Can't Not

Lately, there seems to be a social 'movement' to be more positive.

To send more optimistic, happy thoughts and energy out into the universe. Focus on what's good and light and hopeful. And I am not opposed to this.

Wait, let me rephrase that, "I am in support of this."
(Although some of my posts might suggest otherwise.)

In fact, in a few areas of my life, I live this positive philosophy. Or at least, try to.


Entertainment is the first thing that comes to mind.
I have done a relatively good job of not filling my precious free time with violence, terror, murder, rape, mayhem and horror, then lying to myself by calling it 'entertainment.' I'll let you know what I actually call it another, more negative, day. Because I know that you are dying to find out.
(Humor me, here.)


Another area I work on, with some success, is what and how I eat.
I give myself full permission to eat junk, when the urge dictates. But for the most part, I'm pretty good about satisfying my hunger with healthy food. And even more importantly, I try to honor each meal with my focus and attention. I try to keep from eating in a hurry, on the run. I try to slow down and appreciate my meals, to savor them. It helps me to be more grateful for what sustains me, physically. I also feel that my body uses the food more efficiently and healthfully, to my benefit, when I can eat happily and appreciatively.


Not surprisingly, considering the world in which we live, there are still many areas of my life, (the majority, at times), where my perspective is slightly, or overtly, negative. I'll not list them, for now. And don't you start listing them yourself.




One, I will mention here. I am guilty of phrasing things in the negative.

Often, speaking in terms of . . . .

what I can't do,

what I'm not feeling,

what I'm not getting and so forth.



This is, admittedly, something to work on and I'll keep you informed.



In the meantime . . . . . .



There is one, specific 'negative' that I have decided to, without apology, include and embrace in my life.



The phrase, "I can't not . . . . ."



Before now, I was sometimes 'reminded,' by those with good intentions, to rephrase this into the positive. In terms of what "I can . . . " instead. I tried to comply, but it felt wrong. Even so, instead of listening to my heart, I would beat myself up with 'shoulds.'

"I should be more positive."

"I should speak in the affirmative."

"I should say things with more optimism."

So, even in my attempts to conform to the positive, I continued to look at the negative side.


Then, a few days ago, I was having a too brief, and all too rare conversation with a friend, to whom I was trying to explain how it is that I write.
And the only thing I could utter was: "I can't not."



It's the truth. I can't not write. It simply isn't possible.

This is not to say that days, and weeks do not sometimes pass without my writing down a single creative word. But, don't be fooled, it will be written. The 'material' in my head, the thoughts, the rants, the stories, the characters, the plots, the bullshit, the truth would send me running for the nearest cliff, if it couldn't be released. Even if, at irregular intervals.

It isn't my claim that it will necessarily be interesting thoughts, rants, stories and such, but it will not stay inside me. The pressure would be too much. I could equate it to a volcano, or a pressure cooker, or even a shaken bottle of champagne but it would still not suffice. I would be headed straight for madness, if for some reason I couldn't vent in one written form or another.

My sanity, for what it's worth, would be in grave peril.



My partner in conversation hadn't understood this in regards to writing, until I used the phrase "I can't not" and then he seemed to instantly understand. He could relate, because he had a 'can't not' in his life, as well. Lucky man.

I am thinking we all should have at least one "can't not."


"I can't not meditate."

"I can't not dance in the rain."

"I can't not sing what's in my heart."

"I can't not splash in puddles."

"I can't not paint the sky."

"I can't not read Barbie's blog."

"I can't not fly kites."

Valid "can't nots," all

(Disclaimer: "I can't not play WoW" is not what I'm talking about here, today. And there are probably support groups in your area for such things.)



The positive version, of the above statements, simply does not adequately express the truth, the actual sentiment behind the words.

"I can write music" or "I will write music" just does not say the same thing as "I can't not write music." Even if it's amped up to "I must write music," this can be misinterpreted. It could sound like a chore one needs to do, but doesn't want to do.

I've come to the following personal conclusion.

I will no longer be debating this issue in my head,
I will no longer be hard on myself for using these words,
I will proudly and loudly say exactly what "I can't not. . . ."

Stay tuned. . . . . .

