Everyday inspiration

I'm not a world-traveler who finds inspiration in ancient ruins, artful masterpieces, or in architectural—or natural—wonders.

I'm also not one of the fortunate few privileged to find inspiration in luculent discourse with the likes of Maya Angelou or other great orators of our time. (Although I have heard in person the likes of Kurt Vonnegut. And David Sedaris. More than once.)

No, I don't get my inspiration from such high-brow—and high-cost—pleasures. Yet.

Instead, I find inspiration—the impetus to be bigger, better, and more than I am—in everyday things. Things such as these:

Words. Exacting words, strung together to make profound sentences. Better yet when several such sentences are strung together for impactful, unforgettable paragraphs. It happens. It inspires.

More words. In the form of the right sermon at the right time. The kind of sermon that makes me glad I put down the Sunday paper, got ready and got out the door. Sometimes sermons can make me wish I'd stayed home. Other times—the inspirational times—they fill my body and soul and make me ever-so thankful I have faith.

Even more words. These in the form of comments. From readers, from you. Things like, "So many of your posts make me laugh and tear up." And "I really do enjoy reading your posts to start my day!", "You are the kind of Grandma I wish I would have had when I was a child without any grandparents", "Love that you inspire us with words and pictures... make us think about what is really important...", and so many more. They inspire. You inspire. You make me want to give more, to be more.

Music. Live performances are life-affirming, but they're few and far between anymore. So I'm inspired by the vast variety of recorded options, from this to this. To this, and this, and this, and this. And others. So, so many others. Even more likely, though, I'm inspired when hearing Jim channel Randy Travis. When he thinks I'm not listening. When he thinks I still don't like his favorite country star.

The mountain outside my door. Pikes Peak is my compass, always to my west. Always an anchor. Always proof that I'm home.

My neighbors across the street. Who are attempting to grow a vineyard on their massive lot. Smackdab in the city. Suprisingly, it's working. Surprisingly, that inspires me, encourages me to ignore naysayers who doubt what I can—and will—achieve.

My oldest daughter. Who struggles with finding the right path, trying out this one and that one. She keeps moving, keeps trying, keeps pushing on. Keeps working to create a path uniquely her own. Keeps encouraging others to do the same. Keeps smiling. Keeps believing.

My middle daughter. Who struggles with the balancing act of kids versus career. Choosing one, then the other, then the other. She makes it work. And keeps choosing—what's right for her, what's right for them, what's right for her family, what's right for her well-being. Not all at the same time, but all at the right time.

And my youngest. Who often just plain struggles. Yet when she does, when the struggle becomes too much, too rankling of her soul and her spirit, she leaps—against everyone's words of caution—and she always, always, ends up soaring. And she always ends up inspiring me to do the same.

Most of all, of course, there's Bubby and there is Mac. The two who, innocently and obliviously, inspire me to be bigger, to be better, to be more than I am. The two who have inspired me to be—and helped me become—far more than I was before.

Photo by Alison Baum

This post linked to Grandparents Say It Saturday.

Today's question:

Where do you find everyday inspiration?

5 things I used to be...and one I still am

Because of various opportunities presented to me in the past few weeks, I find myself again and again promoting the notion that I'm qualified for this or that because of things I used to do, things I used to be. More and more I feel like I'm singing an off-key version of Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days, trying to convince the world I once was great...back in the day.

Despite no longer being things I tout, I keep telling myself it's okay to utilize them when appropriate, that the sum of my parts, my past, make me who I am today.

The one I've been utilizing of late is that I used to be the special sections editor at the newspaper. Although a writer long before that, it's the "editor" title that seems to make people take notice. Little do most realize that the "editor" title was just that: a title. No powerful abilities, no magical results. Except, of course, when it comes to impressing folks who might open a door for a writer. So for that thing I used to be, I am truly thankful (but mostly thankful it's no longer something I'm required to be).

There are plenty of others things I used to be.

I used to be shy. Achingly shy. Turn-my-stomach-into-knots-and-render-my-voice-mute-in-the-face-of-strangers-and-authority shy. Until I had children to protect and support in the face of teachers, doctors, coaches, bad boyfriends and more. Being crowned editor helped, too, as with that title came the obligation to speak up and protect my people and publications, my writers and our writings in the face of the newspaper and advertising gods that be...or were.

