Monthly Archives: March 2025

A Background into Being Shy

Posted on by
Reply

            There was a perfectly valid explanation for why I was a socially awkward child.

            When you’ve been scolded for speaking in the presence of others, when you’ve been made fun of and teased mercilessly by family, you learn to keep your mouth shut.

When you are never asked which flavor of ice cream you prefer or what cereal you’d like, or even what game you’d like to play, you realize that your preferences have no standing within the family.

            Let me explain.

I was the middle child, with a brother who was fourteen months older and a sister who was seven years younger. In my mother’s eyes, neither of them could do no wrong, while everything I did or didn’t do was mercilessly scrutinized.

They got to decide where we went, what we ate, what games we played. Their birthdays were celebrated with homemade cakes, candles, and ice cream, while mine passed without notice.

In essence, I was invisible. Except when they needed me to perform some household chore. One of my many duties was to clean my brother’s bedroom, something I despised. I was also expected to dust off every single leaf on every indoor plant, at least once a week. It was a tedious, time-consuming job.

When the family sat in the front room to watch television, or gathered for a meal, I appeared as demanded, but only in body. I was not permitted to speak unless commanded, even when my siblings were having a great discussion about something of interest.

It was a rough way to grow up.

            There were some benefits to being invisible.

By the time I was five years old, I had already learned that not being seen was a blessing. If they didn’t see or hear me, I was safe from punishment supposedly deserved for saying or doing the wrong thing.

On the other hand, my invisibility kept me miserable: an unhappy child whose self-esteem was nonexistent.

            For some reason that to this day I don’t understand, my parents decided to enroll me in a private school Kindergarten. Back in the 1950s, Kindergarten was not mandatory. My brother hadn’t gone: his school years began with first grade. Because I was in a private school, my parents had to pay tuition.

We were a low-income family, struggling to have food on the table. Paying my tuition must have had an impact on the rest of the family.

            On the first day of school, even at my young age, I realized that I was academically behind my peers. I could not name all the colors, did not know shapes, knew no letters of the alphabet, and had no understanding of numbers. My teachers gave me different work than my peers.

While they worked on learning basic words, I colored and cut out shapes. (I forgot to mention that they had to teach me how to cut!) I was so far behind, that when small groups were formed, I sat alone.

This marked me as being the dumbest kid in the class. During free play, no one wanted to have anything to do with me. I spent all my time in the sandbox, creating roads for the metals trucks and cars.

One time I decided I’d swing, but no one would get off so I could have a turn. Or if they did get off, they’d hold the swing for a friend.

            Day after day I sat silently in my assigned desk. I didn’t answer when the teacher asked me a question, if she did so in front of the class. If she cornered me when I was alone, I managed a whispered response, but only a word or two.

I still remember my teacher whispering that I would overcome being shy. She was wrong.

            When Kindergarten finally ended, I knew a lot of things that I hadn’t known before class began. I now knew colors, shapes, numbers, and letters. I could hold a pencil correctly and write my name, the alphabet and numbers. I could draw shapes and color within the lines. But I could not speak out loud and I had no friends.

            It was a terrible way to begin one’s academic career.

            As I grew older and moved from grade to grade, I understood what was required to score high enough to satisfy my parents. I did all the things that my teachers demanded and completed all assignments to the best of my ability.

When called upon to respond in front of my peers, something happened inside me: my mouth froze and no sounds were emitted. No matter how hard I tried, I could not muster the strength to squeak out a response. It was embarrassing.

            By junior high I had developed a voice, but it was a quiet one. I still had no friends. I could not approach someone and initiate a conversation. If I neared a group on the playground, I stood silent, even when I had something to offer.

            In high school I made my first real friend. She was a loner like me. I don’t remember her name, but I do recall the hours spent on the playground, talking about all kinds of things.

This was a revelation. Someone cared what I thought and really wanted to know and understand my opinions!

Imagine how liberating that was. This friendship allowed me to grow, so that by the

time college began, I had overcome some of the paralyzing fear I had of public speaking. I could answer in front of others, but only if the class was small. If I felt I truly knew something more than my peers, I could muster the strength to voice an opinion.