Tube socks, Tighty-whiteys and Typical

Men ‘bitch’ about their wives. Their girlfriends. It’s customary and it’s expected.

It's a social dynamic men engage in, I believe, in attempt to prove they are MEN!

This common behavior spans a wide range. From the overt manner of “my wife, the nag . . ." to the almost undetectable and subtle“Gotta give ‘the’ wife a call.” Some men pass it off as harmless joking.

The implication being that if it weren’t for the woman in his life, he’d be free to do as he pleases. He'd have a better life. The good life.


You've heard it, you've seen it. In commercials, sitcoms, movies, lunch conversation, on the commute to work, over a pool table. This is the socially acceptable ‘speak’ for men. It’s culturally correct.


"Poor me, my wife wants to spend the day together. But I was really looking forward to eight hours in the recliner, drinking cheap beer and then later, getting to know myself better over a five year old magazine. Why me?"

You may be a man. And you may be reading this, thinking, ‘Not me! I don’t speak badly of my wife.’ But can you say ‘Never?’ You have never, ever, once verbally disrespected the woman in your life? To a friend, a co-worker, to anyone? To yourself? To her face? You've never dismissed her as trivial and insignificant in the grand scheme of your egocentric, self-important life?

And simply because it’s the way men are expected to speak of women?

Think about it. If a guy were to regularly gush and rave about how wonderful his wife/girlfriend (of more than two months) is, how happy he is, how lucky he feels to have such an amazing woman in his life, he’d be forced to revoke his testicles.

He’d be ‘whipped.’

Men, who would be completely devastated and without redemption if their woman left them, strut around to one extent or another and verbally violate the affection he genuinely, sincerely holds for his wife or girl, just to prove himself manly, to the rest of the world.

"I'm tough, I'm macho. I wouldn't be caught dead revealing my gratitude for my wife. My affection for her, my love. What would the guys think?" It’s character revealing, don’t you think?

Like a teenager complaining about his parents. You would be an adolescent disgrace, if you were heard uttering complimentary or remotely flattering words about your parents. If caught, you’d be required to turn in your ‘emergency’ condom that expired four years ago.

And if the exercise of verbal ‘rejection’ weren’t enough, this bad behavior, like any ‘vice’ can lead to harder stuff. It seems to frequently drive a man to irrational, detrimental, relationship-destroying behavior.



My daughter and I watch a show called Gilmore Girls.
Seven seasons. (Three too many, but that’s another discussion.)

In this show, there is a peripheral character named Kirk. He’s a bit goofy, awkward, self-conscious. He's is in his late twenties/early thirties and probably lets him mom, whom he still lives with, pick out his 'outfit' each day. A 'late bloomer.'

Two or three seasons into the series, against most odds, Kirk gets himself a girlfriend. Lulu.


He did well. Lulu is cute, soft-soft spoken and a bit timid. Kirk's technique is rough at first. He’s a bit perplexed at his good fortune, but Lulu is patient (girl's usually have to be, don't they?) and he eventually gets the hang of being an attentive, appreciative, enthusiastic boyfriend.


A few seasons later, however, he’s becomes predictably arrogant, brash, overconfident in his relationship prowess.

SCENE:

He and Lulu are finishing breakfast in the local diner. Lulu says goodbye and gives Kirk a kiss on the cheek on her way to work for the day.


Kirk: (after Lulu has just walked out of the diner) Could somebody crack a window? Because I’m suffocating.

LUKE: What? (Luke is the diner’s, typically crabby, bachelor owner/cook/waiter.)

KIRK: Tell me you didn’t see that.

LUKE: See what, Kirk?

KIRK: Lulu! She’s smothering me!

LUKE: Smothering you?

KIRK: Everywhere I go, there she is. I’m sitting at the movies, who’s sitting next to me? Lulu. I go out to dinner. Who’s sitting across from me? Lulu. I’m hanging out on the couch, watching TV. Who’s right there next to me?

LUKE: Your mother?

KIRK: And Lulu! And at least Mother respects my personal space. Sometimes, when you’re watching Antiques Roadshow, you just don’t want somebody tickling your arm.
(Luke becomes distracted by and joins a nearby conversation. Scene ends.)


