Owl by day and by night

There is a family of barred owls that live in the woods behind my house. Contrary to conventional wisdom about owls, I regularly see and hear them during the day. Their whowho-who-whoooo calls are, by now, part of the chatter of the neighborhood. My neighbors are talking I note and I go about my business, smiling when the tone of the calls changes to indicate prey or hunger or territory or sex. I routinely see them during the day, most commonly in the afternoon, sitting on a branch and observing the world or napping. They seem to do a lot of napping. By day they are my chatty, watchful neighbors.

This all changes at night.

Owl by night becomes more than a neighbor, but something of mystery. As dusk deepens, I recognize them more by silence. The soft rustle of a leaf or the sudden stillness of the smaller animals nearby tells me that owl is near. Occasionally something flies right over my head and I only know it's there when I feel the breeze and turn to see the vanishing shape in the darkness. Sometimes I hear their call, which often seems more wistful at night though sometimes it wanders into melodies that make me wonder if owls get tipsy.

Owl by day and by night changes too. So do all of the other creatures around me, including me, you, and everyone else.  Owl by day and owl by night help me remember that none of us have only one nature, one way of being. Our perceptions of each other change based on context. What we reveal changes the same way.
----------------------------------
Support me on Patreon.
laurapacker.com Performance, coaching, keynotes, and more.
thinkstory.com Organizational storytelling, communications consulting, and more.
(c)2019 Laura S. Packer

The observer effect

I’ve been thinking about the observer effect lately, about how the act of observation changes things. I wrote earlier this week about how storytellers and other artists are also observers and recorders, which can make a difference in a dangerous world, but now I'm thinking about it on a more personal level. The observer effect has certainly been powerful for me; I am an observer, a keek, and I’m aware that being observed changes what I do, how I behave and how I respond. I think this is true for most of us, but it feels especially active in my life, as a performer and writer. My own observation of the world and of myself have changed who I am, how I understand the world and my place in it.

I started this blog in 2007 in conjunction with my first NaNoWriMo. I loved that experience of daily writing and wanted to continue developing better writing habits, but knew I wasn’t likely to do so without some kind of audience, some kind of observer effect. So I began to blog. I wrote in a blog hoping others might read what I was writing, so I would write more. I had no idea how important that decision would be. I thought I was just writing.

At first, this blog was an ongoing series of ruminations about the world, but I quickly began to write more specifically about storytelling. By having an assumed audience of readers I had someone I could muse to about storytelling and so began to develop more complex and evolved ideas about the role of storytelling in the world. I wouldn’t have done that without you, the readers, without the observer effect. It has been very important to me to find a way to delve into the deeper meaning of the art that defines my life. Being observed meant that I had to express my thoughts more clearly than I might have otherwise. Thank you.

As you know, in January of 2014 this blog became a companion piece to Kevin’s caringbridge site, a place where I could express some of my own feelings in the midst of his treatment for pancreatic cancer. Once he died this blog became a place where I could think aloud about my grief, where I knew I was not alone.

There are many things that can be said about public grieving. There are many things I could say about my public grieving. I’ve had people tell me I overshare, that I shouldn’t say such things, that I am making a spectacle of myself, that I will chase away my new love by writing about the old. My response is that it’s my choice, that we each have different needs when we grieve, no one is forced to read this blog anyway and he repeatedly assures me that this is not the case. I’ve also been told that the things I write express what the reader thought was inexpressible, that I have given voice to those who have lost their most precious person in the world. As I’ve begun to rebuild (I don’t think of it as healing or moving on, I am someone so different now) I’ve thought aloud about that process, too. Again, I’ve been told it’s too much and I’ve been told that I’ve given hope in the midst of despair. And none of it would have happened without the observer effect because I wouldn't have written in the first place.

All of this has occurred without any specific intention. Much of my grief has been deeply private, moments you will never see and experiences I don’t want to share. The public part of my grief started as a way to give voice to the unbearable and has continued as a way to understand the world I now live in. Every time someone responded to one of my grief posts I knew I was less alone. That helped immeasurably.

More times that I can count this blog and you, the readers, have saved my life. Thank you. I never expected that when I began it way back when. In the midst of the most difficult thing I have ever experienced, being observed meant I chose to continue.

Now, 9 years and some 796 entries later (which means very roughly 70,000 words) I find myself here. I am maintaining two blogs (this one and my organizational storytelling blog) which means three entries a week, and occasional posts in my food blog. I am forced to have good writing habits to maintain this level of content. I rarely have more than 150 readers for a given post, which is very few in the blogosphere, but I continue.

I continue because the observer effect has made me a better writer. Knowing someone will read what I write makes me take more time, put more thought into it and craft it more than I might otherwise. The observer effect means I know I’m not alone. At least a few people read each post, even if it may not be as many as I might like. Knowing that I have shared my thoughts with someone has kept me going through some very dark nights. The observer effect has made me a better person. It means that just maybe something I’ve said has helped someone. And that’s the best part of all.

This is the last 2016 post in True Stories, Honest Lies; I’m considering what I want to do with this blog in the coming years. I hope to have more readers. More than that, I hope to continue this experiment with the power of an observed life, written.

I’d love to know about the observer effect in your own life and, more than that, I need to thank you. Your presence on this journey, even if you just stopped by once, has changed me. You’ve made me a better writer, a clearer thinker, and you’ve kept me going through tough times.

You never know what kind of impact you’ll have on someone. I hope some of what I’ve written has helped you. Thank you for keeping an eye on me, and I look forward to continuing to observe the world with you in the coming year.

