Sunday Muse - “This Wasn’t in the Script!”

You’re looking down for the first time at that adorable, vulnerable, heart-stopping little face - the one you waited anxiously to see for 9 long months. Your heart is swirling with feelings of love and gratitude; you’re exuberant; you’re in awe. You’re filled with dreams of the future - in your mind’s eye, you look down the racetrack of time and you see, 18 years hence, a young man or woman on the threshold of responsible adulthood, about to grasp life by the horns and exceed your every expectation with verve and aplomb. Or, you’re partway down the track, and though things haven’t gone quite exactly as you dreamed, well, hey, there’s still time to get to the peak of parenting Everest.

I’ve been there (5 times). I’m still on the track. And if I could sum up one key lesson of being a parent with ideals and dreams of the future, it’s this: gently lay aside your script.

A friend of ours, struggling with a wayward teen-aged son, expressed his dismay at the dashed hopes of a thriving family life with this poignant statement: “this wasn’t in the script!” All the solid principles and strong examples and good parenting practices over years did not “produce” what the couple had hoped for. Yet, we all look around and see great kids that somehow spring out of utterly dysfunctional families.

According to the script, if we do the right things, we should get the right results. Life is fair, isn’t it? Sadly, no. Wonderful parents may have a child suffer with cancer, while terrible parents end up with kids that feel no pain. But think of the flip side - all the awful screw-ups you’ve had as a parent, and the relatively small impact on your resilient little ones. Sometimes it’s really good that life isn’t fair!

According to the script, things should happen in a reasonable fashion. But those in the saddle for any period of time soon discover that kids are not calculators - you may press 3+4, and then get 13. Because kids are little people, and they aren’t entirely rational (are you?), and they have their own ideas, thank you very much. They even know that you’re expecting 7, and so they’ll deliberately give you 13. If you’re a control freak, you’ll rapidly find out how well that works - kids can only be “scripted” to a limited degree (call that “voice of experience”).

According to the script, if we watch over our kids diligently, they’ll remain safe and healthy. Not so. In the blink of an eye, your comfortable little world can go topsy-turvy. Over a few months one summer, we trooped 4 of our boys consecutively into the emergency room for various self-inflicted wounds - they were about to issue us a Frequent Flyer pass! After years of shepherding these delightful and exasperating offspring, you begin to trade in your high ideals for more tangible goals - like daily survival!

Aim high - yes! Embrace lofty goals and ambitions - absolutely! But don’t forget that life is full of curveballs, you have limited control of the variables, and only rarely do you get dealt a hand full of aces (my house is full of jokers, of whom I am chief).

There’s an awful lot of ad-libbing that goes on even with a well-written script. If you’re on this parenting adventure, be ready to do a lot of editing of expectations and don’t be surprised at the plot turns you never anticipated!

Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist

It’s finally sunny out today. The winter has been long, and now I can walk out in the yard and see spring’s first flowers, some emerging green, and…my shadow.

My shadow.

It’s always there, that shadow. A darker projection of me. Stalking me. Talking to me. Following me around like a black cloud, ephemeral but inescapable.

Measuring every thought, word, and deed by a club-shaped yardstick. That “other” Steve Woodruff. The perfectionist.

He’s really starting to piss me off.

Restless and never satisfied, this shadow knows only one unreachable standard. Who can argue with the standard of perfection? But to reach it? Beginnings are insufficient - only final attainment matters. To try is indispensable, but to fail is inevitable.

“Hey, thanks for coming. Unfortunately, you don’t measure up. Like, never. Have a good day!”

Chased by the shadow, I’ve managed to drive forward relentlessly; some would say, quite successfully. But not according to that alter ego. He can’t be satisfied. He has taken the position of hostile witness, prosecutor, judge, and jury. In that courtroom, all defenses are in vain. Five steps forward, no steps back, or you’re through.

Having high standards is a good thing. Being addicted to perfectionism, however, really sucks. It sucks the joy out of living.

It is time to dismiss this winter-like apparition, this tyranny of displeasure, and walk out into the springtime, shutting the door on its oppressive presence. Oh, to enjoy the sunshine while ignoring the shadow! To be imperfect and perfectly OK with that! Surely there must be a place for high ideals and imperfect reals, for moving forward without gazing backward, for holiness without heaviness!

“Get thee behind me, Shadow!” Ooops, I guess that’s sort of stating the obvious. Just stay back there and shut up, will ya? Time is short, and I’ve wasted enough of it…

(image credit)

February Fun

Keeping up with our light grey theme, here is the new/used Jeep Grand Cherokee, taking its place next to the new Mazda 6.

And here is what our house looks like after a beautiful February snowfall.

In Praise of Puddingstone

Surrounded by vastly superior enemy forces, dogged by dwindling supplies and steady desertions, one of our greatest military generals was confronted with the prospect of imminent surrender…or annihilation. In the final desperate hours, however, he rallied his troops to a smashing victory by defying the invader’s demands with the cry, “None can resist the fury of our muskets, our bayonets, our puddingstones!”

Ummm…I made that up. But any patriots or redcoats who did battle in northern New Jersey most likely did marvel at the purple and white rock we know around here as puddingstone.