(Kirk returns to the diner, alone. It’s late afternoon, same day.)
Kirk: Hey, Luke, you want to grab a cold one tonight, bird-dog some chicas?

Luke: What?

Kirk: As of 0700 this evening, I’m going to be a free man.

Luke: You are?

Kirk: I am. Giving Lulu the old heave-ho, hitting the eject button.

Luke: Kirk?

Kirk: And I owe it all to you, buddy.

Luke: Me?

Kirk: You inspired me. I look at you, and I think “This guy’s doing it right.” Slave to no master. You come home at 3:00 in the morning, no one cares. You want to eat dessert for dinner, no one cares. You walk around in your tube socks and tighty-whiteys (ew!), no one cares. No one cares what you do or where you go. So, what do you say, Luke? You want to be my wingman, Goose to my Maverick? (Singing into a large spoon.) “You never close your eyes, anymore, when I kiss your lips. And there’s no tenderness…”

(Luke grabs Kirk by the scruff of the neck, mid-lyric.)
Luke: Listen, you pinhead, you should be kissing the ground that Lulu walks on. Why that sweet girl lets you within 100 miles of her is beyond me, but she does. You are the luckiest man on the planet to have a girl like that looking out for you and caring about you. And if you say so much as one unkind word to her, I will personally break every bone in your body. You got me?



I love this scene. Luke is by no means a warm and fuzzy type of guy. And he can, usually, hardly stand Kirk’s oddities and eccentricities. This diner owner is easily annoyed and a social introvert. For him to care enough to speak up here, is quite the unusual and heart-felt display. Not to mention, completely socially unacceptable. Hope no one was looking.

I’ve felt, for a long time now, that if men in general, had any idea how amazing women are, and treated them like they were amazing, instead of as a bother to their schedule or a nuisance to contend with, then life as we know it, (and we know it as stressful, hostile, harsh, unpleasant, unfortunate, obnoxious, foul, loathsome, intolerable and more,) would end. What a wonderful world it would be.

Big statement. I stand by it.

It may be occurring to you, right about now, that some women, some you've known, have proven themselves quite capable of some pretty heinous and callous behavior themselves. Granted. If provoked. I contend that this is not their default strategy in life, but has, over the span of their life, become necessary, simply to survive. Self-defense, in a most unfortunate sense.

You show me a bitter, hard, unfeeling woman and I’ll show you a woman who was treated poorly by a man to whom she trusted her heart: her father, her brothers, an early boyfriend, an oblivious husband.

If, and apparently this is simply too much to ask, her humble beginnings had been under the care of men who were overwhelmingly grateful for her, appreciative of her, amazed by her special spirit of generosity and nurturing, well then, she would be a completely different woman.

Could have been, would have been. Should have been.

You can ignore and dismiss the ‘special’ within a woman, but you lose a treasure most valuable. It’s a steep price to pay. Yet, it’s a common and popular transaction. If your relationship goal is for ordinary, uninspired, banal and cliché, this is a sure method. If you want to prove yourself unoriginal and trite, it’s a well trod but easy to navigate path.

It’s effortless, it requires no investment, no personal integrity on your part . . . . . and it’s definitely one way of doing it.

Just one girl’s opinion. Mine. Take it for what it’s worth.

Chocolates on my Pillow

Blog POST preface:

Do you think if I start writing a blog post on the last day of one month and write past midnight into the early morning of the first day of the next month that it would count as two months worth of posts?

Just wondering.

The post on the list of LOVEs felt surprisingly satisfying. Especially considering the frame of mind I was in, prior to starting that post. I think it may have actually changed the chemical balance in my brain as I wrote.
I heard somewhere (probably in a Talking Book as I drove to work) that if you are in a bad mood and you deliberately smile, going against your emotional grain, it changes the chemistry in your body and decreases your hostility, or sadness, or loneliness or whatever has you down.

I tried it. And I have to say there may be something to this. I don't think it's the smile that makes so much of a difference, as much as the fact that I cannot seem to smile and scowl at the same time. I feel the relief of negativity much more around my eyes than I do around my mouth, when I try this. It actually feels better even as I sit here and write about it.