I used to be one to work with numbers, not words. I worked for mortgage companies, for a major auto finance company. I learned to hate numbers. But I also learned to pay attention to them—and to be a formidable force when it comes to securing a mortgage, even tougher when buying a car.

I used to be a licensed nail tech. Am I now someone with a penchant for perfectly polished fingers and toes? Far from it. But it made me less ashamed of my hands. The hands I used to hide at all awkward costs because of hateful comments made by a sister. Not because my hands became beautifully manicured, but because it's impossible to work on someone else's while hiding your own. So I stopped hiding them. And stopped worrying about things my sister said. And stopped thinking such things mattered at all.

I used to be a Girl Scout Leader. Did it leave me craftier and wiser than the average mama bear? No. But it did give me three life principles I regularly fall back on: 1) Make new friends, but keep the old; 2) Be prepared; and 3) Right over left, left over right, makes a knot neat and tidy and tight.

As the post title says, those are five things I used to be. Five things I am no more.

And the one I still am? Simple: I am a mother and wife, the one thing I've been longer than any other thing.

But that's two, you say? No. Having been pregnant when Jim and I married, the mom-and-wife things go hand-in hand, are one. And it's that one that I've been for the majority of my life and above all else. Fortunately that one thing expanded to become many. The mother of babies, then toddlers, adolescents and teens became a mother of adults. All very different things, but very much the same. The mother of adults become a mother-in-law. Then, of course, that mother expanded (as did her heart) when she became a grandmother...partner to a grandfather. Still a mother and wife.

All the things I once was made a difference, but it's the one I still am that truly defines me, that matters the most. The one that always will matter most. The one I always will be.

Photo: That's my peeps. That's what matters.

Today's question:

What did you used to be? What will you always be?

Grandma angst

TEEN Lisa, left, with former BFF NormaAh, the teen years. The insecurity, the drama, the distorted image of yourself and your place in the world. The overwhelming angst of it all.

Thankfully we grow up, we become adults, we leave all that behind.

Until we become grandmothers.

In many ways, being a grandma is much like being a teen. It's rife with insecurity, jealousy, a need for acceptance and assurance from those we adore that we're good enough and that they really do like us as much as we like them.

Angst, once again, in all its ugliness.

Like teens, grandmas spend an inordinate amount of time pining over another. We're thrilled when the phone rings and it's a grandchild. We're distraught if the phone calls are few and far between.

We are always on the lookout for gifts to buy, cards to send, activities and ideas to share. We delight in the sharing, thrilled with the approval expressed by a giggle, smile, hoot, holler and hurray of "Thanks, Grandma!"

GRANDMA Lisa, with Baby Mac and Bubby We take more photos than we'll ever print then plead for more directly from the source. We keep copies on the computer, in scrap books, in brag books, on desktops and walls. And we point them all out to whomever, whenever, we can.

We want to hug and touch and squeeze the little ones with every fiber of our being. And when we're apart, phantom pains plague our days until we can once again hold them in our arms.

We profess our love in myriad ways and anxiously await the love to be returned. When that love isn't demonstrated in return as quickly or as often as we crave, we start to worry another may have taken our place. Another grandmother, in particular. Jealousy eats at our very core, but like a prideful teen, we grin and bear it in the face of our perceived nemesis, then spend hours licking our wounds in private.

We primp, preen and diet with the determination of narcissistic teens in hopes of being physically fit — and remaining so for years to come — to join in the games and activities of our youthful dears.

And we once again walk the thin line with Mom, balancing between wanting to say exactly what's on our mind but knowing she can keep us from hanging out with our heart's desire if what's on our mind upsets her, questions her authority, her ability. Only this time the mom with whom we verbally tangle and tussle isn't our birth mother, but the mother we birthed — our daughter. Or our daughter-in-law, wife of the father we birthed — our son. Crossing the line with either may result in being put on restriction, disallowed from seeing our grandchildren.

So we occasionally bite our tongues, bide our time. Which is okay, because through years of yearning and learning, we now know we won't die if we don't have our say, if we don't get our way.

And that right there is the difference.

As teens, we were extreme, always and overly dramatic. We wanted to be the one and only who made another's world go round. And every single moment felt to be one of do or die.

As grandmas, though, we've learned to temper the angst.