I’d like to report that even in my seventies, I am no longer shy, but that is not true.

I’m comfortable in small groups of close friends, but still nervous when emersed in groups of people who do not. I struggle when at writing conferences and workshops where I am with ten to fifteen strangers who will critique my writing and then express my critique of theirs.

It’s painfully hard.

If in a situation where there are lots of individuals who either I don’t know or barely know, I find a corner in which to plop down. And then there I remain until time to leave.

People who have known me for a long time don’t believe that I am shy. That’s because I feel safe with them. I believe that they want to know what I think, and so I can relax and be me.

I love being with those friends because they treat me as a person of worth.

If only I had felt this growing up. Imagine how different I might have turned out!

Born to Shine

Posted on by
Reply

Imagine how different the world would be if every child, no matter how rich or poor, heard how wonderful they were on a regular basis. Think about how they’d shine each night when their guardian tucked them in and spoke those three words.

Perhaps there’d be no bullies because, if you feel worthy, you have no need to belittle others. Consider how brave everyone would be, not afraid to try new things, no fear of being rejected, no worries about being pushed aside.

When I was young, I never felt special. In fact, I was repeatedly told how useless I was, how stupid I was, how inferior I was to my older brother. Never once did my parents praise me, even for something as small as cleaning my room.

I often wonder how different I might have been if, just once, my mom had said that I was born to shine. Would my attitude toward school have been different? My grades better?

When meeting people, would I have had confidence in my abilities?

I offered praise to my own children, when deserved. I gave smiled and spoke words that showed my pride in their accomplishments. I enrolled them in educational classes offered at the library and other organizations. They took numerous swim lessons and played a variety of sports.

I helped with schoolwork and volunteered at their schools. I was team mom in little league, a scorekeeper in baseball and as a soccer coach and referee.

I did these things because I wanted to share those experiences with them, but also it was my way of saying that I was proud of who they were.

Born to Shine. Powerful words. My children grew up to be wonderful adults. They all graduated from college and contribute to society in a variety of ways. They each, in some fashion, are helping future generations shine.

If I could go back in time, instead of reading aloud books as I cradled my kids in my lap, I would tell them that they were born to shine. As I watched them struggle in sports or academics, I’d say those words and then watch the effect they had.

I don’t recall receiving a single word of praise or encouragement from my parents, Nevertheless, I told myself that I was born to shine. Perhaps not in those exact words, but the message was the same.

I sometimes thought I was lying to myself, but I persevered nonetheless. Because my parents made me feel inferior to my siblings, when I was feeling down, I’d think of the things that I could do better than them.

For example, I was the better athlete during a time when girls played few sports. I learned languages quickly and read everything I could about different places and cultures. I was an excellent math student, my grades so strong that I got a full-ride scholarship to any college in California.

Despite telling myself that I was able to accomplish anything, I struggled with low self-esteem and even lower self-confidence. My brother was smarter and got better grades. My sister was prettier and loved to dress like a girl. They were both cherished by my mom, while I was just there, a slave to clean house and do laundry.

What if my parents had told me I was born to shine? Those words would have meant more to me than a bucket of gold. I would have known that they saw something valuable in me. My self-esteem would have risen. I would have liked myself better.

Born to shine. I wish that every parent would say those words to their kids, no matter how old. Over and over, look them in the eye and say born to shine. Pat them on the back, give them a hug, turn it into a song. Say the words weekly, daily, hour by hour.

Slowly, ever so slowly the world would change.

Born to shine. Power.

Despair Comes Again

Posted on by
Reply

Crispy, crunchy bits on the floor

Remnants of what was once me

Speak in sequestered voice

Whispers for none to hear

Memories masked in flimsy gauze

Distort into moaning miseries

Slices of soul oozing through my eyes

Trek along determined trails

Hollowness hails each morning

Darkness so deep that no light gleams

Heaviness haunts my limbs

Paralyzes rational thought

No hope, no light

Nothing but everlasting midnight

Covers my heart

Entrapped in cement, I wail

Fascination with Trees

Posted on by
Reply

I can’t recall a time when I was not drawn to trees. They amaze me.

Day after day they change.

