Dealing with Change

Like most people, I don’t like change. Yes, change is inevitable. Yes, change is the only way to improve and grow. Life is like a soiled diaper, if you don't change it, it stinks. Blah, blah, blah. I know it, I accept it, and as a self-improvement writer, I even write about it. 

But it doesn’t mean I like it.

Recently, when something DIDN’T change I performed a little happy dance.  I work as a public relations specialist at Royal Neighbors of America, one of the largest women-led life insurers in the U.S.  I am constantly creating a number of articles, press releases, web content, and blogs.  Don’t get me wrong. I love my job and the people I work with. But like most workplaces, especially one that is as highly regulated as life insurance, there is a chain of command. Many eyes see my work, comment on it, change it, and send it back to me for revisions. 

However, once in a while something wonderful happens – nothing. My article comes back unscathed. It's sheer ecstasy when a bit of my copy emerges unsullied from the strike-throughs on the track-changes tool on Word. Or better yet, it comes back with a happy, little bubble comment that says something like “great” or “we loved this”. It makes the whole process seem worthwhile. An unaltered document is like a victory to me.  On the rare occasion my work is accepted as is (rare), or praised (less rare), I raise my fist in exalted victory, mutter a happy “yes!”, spin in my chair, take a second to regain my balance, and get back to work.

I don’t think this is an unusual reaction for a writer – especially a public relations specialist, journalist, or screenwriter.  For instance, a popular expression in the screenwriting world is you don’t get paid for what you do, but rather what they do to you. It isn’t that bad in PR. We are trained to see the bright side of things. Many of us are like cocker spaniels. We live for a smile, a pat on the head, and occasional byline. Of course the biggest motivator comes from knowing something you write or do created value in the world. I must confess, for me, that is the greatest joy of all. In those moments of helping others I would gladly work for free. But a gal has to eat and live, so even on a good day I’m still cashing my paycheck. 

While I would never discourage anyone from these celebratory moments of bliss, as a Buddhist I know personal glory is a double-edged sword. That type of joy (rapture) is not true happiness. It is a transitory emotion. It’s like a hit of cocaine. It’s a momentary high. And what comes up must come down. The problem is when we base our happiness on external factors such as praise, wealth, fame, status etc. it is an unsustainable happiness. Even the greatest transitory joys in life are temporary. Even if we are extremely fortunate and enjoy wonderful circumstances for many years, all things come to an end. After all, we can’t take our possessions, our wealth, our achievements, our families, or our status with us when we die.

However, from a Buddhist perspective, there is one thing continues sticks with us – our karma. The good and bad causes we make do not fade away. It may take eons for past thoughts, speech and actions to manifest into an appropriate and correlating effect, but it does. Of course it would be nice if we could see immediate results from our good efforts. But then it would mean we would have to see instantaneous results from the bad causes too and who wants that? 

There is a reason for the delay.  As time elapses we have the opportunity to (hopefully) grow and gain better insight into our past behavior and learn from it.

But we are human. We will make mistakes. And I am not advocating we live a life without pleasure. I, for one, will continue to enjoy joyous interactions with my family and friends, laugh at jokes, smile when I know I have helped another, and yes, do a little jig when one of my unedited articles gets picked up by the media. 

But I have changed.

As I have practiced Buddhism over the years, my perspective about being a writer has evolved. I can revel in a little personal glory now and again, and I can grumble a bit when things don’t turn out the way I would like. The bottom line is deep down I know these little incidents aren’t as important as I would like to think they are. 

If I want to be happy, I need to concentrate less on glory and more on prayer. In my case that prayer is chanting the words Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. When I chant it sparks an internal human revolution in me.  As a result of my prayer I can see that many of the “edits” I face help me grow. It can also serve as an opportunity to change for the better – and sometimes that applies to my copy as well.

 

Pressing Matters

It’s one of those rare weekends when I’m home alone. CB is off camping. I have plans with the grand kids, but that is hours away. I start a load of laundry and pull out the ironing board. 

Ironing used to be a chore I detested, but as I have gotten older I find it can be relaxing.

My mom never seemed to mind ironing either. There is something therapeutic about getting rid of wrinkles without a facelift.

