The Catholic Church is obsessed with sacrifices.
The Lamb of God.
Jesus up there on the cross for our sins.
Having too many children vs. being “allowed” to use birth control and having enough money for those children born one year after another.
Sacrificing sex for celibacy.
Sacrificing the Bible because Catholic children learn to memorize the Catechism. “Where is God. God is everywhere.”
Sacrificing compassion to family members who want to play a favorite piece of music at their mother’s funeral. “That music doesn’t fit our Church guidelines for funeral music.”
Sacrificing women’s identity by denying them the right to serve as priests. …
Why are you interested in caring for Creativity, Ma’am? According to our records, you are attentive for some weeks and months and then you starve her.
I never starve the child. She’s the one who runs down to the basement and refuses to eat. So, I ignore her until she’s ready to come out. I really can’t stand her inconsistent whiny behavior.
Ma’am, Creativity needs to be nurtured. You can’t expect her to be perfect. You’ll always be disappointed if you do.
Forget perfection, I can’t stand those screechy practice sounds she makes. …
What surprises me most about my life right now is how lazy I want to be. My life has always been:
List, list, list.
Plan, plan, plan.
Goal, goal, goal.
Check, check, check.
Now I want to sleep at least 10 hours a night.
Say goodbye to clients, projects, goals, commitments.
“No,” the choir shouts. “Not you. Are you depressed?”
I am tired.
Someone else take charge.
Write the list.
Make the plans.
Clean up the messes.
I want to nap on my 1800's four-poster bed and wake up without an alarm clock.
I want to let the day unfold instead of washing, drying, ironing. …
The power has blown out.
Rain is pelting the roof, the windows, the driveway.
The new $12,000 generator sits sadly against the garage, not yet hooked up. The two propane gas tanks distance themselves from the generator. “Not yet, big boy,” they say.
The rain turns to sleet, angry and hard. A branch falls off the maple tree landing in a soggy spot in the yard.
The house is so quiet.
No furnace, no heat.
The pump that runs the septic system is out.
No humming from the refrigerator.
TV’s computers, iPads out of juice.
The utility outage app says no crews have been assigned. …
The drawing room of Fairchild Hall is packed. The couches have been moved against the walls. A makeshift stage is in the front of the room near the piano. Young women are sitting on the floor, guys are hanging by the three sets of French doors that open into the expansive room.
It’s a Thursday night in October and it is the annual Miss Fairchild contest, a talent pageant held every year in this oldest dormitory of a very old university.
I have been at college for six weeks, awed by the freedom, the conversations about issues like Vietnam, politics, feminism, and all the places people come from. My self-protective armor is softening. …
The sunsets over this New England pond are a gift. Gentle, glorious, restful.
On this sunset late afternoon, I heard fighting. Shouts and fucks two houses down. I got up from the chair and looked across the yard separating our decks.
Two men were pushing one another in the chest, then throwing face and gut punches with a feeble ferociousness. Women were screaming. So many fuck, fuck, fucks. And then a car peeled away.
How could this be happening at lovely Ella’s house? …
In business school I remember the word GROWTH. Grow your:
Growth is king, baby. It reminds me of that 1970’s Andrea True disco song, “More, More, More. How do you like it? How do you like it?”
I was a growth queen.
Grow the business.
Grow my client base.
Grow my skills.
Grow my options.
Grow my portfolio.
I was going to shave my head to let the white grow in. But decided to start with a pixie cut.
I learned from YouTube that sewing shears are good for hacking your hair. …
The 3 a.m. eureka.
Looking for proof.
Denying our yearnings.
Discrediting our hunches,
Waiting for someone else.
Hoping for a hero.
Worrying about mistakes.
Seeing through a warped lens.
Longing for the predictable.
The wind helping you go faster.
The unusual friendships.
The laughter from the unexpected.
The surprise that you are safe.
The relief that work is different.
The comfort that you are relevant. Running rather than being dragged. …
Is your work environment an energy-giver or and energy-taker?
When people talk about “good work environments” they usually talk about how people and leaders behave and what they believe.
But “good” work environments that support creativity, adaptability, change and resilience aren’t just about psychological safety, inclusion, management trust, or purpose. A whole lot of it is also about the physical environment of our workspaces.
Our physical environment affects our mindsets, our moods, our behaviors. Bright, colorful environments with plants and natural woods make us feel optimistic, creative, calm, open to possibilities. Sometimes even joyful.
So why do we have to work in such drab work environments? Why don’t we rebel for offices that boost our energy and our open-mindedness? …
“I’m tellin’ ya, these kids. There’s an inch of snow and they don’t go to school. Back when I was a kid in Pawtucket we’d be walkin’ to school with snow up to our waists.”
“Yeah, and there weren’t hardly any buses then, neither.”
“But we had great tv shows. That one with Archie Bunker. The wife and I watch reruns every night from eight to 10. They don’t make TV shows like that anymore.”
“And remember Jackie Gleason. That was a show.”
“Art Carney made that show… Did I tell ya about those fake Social Security calls going around? Took down the numbers this morning and went to the State Police to file a complaint. …