape the consequences of something they had done.  What price integrity?

....

Which reminds me of another story, attributed usually to Winston Churchill, and sometimes to George Bernard Shaw:

Churchill sat at dinner beside a woman who flirted outrageously with him all evening, (Churchill was married).  He finally whispered to her, "Madam, would you go to bed with me for five thousand pounds?"  "My goodness," she simpered, "well, perhaps.."   "What about a pound?" countered Churchill.  Highly offended, the woman retorted, "what do you take me for!?" "What you are," replied Churchill, "has already been established.  All we are quibbling over now is the price."

Ouch.  And touche.  Very true.

Integrity to me means having my actions be consistent with my beliefs.  This definition allows room for us to behave sometimes very differently from one another, but still each hold true to integrity.  We may not have approved the actions of Javert from Les Miserables, but no-one can question his integrity.  Likewise, Saul of Tarsus and Paul after his journey to Damascus, behaved very differently - but both behaved with integrity.

I guess it just comes down to this: do we believe in being honest?  Then: are my actions consistent with my beliefs?

What do you think?

Some Of My Thoughts On Racism

I hope this is not too heavy for a Monday morning, but here goes...

I was driving with a friend some years ago when I absently commented about a lady walking up ahead, noting by her gait, "I think she is Asian,"  which indeed we saw, as we passed, that she was.

"That's racist,"  said my friend, which left me quite gobsmacked - partly from the accusation, and partly from her seeming implication that correctly identifying a physical characteristic as peculiar to Asian people in any way discredited that race. Was she inferring that being identified as Asian was somehow an insult?  'How insulting is that?' I wondered. Would it have been considered offensive if I had guessed that the woman up ahead was a ballet dancer, or a body builder, or an Australian?  Hmmn...

....

My own personal definition of racism is this: to think that any one person or people is better than another, only by virtue of their race or culture.  I don't believe that.  I believe that every individual born possesses great intrinsic worth, just as much as another, regardless of race or colour.

I do believe that there are many differences between races and cultures however, (just as there are often distinct characteristics within families).   Obvious differences include skin colour, hair type and colour, body shape and type, facial characteristics, language, often talents and abilities, and even ways of thinking about and interpreting the world.

It seems to me, (and obviously I'm speaking very generally here), that the Germans I have known tended to be  focused and creative, have good body strength, are thrifty, orderly, and often somewhat detached in manner.  Italians, Greeks and Mexicans seems much more passionate and involved.  Indian people are frequently intelligent, naturally joyful, and voluble.  The Australian aboriginals I have known have been very shy, but full of laughter and fun when among their own people.  The Papua New Guinean people we lived among for four years often had a lot of difficulty in understanding Western values like the importance of time, or order.  (Likewise, put me in the PNG jungle and I know that I would be looking more than a little dim-witted..)  I also found the PNG people to be proud, cheerful, exceedingly generous and loyal, short in stature and amazingly well-muscled.   All the Dutch people I have met seem to be good-looking.  I find the Kalahari Bushmen quite beautiful, men and women.  African-Americans seem to have unusually good voices and rhythm, and innate great musculature.   The Chinese people I have known tended to be intelligent, dedicated, somewhat inscrutable, and hard-working.  I think Australians are generally independent, resourceful, open and frank, sometimes to the point of tactlessness, casual, hospitable and friendly.  You get the idea.  Of course these generalizations are in no way comprehensive, and in no way apply, or are even close to applying to every individual.  Even so, specific patterns of DNA added to unique and shared physical, spiritual, cultural, social and historical experiences within races and cultures inevitably produce noticeable characteristics that are, if not defining, at least clearly identifiable.  

(Cultural and racial characteristics are also liable to change, especially as we are influenced by other cultures through immigration and education.)

I love these differences!  I'm so glad that we are not all the same!  I find these differences interesting and engaging and that they inform and enlarge and enrich my understanding of humanity and life.  I am happy to note them because I consider them to be very positive.