But I remember mom seemed to enjoy pressing clothes even when she was younger. I can still imagine her in the kitchen sprinkling water on a mountain of laundry. These were the days before steam irons. She filled an empty 7-up bottle with water, placed a little gizmo on the top, shook the bottle, and dampened the clothes with it. But rather than ironing right then and there, she would put the clothes in a bag and stick them in the refrigerator. Later she would pull them out and iron away. I remember wondering why she did this. It always seemed a little odd to me, but I knew if I challenged her wisdom, or complained that my blouses smelled like cauliflower, I would be pressing my own clothing. So I kept my mouth shut. 

But I was still cynical. I thought ironing was a big waste of time. Who cared about a few wrinkles, or whether or not your pleated skirt had perfect creases? But when I complained about it, my friend Maria was unsympathetic. She was the youngest of six kids and her job was to iron the clothing for all the family members who still lived at home. That included Maria, her mom, dad and brother, Joey. Mrs. Hernandez thought everything should be pressed – from doilies to sheets. Imagine my horror when I learned Maria was even expected to iron her brother’s blue jeans. Now mind you, this was decades before designer jeans, and Joey worked in construction. But that didn’t matter. Maria ironed his jeans and Joey went off to his job looking clean, fresh and pressed. 

My disdain of ironing was shared by a cousin in the Hernandez family, who ironically, was also named Sally. She would hang out her clothes (few people had clothes dryers in those days – at least in sunny Arizona). But Sally laundered with a twist. After the clothes were on the line she would get out the hose,  squirt the wrinkles out of the clothing, and let them dry (and stiffen) in the sun. I think this story was relayed to me as a cautionary tale, but I thought the idea was ingenious. 

The next time I took my clothes out to hang on the line, I gave them a hose bath. The water is so hard in Arizona that it also acted as a type of starch. When the clothes dried, they were so rigid they could practically stand on their own. I did this for a year. But all good things must come to an end.

After high school I married a Navy sailor. When he reported for work, even in dungarees, he had to report looking spiffy. An improperly pressed pair of dungarees could result in ramifications in the wrinkle-free Navy, so I did my best to make sure John would pass inspection. He always did. But when the Navy introduced cotton/polyester blend clothing that resisted wrinkles – let’s just say that was a happy day for a lot of sailors and their spouses.

After John was honorably discharged, my iron got a well-earned rest. Clothes were easier to care for. More people (myself included) had a clothes dryer. And as long as you didn’t leave your clothes in the washer or dryer overnight (oops) chances were good your clothing would not be a big crumpled mess. Three cheers for polyester!

Fast forward a few decades. I divorced, held a few different jobs, and then started my own company, Marks Public Relations. In an effort to save money and be more environmentally responsible, I went back to hanging my clothes out to dry. I admit it, if you hang your clothes on a clothesline, chances are they are going to look more crumpled. But that didn’t matter to me. Except when I had to go to a meeting or needed to accompany a client for an appearance at the TV station, I didn’t have to look nice and crisp. In fact, I mostly sat barefoot in front of my home computer churning out press releases, media pitches, and scripts looking a bit rumpled. But things changed. 

I learned of a great public relations position at Royal Neighbors of America. I wrote a good cover letter, successfully made it past the pre-screening process and three additional interviews, and was offered the position!  I was (and am) very happy.

But working in a professional environment again means I had to make a wardrobe adjustment. I have traded my craggy attire for a more professional look. Even on business casual days (Thursday and Friday) I make sure my shirts – and yes even my blue jeans – are pressed. A little ironing is a small price to pay to work at a job I love. I don’t regret my decision one iota. And I bet Maria and Mrs. Hernandez would be happy to know I launder without the hose. It took more than 40 years, but I’ve finally mended my wrinkled ways.

The Road Less Traveled the Better

I am directionally challenged. There, I said it. My name is Sally Marks and I am directionally challenged. It must be genetic. My dad used to say my mom could get lost exiting a phone booth. I must have followed in her confused footsteps. Decades later, and even in my home town of Mesa, AZ, I can (and do) lose my way on a regular basis. 

I joke that I tried to take a wrong turn down the birth canal. The story goes that I was my mom’s longest and most difficult labor. Apparently I wouldn’t turn my head and the doctor couldn’t reach me with forceps. Doctors were more reluctant to do c-sections at that time. Mom, the doctor and my dad (who was asleep in the waiting area) just had to wait until my head slipped into place. But I don’t know if I was lost or just reluctant to leave the womb. It’s a memory long forgotten.

However, I do remember another time I had difficulty finding my way. I was probably nine years old. My brother, Terry, and I attended a YMCA summer school event at a neighboring school. I don’t remember the details, but we were dropped off at the site in the morning and the plan was to wait out front and we would be picked up when the program ended in the afternoon. The problem was there was no event that day. Mom must have dropped us off at the wrong school, or on the wrong date.