Imagine something that grows taller and wider at such an incrementally slow pace that it is invisible to the eye.

They change with the seasons. Some burst into new life when the sun begins to shine in spring. Tiny green buds sprout forth, signaling the wonders that are to come. Those buds become leaves. All kinds of leaves, in all shapes and sizes and colors.

When I was young, I collected leaves, especially the ones from maple trees. Such broad leaves! So green in spring and summer, but when fall arrived, they morphed into shades from red to orange to brown. I loved them all.

I miss maple trees. They grew in the woods behind our house in Ohio, but not here in California where I now live. I was disappointed to discover that I would most likely never see them again.

It wasn’t just their leaves that I loved, but also their seed pods. They were shaped like wings and if you tossed them as high above your head as you could manage, they would twirl down to the ground. I did this over and over, season after season, never growing tired of the display even well into my teen years when I should have moved on to other things.

In Ohio all trees shed their leaves in the fall and remain bare throughout the cold winters. Even when quite young I understood that winter was a time of rest, a time to store up energy to be ready to burst into action at the first sign of spring.

It was the same for me. In the winter I huddled inside where it was warm, venturing outside only when bundled from head to toe. Some days my breath froze, rising to rest on my eyebrows and hair. My teeth chattered and I thought my fingers and toes would crack and fall off.

We moved to California after my ninth grade year. The seasons here are not as differentiated as in Ohio. What we call winter is nothing to people who live in the Midwest, North or East, for there it snows and temperatures can drop well below freezing.

I’ve lived in California so long that now I think it’s cold if it’s below sixty.

Because our seasons are not as sharply delineated, not all trees go through the autumnal changes. Looking out my window right now, in mid-February, I some trees are just beginning to grow buds, some have sprouted their leaves.

Fir trees, meanwhile, stay green throughout the year.

Flowers have begun blooming, primarily roses, which seemed to never stop during the winter.

Trees that produce fruit amaze me. They are so generous, so thoughtful, even when their human caretakers are less then vigilant. Day after day apples and pears and oranges and other wonderful things ripen, all for our consumption.

Some fruits require a little work to get inside to the meat, while some don’t.

I love fruit that you can bite into and have your mouth filled with sweetness, the juice spilling onto your chin. Every time I eat an apple or pear, I am thankful that I am blessed with having such a marvelous thing to eat. On the other hand, I won’t eat peaches because I can’t stand the fuzzy outer wrapper. If someone is kind enough to peal them for me, then I’m happy. Same with mangoes.

Whenever when walking around my neighborhood,  and I see fruit growing on trees, I want to reach up, pull off just one and take a bite. But I don’t. I don’t know how needy the owners are. Perhaps that apple is their only sustenance of the day. Perhaps the orange is their only access to vitamin C. I would not want to steal that treasure from them. So I walk on.

In our neighborhood there are not as many trees as when we first moved in fifty years ago. Some have died. Some have been taken down by their owners. Some removed by the city because their roots were growing into the pipes or raising sidewalks to a dangerous level.

I miss all the once grand, sprawling trees that hung out over the road creating a marvelous canopy! So beautiful. Now gone. The young trees that were planted as replacements are just now beginning to grow taller and wider, reaching out over the street.

We have the pleasure of driving through forests on whenever we our way get into the mountains. I love to look at the trees, how magically they grow out of rock and cling to the sides of granite cliffs as if they were meant to be there. When the sun shines on them they are a wonderfully deep green.  They sing with life! And when you get close enough you can take in their rich aroma, like sticking your head in a cedar chest from long ago.

When they are covered with snow it is a picture straight from Christmas cards. I imagine myself riding on a horse-drawn sleigh under their boughs and having dollops of snow fall on my head as I lean back laughing. I have never done this, but nevertheless I can place myself in the scene.

When I was young I did not wear glasses. Trees frightened me because I thought each and every one would fall on my head, killing me. In fourth grade my teachers demanded that I get glasses. I remember the bus ride home, after getting my first pair of glasses, looking out the window and seeing that the leaning trees no longer leaned! It was a miracle.

Trees defy the passage of time as they remind us of all they have to offer.

I hope that I will never lose my ability to appreciate the wonderful gift that each tree is.