It frustrates me when people try to pretend that we are all exactly the same, when clearly we are not - when we are enjoined to be 'colour-blind', for instance.  What, I ask, is so very terrible about the differences in our skin colour, for instance, that we are supposed to not even acknowledge them?  If we embrace and enjoy our diversity, how can it be an insult to note, or even highlight it?

How can it be wrong to call a spade a spade?  

To answer my own question: perhaps it's wrong only if you have something against spades.  And that's what I see as racism.  If to call someone a spade is seen as complimentary, there would be few to complain of the appellation.  The difficulty exists not in the appellation but in the negative connotation that is sometimes assumed: the name of which, it seems to me, is racism.  

One of the worst consequences of refusing to acknowledge the differences among us, (or in applying a racist attitude to them), is that we can fail to appreciate the beauty, richness and magnificence of those differences.   I think that's sad.  It surely takes nothing away from the English when we describe the French as being notable for their cuisine, and nothing away from the French to note that the English are noted horticulturalists.   Differences are at their most useful and exciting when they are complementary.  Isn't this true of most relationships?

To conclude: Unquestionably, our similarities are greater than our differences.  I believe that both can and ought to be acknowledged, accepted, appreciated and celebrated! 

What do you think?

My Philosophy of House Cleaning

'I have a point, I promise'

1.   I haven't read, 'How Green Was My Valley' for many years now, but there is a scene from the book that has always stayed with me.  My copy is packed away with my books at present, but I remember the scene as something like this:

A Welsh mother in a small mining village began her day's housework.  Her daughter commented to her that every other house in their village is virtually identical to the other, and wonders why some women take all day to accomplish their house cleaning, while others finish much more quickly and are able to relax more?  The girl's mother, kneeling in readiness to clean her hearth, asks her daughter to take note as she sweeps the ashes and cleans the grate, before again leaning back on her heels.
"Look at the hearth.  Is it clean?"  she asks.
"It is," answers her child.  (Except that both of them speak in a much more Welsh-sounding way :)  The mother then leaned forward and spent several more moments cleaning the hearth more thoroughly.
"What about now?" asks her mother.   The daughter's eyes widen and she understands that there is a difference between wiping something over, and actually cleaning it.
(Ta Da!  That's when my eyes metaphorically widened too.)

(Home Bright Hearth Light, by Louise Jopling)

2.   When I studied Psychology we learned about 'selective attention'.  This is the name, (if I've remembered it correctly), given to the process whereby we all selectively discard or filter out almost all of the information collected for our brain by our senses, in order for us to function without a sensory overload, and more effectively focus on a particular task at any one time. The information we selectively reject may never find its way to our conscious thoughts, but it does nonetheless inform our conscious understanding of the world around us, and thereby fashion our perceptions.  (ie  Imagine yourself walking into a room.  Your eyes scan the area, but what you are looking for is your car keys.  Although your eyes inevitably capture every detail of the room, your brain helpfully filters out almost everything it considers non-important in order for you to focus on finding your keys.  Hypnosis is occasionally used to bring these unconscious observations to the fore.)

(This is another kind of selective attention!)    heligirl.com

3.   I was in a car accident on a dirt road many years ago, in which the car spun out and I was thrown out onto the road.  I don't remember hitting my head on the way out of the car, or hitting the gravel when I landed.  What I do remember is flying through the air. I can still see, quite clearly in memory, my hands out in front of me, while red specks of dirt from the road swirled ever-so-slowly in the air around me.  It seemed that I could take note of every tiny, individual speck of dirt and follow its time-slowed dance. Then I hit the road and was temporarily unconscious.   (This experience helped me to understand point 2. above - to believe that my eyes actually do observe a lot more than I usually consciously process.)

(The Milkmaid, by Vermeer)

Put these three together and you have the basis of my philosophy of house cleaning.  You're excited right about now, yes?

This is it:  I believe that we, (and, I'm sorry to say, everyone else),  really can see every little speck of dirt in every corner of our houses; that we can smell the faint whiff of cauliflower from last night's dinner; that we do notice the dirty windows - even though most of the time we are not conscious of all this information.  The house can actually feel clean or dirty.