Perhaps they knew of the Hertfordshire blend of puddingstone, from the mother country in England (some academic stuff here for you rockhounds). Or, maybe they had marched through Roxbury, Massachusetts and seen that variety. But all you need to know about how those inferior brands match up to our lovely NJ puddingstone can be summed up as follows:

Our conglomerates are made up of eye-catching purplish/red sedimentary rock embedded with glowing white quartz - sometimes in lumps, sometimes in lines, sometimes both. Theirs looks like - well, concrete.

Here in Boonton, NJ, where I live, purple puddingstone is everywhere. On the ground. In foundations and chimneys. In forests, fields, and yards. And, topping stone walls.

Hiking in the mountains, you’ll come across individual puddingstones, or outcroppings, or huge swaths of white-spotted purplish rock. Even the garter snakes seem to know the best place to catch a few rays (image credit).

Purple puddingstone is not restricted to north Jersey - some spots in southern NY state (e.g., Schunemunk Mountain) also are so favored. This ridge connects up with Bearfort Mountain ridge in NJ, which also has outcroppings. There may be sightings in northeastern PA as well, but this I cannot verify, as I have not yet found a map detailing exactly where this rock begins and ends its reign.

However, in my yard, purple puddingstone reigns supreme. It is built into my walls, my borders, my chimneys…and one rather large specimen perches on its earthy throne at the edge of a flower bed.

No, puddingstone is not soon destined to replace diamond as the rock of choice signifying undying love. Nor is it likely to inspire striking military victories. But all-in-all, it’s a pretty nice side benefit to life in New Jersey, and if you don’t have a puddingstone on your shelf somewhere, you ought to swing by this part of the country and pick one up!

Go Paul Potts!

Like many around the world, I have been taken up by the wonderful, unfolding saga of Paul Potts, unassuming mobile phone salesman who suddenly burst on the scene with a supernova of singing ability on Britain’s Got Talent.

If you haven’t seen the sequence of videos from this stirring event, here they are, in order:

First Audition:

Semi-final Performance:

Final Performance:

Winner Announced, and Encore:

Why has Paul Potts captured the imagination of so many? And, what makes up the core of Brand Paul?

It’s the story. There are many good tenors in the world. But here’s a Joe Nobody, with crooked teeth, unimpressive bearing, and a humble heart. He’s been bullied growing up, lacks confidence, seems to be going nowhere…but hidden under all of that is a wonderful talent. It’s irresistible. You have to be utterly heartless not to be rooting for a guy like this.

Normally, a somewhat overweight, nondescript fellow with a shy smile and a clear discomfort in the spotlight would not be chosen as a brand icon. But it’s that very thing - the humble packaging - that makes Brand Paul compelling. Some strapping Italian lothario belting out operatic notes on-stage - so what? But Everyman Paul? - hey, maybe there’s hope for all the rest of us!

I hope he remains Paul Potts, Everyman, and chooses to spend his days inspiring others. God knows there are millions beaten down by the (literal and figurative) bullies of life, and we need the Paul Pottses of the world to remind us that it’s worth taking the risk to bring forth whatever gifts we have, naysayers be damned. Go Paul!

The Man Behind the Curtain

Who is Steve Woodruff, anyway?

One of the Best Galaxy Shots Ever

M-65. Fabulous!

Why we Love Springtime in Boonton

Because…

it’s just…

downright…

beautiful!

Billions and Billions and…

It’s an awfully big universe.

This is just a piece. The full picture is here. That’s a lot of galaxies!

And, of course, that’s just one corner of the visible universe.

Absolutely mind-boggling…

Thanks, Mom

I know what it is to hold a longed-for little boy - newly released from his safe little home of 9 months - and feel the intense, overwhelming love of a parent who would give all in a heartbeat for that tiny little life.

I’ve known that joy five times.

And I’ve known the sacrifices that come with trying to mold and guide and protect and encourage those little boys, in their journey to young manhood.

And I’ve seen the end result. The fruit of all that labor. Not in my household; not yet. But in my mother’s heart.

She and Dad poured themselves out for four little boys. They did without. They stuck it out as a couple, and made it work as a family. We weren’t poor, but we certainly weren’t wealthy. We were average, I thought.

No, we weren’t, as I later found out. We were blessed.

We didn’t make it easy for my parents. We scrapped, while they scrimped. We got into scrapes, while they scraped by. But they had the long view. And, as it turned out, they produced four men who grew to respect them, love them, and love each other.

She stayed with us during those weary years when the house was full of toddler noise and baby diapers. Later, she taught 3rd grade for many years, impacting many students who would come back later, as adults, and share their memories. And, as she never tires of reminding us, in the early years, before we could afford a dryer, the wash would be put out on the clothesline in the dead of winter to be “freeze-dried.” Ah, those were the days!

Mom is on her own now - Dad was 17 years her senior, and passed away some years ago. But, still living in that same house where we grew up, she is not alone. Her sons keep a close watch on her. Her many grandchildren love her, and she them. She now enjoys the fruits of all that labor. Setting an example for us that are still struggling to keep our kids from . . . well, being like we were!

When Mom eventually takes her last breath (and may that yet be a long way off!), and leaves a grieving but grateful set of her biggest fans behind, the world at large will not publicize her life’s work. Unlike many of our celebrities, whose noisy contributions center around sleaze, selfishness, and vanity, Mom quietly contributed something far more valuable and enduring to society.

She poured herself out, into the lives of others. Her children. Her grandchildren. Her students. Her neighbors.

That’s a real legacy.

Thanks, Mom.