Anyway. . . .

The LOVE list post inspired the following . . . . . actual POST:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I love staying in hotels.

Why do I love hotels? And is it true love, or just infatuation?

I can tell you that I love endless ice. A magic machine that produces crystal clear perfect chunks of ice with out end. I love that.

And I love room service. I hate the price but love being served my desired meal in my room. I love that. Clam chowder and sour dough bread. Cheese burger, milk shake and onion rings. Prime rib, baked potato and mixed green salad. Serve me. Love, love, love.

Then, and I love this too, clean up after me. Take away my mess and leave me to my glass of deep red wine. Or my deep glass of red wine.

I love relaxing in a tub that I didn’t have to clean before I climbed in. And I won’t have to clean after I get out. All the good of a bath and none of the bad. I love that.

I love that I don’t have to keep track of how much toilet paper there is. It simply is magically refilled every day. Every day! Sweet, sweet toilet paper fairy.

And the magic toilet paper fairy must have a best fairy friend responsible for the cute little shampoos and lotions and soaps. I love the little hotel fairies.

I'm writing this as I sit in a hotel. I wish I were here alone. Definitely and indefinitely.

But it isn’t all perfect.

It should be quieter.

What is it with parents thinking that their children do not require their supervision just because they are with in the walls of a relatively nice hotel? Putting aside the safety issue, why do they assume the rest of the hotel occupants are happy to put up with ten year old girls running laps around the third floor, while these parents drink draft beer or the house chardonnay in the lounge?

Or seven preteen boys unsupervised and huddled around the single free and unfiltered Internet terminal in the building?

And there is that nagging feeling of wondering just how clean these sheets really are. These pillows, the towels in the bathroom. That crystal clear ice? Try not to let yourself think about that too much.

And this room could be better ventilated. Or ventilated at all. I want to open a window that doesn’t over look the alley. I want to breathe well. I want to sleep with a cool breeze brushing my face. I need fresh air, for heaven sake.

There’s also the distraction factor.

I imagined sitting alone and undistracted in the tranquil courtyard of trees and plants and fountains and attractive décor. Typing away happily, productively. My goal was to write.

But instead I am not alone and I am not undistracted. The chairs here in the garden courtyard are stylish as hell but hell to sit in. And I can’t stop ‘people watching.’ Uninteresting people at that. Not a single interesting man, woman or child has crossed my path. No one worthy of study or speculation.

If I am to be distracted, at least it could be by a parade of attractive, interesting and dynamic individuals. But that, sadly is not the case. Ordinary is all I see. I’d be better off in Pioneer Square with a sleeping bag and a bottle in a plain brown wrapper. But we know me better than that, don’t we? I hate camping.

My last sixteen minutes of paid time. Check out at noon. And let’s review.

• Get a lot of writing done about Jenna? No. None.
  


• Get a lot of personal journal type writing done? No, none to speak of.
  


• Any writing at all? I don’t know what you’re talking about.



• Okay, then reading. Finish any books? No. Any chapters? No. Shut up.
  
  
  

So there you have it. I suck.

I have a very difficult time thinking of myself as an author, as a legitimate writer in any context, when this kind of thing happens. Wouldn’t you? Seriously. Time, space, opportunity, stories waiting to be told, and nothing. Impressive.

Why do I find it so easy to chew on myself like this? Why is it not as easy to build myself up, when the time calls for it? Seems unfair. I hate it, but this defeated feeling is the most comfortable one I know. And the saddest, suckiest part is, I am probably the most frequent fuel source for this particular emotion. How about that?

Wow, apparently I can seriously digress. . . . Back to hotels and what I love.

Is the key to my love of hotels, the infrequency of my hotel stays?
If I could live in a hotel, would the magic fade, just as it does with any love?
After the infatuation wears thin, and all you can see are the flaws ….

Would the fairies start to get on my nerves?

Flippin' fairies!

LOVE HATE Relationships

Our society spends a great deal of time complaining. Looking for and finding, in abundance, unsatisfactory and easy objects for whining and criticizing.