And the point of this?  I think of it often as I clean my house.  Even when my sweet husband may feel that a lot of my cleaning is unnecessary, this helps me to feel that, even if nobody does seem to notice, I think that they really do and that it makes the house more pleasant for our family and friends when I put in a good effort - that my efforts are valuable and worthwhile :)

What do you think?  :)

(Disclaimer:  Perfection in house cleaning is more a goal than an achievement for almost all of us, most of the time.  And, a touch of kindness and some common sense would tell you not to ever look at anyone else's house cleaning too closely! This thought is for me to use in my house, not for me to use in yours, ok?  A clean house is nice, but it's not the most important thing in life  :)

(Special house-cleaning shoes - uncredited in Pinterest)

Is Blogging a Waste of Time?

          

Over the Back Fence

Bert Hardy/Getty Images

My mother used to spend part of each day, more or less, chatting over the back fence to one or more of her neighbours.   My husband remembers his mother doing likewise.   I'm pretty sure their mothers would have done the same.   Back then - and it was really not so very long ago - fences were almost always about waist high, so you could easily see one another, and have something to lean yourself, or your basket of washing, against.

I suppose that these women would discuss their children and husbands, a television show they had enjoyed, cooking and recipes, their housework and homemaking tips, world events and local news, and their personal thoughts about Life, etc.   Over the back fence you could admire a new baby, exclaim over how much little Jonny had grown, and be invited in to see the new lounge suite.  

gypsypearlstudio.com

When our children were little I had a close neighbour whose brother commited suicide.  I think she and I spent at least half of all our weekly daylight hours together after that, for at least six months, at her place or mine, while our children played and I mostly just listened while she talked it all through; enough for her to come to terms with what had happened.  

Then six-foot high wooden paling fences gradually divided our properties, and women began to go out to work more and more anyway, and to stay home with children less and less.  Those who were still at home began to stay inside more too - enticed by  larger, more comfortable homes and colour TV's and year-round air-conditioning.  Women who did stay at home were in danger of becoming isolated, lonely, and sometimes depressed.  

exohuman.com

(I've always thought that Motherhood and Homemaking as a profession, if you will, is not for the faint-hearted.  I remember how keenly I would clean and tidy every morning, and how I was the only one, aside from our beautiful children, who ever saw the bathroom in all its perfection - before the four o'clock bathing tsunamis that drenched all the surfaces I had shined so assiduously that morning!  No one is ever going to come along to a hard-working mother and say: "Wow, You have been doing such a Great Job that I am going to give you a Promotion, and a well-deserved Raise!   Nope.  You have to really believe in what you are doing yourself.  But there is still nothing else that I would rather have been doing.   What is helpful though, is to have some understanding, encouraging and supportive friends to share the ride with...  )

Most blogging Mums I know, (admittedly, not a gigantic number), worry to some extent about the time that it takes to blog and to 'blog-stalk'.  'Is it a waste of time?', we guiltily wonder.  I'd like to throw this thought out there, as an answer to those worries:   Through blogging we are merely re-introducing, with a modern take,  the cameraderie our mothers and grand-mothers enjoyed quite naturally and happily over the back fence everyday.  Everyone knew that you weren't supposed to be outside nattering all day; but the usual amount of chit-chat was seen as a positive and emotionally healthful endeavour.  I think it still is.  

freewebs.com

I like that women have a new way to connect; a way that suits our lives and modern living constraints.  

(Of course, a one-sided conversation with yourself doesn't do so very much to alleviate feelings of alone-ness, or add as much as it could in the way of encouragement or understanding either, so I think it's always nice to leave a comment on people's blogs too :)

PS

While looking for a picture to illustrate depression, I came across this photograph...

Photographed by Dorothea Lange

The caption read:  

'Migrant Mother 1936 This California farm worker, age 32, had just sold her tent and the tires off her car to buy food for her seven kids. The family was living on scavenged vegetables and wild birds.' 

I know it's really another post, but this photo..   

Gratitude, 

for what we have today.