We accept that we won't always get what we want, that moments of insecurity will pass, that expressions of love from a child may wax and wane but that the love itself always remains, will always be there. Regardless of the frequency of phone calls made or received, the number of cards mailed, the piles of photos taken and shared.

Regardless of the amount of time spent together.

And, most fortunately, regardless of the amount of time spent apart.

Today's question:

What has been your most recent teen-like act or behavior, positive or not?

This post linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

A grandma by any other name?

Unique boys, normal namesMy name, Lisa, was the No. 1 name given to baby girls during the '60s, according to the Social Security Administration. Which means there are a lot of Grandma Lisas out there. Or soon will be.

The decade before, Mary was the No. 1 name for females. One glance at the list of Grilled Grandmas confirms there certainly are a lot of Grandma Marys — as well as oodles of variations on the name — out there, too.

For both decades as well as the decades before, names in the top 1000 — which according to SSA make up 73 percent of all names for a given period — included more than a few handfuls of Rebeccas, Debras, Patricias, Katherines, Karens, Lauries, Susans, and others (you know who you are), along with variations on all of the above.

Which means, as folks of those decades make up the current generation of grandmas, there are lots of grandmas going by all those names.

Pretty normal, common, reasonable names ... for babies as well as for grandmas.

What I've wondered of late, though, is how normal, common, and reasonable today's crop of names may be ... for babies as well as for the grandmas — and grandpas — they will eventually become.

Take a look at a few of those in the top 1000 for 2010 (which, like I mentioned above, are 73 percent of names given for the year):

For little girls and future grandmas, you've got the basic names such as Isabella, Ava, and Abigail. But then there's Yamileth, Xiamara, Milagros, and more unpronounceable monikers. And those aren't even the ones at the very bottom of the list.

Little boys and future grandpas don't fare much better. Sure, there will always be Jacobs, Daniels, Michaels, and more. New additions, though, include Yair, Keon, Pranav, and Legend. Legend? Are they kidding?

I just don't get it.

But then again, I'm of the year that Cyril and Consuelo were at the bottom of the list. While likely seemingly odd way back in the day, those are now pretty much accepted and common names in the general population. So maybe fifty years from now, when today's newborns become tomorrow's grandparents, Grandma Xiamara won't seem all that strange after all.

Of course, after school years plagued by having to correct others on the pronunciation of her atrocious name, little Xiamara just may change that name the very second she becomes an adult. To something that rolls a little more easily off the tongue, something more pleasant to say and spell and hear.

Something simple.

Something like Lisa.

Today's question:

If you had the opportunity to name a newborn entering your family something completely of your own choosing, what name would you choose?

Still haven't found what I'm looking for

I'm looking for something and having one <cuss> of a time finding it. And it's making me crazy.

Comments from this post last week led me to an idea for a new post that I can't wait to share, one related to that one, one telling you of something I have done that you likely would never believe. To assuage your sure disbelief, I plan to include in the post proof of my claim. Proof of something awesome. Proof that comes by way of a certificate.

But, alas, I can't find that <cuss> certificate.

And it's making me certifiably crazy.

When you live in one place for a long time, you inevitably end up with things you'd forgotten about stashed away in spots you'd forgotten about. But Jim and I haven't lived in this house very long, and I've been pretty good about organizing where things go now that the nest is empty and all spaces are Jim's and mine for stashing.

Yet I still haven't found what I'm looking for. And, like I said, it's making me crazy. Especially because I've found everything related to our family history except that <cuss> certificate, unexpected finds such as:

• The hospital wristbands worn by each of my girls when they were newborns

• The baggie of tissue-wrapped teeth the Tooth Fairy removed from under pillows (all in one baggie so I don't know which teeth belong to which daughter)

• The Congratulations on Your Baby Girl card Jim's stepmom and now-deceased dad sent when Andie was born ... with the bicentennial silver dollar they included still taped to the card

• A collection of fingerpainted artwork created by my girls when they were toddlers, using homemade fingerpaints whipped up by yours truly

• Decades worth of handwritten letters from my dear grandma who recently passed away

• The "proof of account paid in full" documents showing we finally, after seven years, paid off Brianna's birth, having had no health insurance at the time

• Every paper related to the seemingly millions of dollars in PLUS loans taken out for the sake of providing our daughters considerable educations

• A manila envelope stuffed full of newspaper clippings and memorial booklets related to the explosion of the Challenger, postmarked 1986 and sent from the Rocky Mountain News

• The 1988, 1989, and 1990 calendars I was missing from my calendar stash

• Three Certificates of Award to my oldest brother from his high school that certify him in 1977 as: 1st place for senior that skips the most and gets away with it, 2nd place for senior class clown, and three-way tie for 2nd place for senior with the most leadership (Don't ask...)