As I sat down to scramble and try to avoid missing another month’s blog posting, all I could think to write about involved gross quantities of complaining and lamenting. Easy targets kept filling my heads: people, men, adults. The possibilities were incessant. You'd think I was packing for a trip to Bountiful.

However, as much as I love hearing myself talk about life’s unfortunate bits, or reading back over my own rants, I have decided to betray my default loyalties.

A good number of years ago, I opened a new, stiff blank book and began fashioning a list of things I love. And I mean “LOVE.” This is an exclusive club. It was so much easier than I thought it would be. I started with the predictable and grand, then it quickly snowballed into specific, random and long buried passions.

Being the person I tend to be most days however, my mind could not help but wander behind enemy lines, to the list of things I hate (and I mean HATE!). So, I flipped to the back page of the journal, turned it upside down and began another list.

Surprisingly, the list of things I HATE is less than a quarter the length of the list of things I LOVE. This was quite a moment for me. I have always leaned toward a cynical, skeptical, negative, caustic, sarcastic mind-set. But there, the truth lay before me, in blue and white. There were more things I loved, than hated. I would never have guessed. And probably most people who knew me at all, would also, never have guessed.

My suspicion is that even though the list is shorter, the HATE list weighs far more. I may LOVE lavender, Crosby/Stills/Nash & Young, clogs, Christmas lights and artichokes. But the sum total of these does not outweigh my HATE for dry, hot weather. That’s a 5:1 ratio. Or 8:1, if you count the members of CSNY separately.
(NOTE: The individual members of CSNY do not make the LOVE list on their own. It’s a ‘sum of the parts’ kind of thing. Seriously, how is it that Neal Young can blend so wonderfully and perfectly with the voices of Stephen Stills, Graham Nash and What’s-his-name Crosby, but then sound like fingernails on a chalkboard to my ears when I hear any of his solo stuff? It reminds me of my son and his feelings for French toast versus scrambled eggs. Life is a mystery)

At last count, the ratio was 167:57. LOVE:HATE. But the HATE things are big, fat, overwhelming, fundamental things. Where as, the sweet, pretty LOVE things are small, peripheral, less-than-earth shattering type things. The sentiment ‘LOVE is in the details’ is apparently quite appropriate in my life.

A random sample of my LOVE list reads as follows:
#110 Ankle bracelets
#46 Bing Cherries
#5 The Book of Esther
#158 Side B of Abbey Road
#42 Baths

While my HATE list tends to read like this:
#50 Indecision
#2 Stale Air
#34 Anxiety
#20 Having to repeat myself
#3 Clutter

(NOTE: My lists are in no special order, certainly not in order of importance. Lilacs are number four on my LOVE list, but that does not mean that is the fourth most loved thing in my life.)

The thing I notice here about the lists, is that the items on the LOVE list are much more within my control than the items on the HATE list. Seriously, how much power do I have to affect traffic, air quality or the economy?

I suppose if I were looking to learn something from this exercise, it would be that I should surround myself and fill my life with the things I LOVE: candles, scarlet red, Scotch on the rocks, pink peonies, Dr. Seuss books, songs that make me want to dance, dancing and Cary Grant movies.

Among other things.

Eddie Vedder for Christmas

I dreamed that someone gave me Eddie Vedder for Christmas.

I’ve been off work for the past few weeks. It was over Christmas and New Year, which made the holiday season quiet and relaxed. Words not frequently used when speaking of the ‘most wonderful time of the year.’

My daughter was home on her Winter Break for part of the time, so I had excellent company and high quality support when I wasn’t feeling my best.

On the surface, it sounds great: “four to six weeks off.” Honestly. If you hear a coworker say they are taking an extended leave, don’t you find yourself thinking, or saying right out loud “LUCKY!” However, it isn’t quite 'as advertised' when you don’t feel so good the entire time. Don’t get me wrong, it went very well, as well as it possibly could, given the situation. It just doesn’t exactly qualify as pure luxurious time off when your top priority is pain management.

Pain management has its up sides and down. The most obvious up side is self-explanatory, and by the way my very favorite: the management of pain. It was a vital part of my healing and I am eternally grateful. As are the other members of my household. Pain makes me tense and crabby. So thank heaven for good meds.