Terry and I found our way to the locked cafeteria. A maintenance man saw us pulling on the door and must have assumed we were vandals. When we explained we were looking for the YMCA he said, “I’ll YMCA you!” This was not a time to discuss the matter. We ran away – as fast as our little sneakers would take us. Since it was obvious we couldn’t hang around on campus, we decided to walk home. 

I am two years old than Terry, but when you are a little kid, those two years make a big difference. I took my role as the big sister to heart, took charge, and boldly headed off in a direction that I thought would lead to our neighborhood. No doubt I didn’t have a clue, but I certainly thought I did. So we walked. I’m sure we didn’t amble for too long, but it felt like it. It always seems that way when you don’t know if you’re headed in the right direction or not. I should know. I have that feeling a lot, but I’m usually behind the wheel of a car when this happens. The exception is when I’m in the parking lot trying to find my car. But I digress.

The journey home from the YMCA-camp-that-wasn’t was before cell phones, so we couldn’t call anyone. And it was summer in Arizona, so there weren’t any folks wandering around to ask for directions. I considered knocking on someone’s door and asking for help, but I didn’t think it would be wise to take that risk. It wasn’t just me, I had my younger brother to protect. Anyway, we boldly walked where no Marks had walked before, and hoped for the best.

After what seemed like hours (probably 15 minutes) I started to get nervous. Nothing looked familiar. At one point we scanned the sky and looked off into the distance. We shrieked in delight. We saw a useful landmark, the golden poles of the Apache Lanes Bowling Alley sign glinting in the sun. Our home was five houses away from the rear of the bowling alley, so we had a beacon to follow. We were so excited we ran the rest of the way home.

Years, OK, decades, have passed from the first misadventure. I know I’m prone to losing my way so I try to compensate by writing out a list of directions (maps don’t help me) I check for landmarks, and I use a GPS whenever possible. I have also been known to call friends who play the role of traffic controller and guide me to my destination. Needless to say, I’m not too proud to ask for help.

 Usually I stay close to home, or let someone else take the wheel on trips. However, my life took a different course. I started a new job and had to travel to Rock Island, Illinois for work. The first time I took this journey I declined the use of a rental car. It was still snowing in the Midwest, and as a desert girl who has never driven in snow or ice, I did not want to take a chance navigating on icy roads. Luckily I work for Royal Neighbors of America, and when I explained my situation they went out of their way to accommodate me and my transportation needs. It’s one of many reasons Royal Neighbors has earned the distinction of being voted a great place to work.

However, for my next trip in April, the weather had improved. I had no excuse to decline a rental car, and I did not want to rely on the help of others because of my directionally-challenged brain. I went online and studied maps of the area, I had my daughter download a GPS Ap on my droid, and even gave it a test run in Arizona so I would be confident that it worked.  I also built in extra time for each trip – just in case. 

Well as luck would have it, the GPS Ap that worked so well from the well-traveled seven-mile road from my daughter’s house to my abode, would not power up. I had studied the area, but rather than take anything to chance, I asked the hotel clerk for directions. The older woman at the desk gave me great instructions. My younger readers may not appreciate this observation, but older people give better directions.  I guess it’s a small bone that life throws at us for being on the planet a long time. Anyway, I made it to the town (yes, I forgot to ask for the exit and the right way to get to the office) but after a few incorrect turns I recognized some landmarks from my earlier trip the month before, read a few streets signs, and eventually got to work with 15 minutes to spare. 

Okay, yes, I left the hotel an hour before and it was only a 20 minute trip under normal circumstances, but hey, I made it. During my time during this work trip I ventured out by car eight times and got lost two out of eight attempts. I had the trip to work and the hotel under control, but we had an event at a nearby hotel and casino for our womenLEAD Forum and found myself headed in the opposite direction.  But I stopped (twice) asked for directions, and eventually found my way. I also successfully navigated my way to the airport, dropped off the rental car, and flew home without a hitch.

So what is the point of this rambling story? Sometimes things that seem easy for some are a confusing ordeal for others. My request is to show others compassion when navigating the highway, and throughout our existence on this planet. During our journey in life you don’t know where life is going to take you (especially if you’re in a car and I’m driving.) But if you don’t get too upset, look around you, ask for help now and again, and learn to enjoy the ride, you will eventually get where you need to be.