• An undeveloped disposable camera from Megan's wedding, courtesy of Jim's brother

• The commencement program from when Jim's sister and mom graduated from the community college ... at the same time

• The "Beauty Culture/Manicurist" certificate awarded to me in 1991 upon completing the required number of beauty school hours to hold hands with strangers do manicures and apply artificial nails

• The undated Certificate of Appreciation my Girl Scout troop presented Jim for being the troop's Cookie Manager during cookie-sale season

And more. So much more.

But no certificate of the awesomeness I wish to share with you. Nowhere.

At least not yet.

It has now officially become my mission: I will find that certificate.

Then I will write a post about it.

And you will think it's awesome.

Once I find the <cuss> thing.

Once I stop considering and crying over all the memorable things I have found on my mission.

Today's question:

Fill in the blank: Something I unfortunately lost and never found again is ____________.

12 things I've never done (and likely never will)

I have never:

1. Jumped off a diving board

2. Worn contacts

3. Had my wisdom teeth pulled

4. Been proposed to (marriage was a decision for Jim and me)

5. Gone blonde

6. Gone snow skiing ... despite living in "Ski Country USA"

7. Had a one-night stand

8. Said to friends, family, or co-workers, "You wanna go out for a smoke?"

9. "Tried" to get pregnant

10. Used the allotted one phone call to be bailed out of jail

11. Ordered squid

12. Told the bank teller, "I'd like that in all hundreds, please."

Photo: flickr/Postcard Farm

Today's question:

What would be on your list?

Ripple effect

One of the questions I regularly ask the Grilled Grandmas is "What do you most want to pass along to your grandchildren?". I'm continually impressed by their thoughtful answers because in considering that question myself, I find it difficult to narrow it down, to sum up in a few words what I want the sons and daughters of my daughters to have and to do and to be.

I want to pass along to my grandchildren so many things, some that I have, some that I don't, some that I wish I had mastered.

I want to pass along the traits of faithfulness and thankfulness. I want them to know they’re loved and worthy and important. I want them to have memories of incredible moments and the motivation to create more. I want to pass along a love for themselves as well as a love for others, regardless of how alike or different others may be. I want to pass along the desire — and the ability — to make the most of the gifts they have been given.

I want to pass along to my grandchildren all that and more. Ultimately, though, what I most want to pass along to my grandchildren is life and all the beauty and blessings and potential wrapped up in that. I want them — my extended family — to be and to continue to be. To continue the family line, the family tree. I cringe at the idea that everything Jim and I put into the family we’ve created could have ended with our most immediate progeny. No, I want our family tree to have strong roots and abundant shoots going forward, and for those roots and shoots to make a difference in the world.

I want the lives of my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren and so on to matter and make a difference in the world, partially to better themselves, to better the world around them. But in all honesty — and in all selfish realization — I also want those things partially so my life will have mattered, to know that I made a difference.

I have no illusions that I’ve shaken the world up in any way. I do believe, though, that through my children and their children and their children, my jiggles and jerks from beginning to end have had and will continue to have a ripple effect. My words, my actions, my love have touched my children, who then have gone out into the world and touched others with their words, actions, love. Then the ripples continue as those touched in turn touch others, matter to others, make a difference to others. My ripples grow larger, wider, eternal. That won’t happen if the family doesn’t continue, if life is not passed down, again and again and again.

Yes, I want to pass along love, independence, fortitude, passion, compassion, sympathy, empathy and more. Those are the things of life, of living. For better or for worse, those are intertwined with pain, heartache, fear, longing, loss — life’s unsavory bits that make what's on the other side of the coin all the more sweet and appreciated and worth every utterance of gratitude and thanks.

So, regardless of reason, justification, or explanation, when I truly consider what I want to pass along to my grandchildren, the bottom line is this: I most want to pass down to them life and the gumption to make their fair share of ripples — possibly even a big splash now and then, too — with that life.

Photo: stock.xchng/biewoef

Today's question:

Whose ripples from the past continue to impact your present?