I do confess that prior to my time off, I was a little bit concerned about the use of prescription pain medications. Down side. I know myself well enough to suspect that I might lean toward addictive tendencies. Consequently, I went into it thinking that I would try to use as little drugs as possible. I would tell you just how long that plan held up except I do not know the measurement of time smaller than the second. Is it nano-second? I’m not sure.

Anyway, as far as becoming addicted to prescription pain medications, it was all fine. They were incredibly necessary but that was the extent of it. Once I started feeling better, I didn’t think too much about drugs. That isn't to say that I came out of my time off unscathed. I did, in fact, acquire an unfortunate addiction (or two) that would never have happened otherwise.

More on that shortly.. . . .. . .

Unexpected side effects of the drugs were intense, vivid dreams every night, many times a night. Most of them were alarming and startling and I was glad when I woke up. But then a few days before Christmas, I had a dream that a friend, a very good friend apparently, gave me Eddie Vedder for Christmas. Perhaps the best Christmas present I received this year. Or EVER! This gift was incredibly fun and extremely accommodating. Lucky me. So it was a very Merry Christmas for me.

Early in my time off when I was feeling particularly lousy, I really didn’t want to eat anything. I had no appetite at all. Nothing sounded good, not crackers, not soup, not juice. Nothing.

Nothing, that is, except sherbet.

Now I love dessert. And one of my favorites is high quality ice cream. I have a relatively small bowl of ice cream most nights before I go to sleep. I haven’t eaten sherbet since I was in grade school. I admit to being a frozen dessert snob. Sherbet has always seemed like an unacceptable ice cream substitute. And unfortunately, has always carried with it the stigma of being a ‘sick food’ for me.

But recently when I was home and nothing else sounded appetizing, I ate sherbet. And it was so good. When I wasn’t feeling good, I’d have it a couple of times a day. Then after I started feeling better again, I had it every night before bed. Yes, I’m addicted. Obviously I was concerned about the wrong substance. I’m having some right now. Do you want some because I can totally hook you up. I can’t believe I used to be too cool for sherbet. Now, I'm checking the yellow pages for a support group.

The other addiction? The Food Network but I can't talk about that. Too painful.

A little less conversation, a little more . . . .

It’s the thought that counts.

Or is it?

Now, I do not know the origin of this phrase so I went where I always go when I don’t know something, the Internet. Because if you see it on the Internet, it must be true. Strangely enough, I couldn’t find it anywhere. There are thousands of web pages where the phrase is used but of the five I clicked to, there was not one where the phrase is explained.

So as everyone knows, when you can’t find it on the Internet, you call your trusty, friendly reference librarian (and I totally have one.) Unfortunately, the one reference librarian I know that is trusty AND friendly was not on duty. (Maybe I need to get him a beeper.) This is indeed unfortunate as I am now forced to proceed unenlightened and run a very high risk of shoving my foot directly down my throat.

Well, I tried. It’s the thought that counts, right?

No. I disagree. In fact, I’m not sure I could disagree more. Now, it’s not that I think “the thought” is without value. I see the value, really I do. Of course, “the thought” must come first. You must first think of taking flowers to a sick friend before you will ever find yourself taking actual flowers to an actual sick friend. The thought of going back to college to finish that degree must happen before you will step in to the registrar’s office. It must first occur to you that you’ve always wanted to be a major league ballplayer before you’re likely to start taking steroids.

This is all a given. Or in this case, three givens. But “It’s the thought that counts” implies that simply having the noble, inspired, generous, life-changing thought is what ‘counts.’ In what universe? Having the thought is only the first step, and in my opinion worth very little if left at that.

If I think about calling my philosophy teacher from high school to tell him what a difference he made in my life, how I stayed in school and went on to college because of his extra efforts and honest friendship but I never make that call and then hear that he has passed away, does that thought ‘count?’

In my opinion not only is it not the thought that counts, even the intention after the thought is worth very little unless action follows. I can intend to do anything: climb Everest, run for office, adopt a puppy, cure cancer, cross the street. The sky’s the limit if it is indeed the thought (or intention) that counts, but it isn’t. If I never move forward then none of it ‘counts.’

If I have all my inspired thoughts packed and on board, my noble intentions in my sights, what good does it do me? It’s the action that counts; it’s what I do with my thoughts and intentions. I can mean to do something all day long, all year long but if I never get around to it and try to pacify myself with “it’s the thought that counts,” I’m an idiot. In fact, it may be a special type of sin against one’s soul to mean to do something and fail to do it. If my heart tugs at me but I stand still, then I’ve failed my heart. My self.

Don’t kid yourself, it is not the thought that counts. The thought is required to start the process but it’s the action, the effort, the tenacity, the determination supporting the thought that counts.

Help Yourself

A patron came up to me today, at the library where I work and asked me if I knew any good inspirational books.

I hesitated.

"Like a good self help book," she added, avoiding direct eye contact through out.

Well, if this is not a loaded question . . . . . I don't know.
Seriously, one man's inspiration is another man's jazz album, or Chilton's repair manual, or muffin cookbook.

I began thinking back over my life thus far and which books have inspired me to write, which books have inspired me to cook, which books have inspired me to take up snow boarding (no such book), which books have inspired me to be brave and which books have inspired me to read more books, and I asked this woman if there was any particular area in which she was looking for inspiration.

"In everything," she said.

I sat in a staff meeting of about twenty five fellow library employees not long ago and as a type of ice breaker we went around the room sharing what types of books we read. (An exceptional and unusual ice breaker, if you ever need one.)

There was a great representation: mysteries, romance, biographies, comic books, historical fiction, junior paperback, true crime, graphic novels, you name it. Many people mentioned their preference for specific authors: Grisham, Steele, King, Rice, Rule, Canfield, Ambrose, Chopra, Suess, Dahl.

Almost everyone gave a couple of answers. I've noticed working at the library that people can be a bit snobbish about what they read. "Well, I only read non-fiction," is the sniffy comment I've heard the most often in the course of my work. Or sometimes, "I only read biographies." Heavy emphasis on the 'only.'

Later that day, I thought back over all the answers and tried to think of any genre that might have been missed. I couldn't think of anything. Then it hit me. Self-help. Not one person there admitted to reading self-help books, including myself.

I believe any book can be inspirational, if it's read at the exact moment it's message is needed. (Some, if only by their example of 'how not to do it.') Fiction, non-fiction, adult or children book. If today I am feeling overwhelmed and defeated and without hope, I may find inspiration where I least expect it. In Goodnight Moon or The Night Before Christmas. The words of JK Rowling might be just the thing I need to get me started off on a completely new life's course. Who knows.

Typically however, we tend to think of self-help books as those filled with instructions for fixing what is wrong with us. Anger problems, weight loss, health issues, financial dilemmas, depression and such. Not the type of difficulties we are encouraged to confess socially.

But I confess.

I have borrowed, purchased and checked out many self help books. I want to read about and learn better ways, if they exist. And they almost certainly do, sometimes. What I have failed to do with most of these books however, is finish them. They usually lose me about a third of the way through. I believe the title and the marketing blurbs on the cover. I'm still in for the first few chapters, but mostly I don't see the finish line. So maybe someone should write a book on how to finish a self help book.

I have finished a few. A couple I absolutely love and am so glad I stumbled across. Some I was unable to benefit from (but at least I finished them).

I wish I'd thought to admit that I read self-help that day in the meeting. People just don't go around waving that flag and I fell right in line with the thinking that there is something embarrassing or shameful about needing help and seeking it. This is craziness.

I am happy to say that I don't know it all, that I have a lot to figure out. Well, okay not 'happy' exactly but willing at least. I wish I did have it all figured out. But I don't.

And neither, by the way, do most other people.

News flash. Our culture is conclusive evidence of how much we don't know. But aside from that, do not forget that I am the one checking in the material that pretty well represents what people read and guess what. . . . . we're reading self help, whether we say so out loud or not. I easily check in more self help, inspirational-type material than any other category of library items.

So I don't know who those fellow library employees thought they were kidding that day. And they may actually be reading the complete works of Shakespeare but they are also reading The Idiots Guide to Sex and many, many others.

And good for them!