Love,
Laura

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Solstice stories and the long dark

Today is the winter solstice, that time when the Northern hemisphere experiences the longest night and the shortest day of the year. Our shadows stretch out before us like spider-limbed adventurers and we shiver during the brief light and long night as we wait for the dawn. In the darkness we can gaze up at the night sky and search for our own shimmer in the sea of stars; we require the dark to see the vastness and the beauty that surrounds us.

I love this time of year. I struggle with it as well, because the external dark leads me into my own darkness, but the deep quiet and long-lasting starry skies give me a chance to think, to dream, to ask myself honest questions and to find new stories that the light might have chased away. This time of year draws me closer to the ones I love as we huddle around whatever may pass for a fire and keep each other company so we don't feel alone in the dark. Recent studies suggest that language and human culture likely evolved in large part around the communal fire, that we went from communicating the technical details of how to stay alive to the deeper and more connecting material of stories and shared thought, the building blocks of culture and community, around that fire as we waited for a meal to cook and for the night to pass. As I look more deeply within myself, the dark and the fire remind me that I am not alone.

For as long as I've been living independently, I rise at dawn on the winter solstice (no hardship, dawn is late) and light a 24-hour candle to burn through the brief day and lengthy night, so the sun will find her way back in the morning. I write, often telling myself stories of my own darkness and survival. I tell others stories of light in the darkness so we may be reminded that we need both, and that even in the dark all is not lost. I consider how we must know our shadow to know ourselves. I watch the sunset and eventually find my way to sleep, where I try to take note of my dreams. Rhiannon is said to visit us on winter solstice night and gift those who can remember with prophetic dreams. I don't always remember nor do they always make sense, but I try.

Tomorrow I will wake up and thank the sun for returning. I will thank my little candle for her hard work of keeping light in the world. And I will return to my normal life, perhaps a little richer for the time spent considering the dark.

One last thing, a story of light in the darkness so you will remember you aren't alone, a story I can share with you so we are reminded of dark and light. May your solstice bring you stories, the treasures of the dark and the light, and may your own self be more deeply known.



(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Addiction

Everyone has one, likely more than one. I'm not talking about the big ones - you know, booze or tobacco or drugs or sex or gambling - but the little addictions. 

I've just got to have my morning cup of coffee.

If I didn't go to the gym every day then I don't know what I'd do with myself. 

Leave me alone, I'm reading the paper.

I don't feel like myself if I don't put on my face.

I can't wait for the next season of X to start. In the meantime, I'm rewatching it again on Netflix.

Hang on, let me finish this game. 

I'm not saying the little addictions are inevitably bad, I'm just saying it's helpful to know they are there, so we can accommodate them. Support them. Understand why we might feel a bit off if we don't get to them. Make a decision about what to do, to yield or get help.

Me? I have plenty of addictions. Some are private. Others, like hot showers and baths or writing or tea are more visible. The little ones are easy to indulge. It's the big ones that get scary, that I try to overlook and pretend aren't there. Those are the ones I imagine don't have power over me.

It's like that sometimes. 

When I lived in Boston, my life was rich with performance. I could tell stories weekly if I wanted to, even more often. Audiences were everywhere. Getting up on stage (or what passed for a stage) was my drug. The trembling anticipation. The beating of my heart. That first deep breath and the rush as the story began to flow out of me, the audience leaning forward, the connection. 

It's a visceral jolt. 

After almost every performance I would feel balanced. Centered. Sure of my place in the world. It was as though the concentrated attention of my audience fed something in me, that the act of giving them story gave me something, too.

It all sounds a little seedy here, but if you are a performer, then you know what I'm talking about. It doesn't matter if you work with kids or adults, there is something about that time on stage that feeds you. I imagine everyone feels it, be they preacher, dancer, storyteller, actor or newscaster. You go somewhere inside, someplace hidden, and reveal yourself. The fear switches over to something else and it. feels. good. It is my drug. If you look inside, if you’re honest, you know what I mean.

Since moving to Kansas City I've had far fewer performance opportunities. The spoken word community here is less dense and more poetry specific, so I’m working my way into it, finding and creating the opportunities I crave. I’ve performed maybe every month or so since arriving, and then it’s only been short pieces in open mics or in the class I’m teaching. These have been good stories, fun, with responsive audiences, but it’s infrequent. I hadn’t realized I’ve been in withdrawal. What I had noticed over the last few weeks is that I’ve been kind of blue. A little listless. Antsy. Plucking at my mental clothing for something to do, for the right thing to do, for the thing that will make me feel whole, all the while not realizing it’s my drug I’m craving. The audience. The connection. The visceral jolt.

It’s like that sometimes.

A few days ago I was one of many performers standing on a street corner pitching my show for the Kansas City Fringe Festival. I felt so good, enjoyed every moment so much, it was such a familiar and welcome feeling. It hit me like a ton of bricks, like that first drink Oh god, I’ve missed this. The feeling has lingered, my mood lifted, hope restored. And that’s when it hit me. I’m an addict. I needed the audience, the connection, the moment, the visceral jolt. 

And now I find myself wondering where I’ll get my next hit. Wondering what happens if I don’t find the stage soon enough. Is there a support group I should be looking for? I don’t know. My name is Laura, I’m a storyteller. I need the dance, the sway between audience and tale. And if it’s not there, well…

It’s like that sometimes. 

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Uprooting

Tomorrow, the movers come.

While that would be a terrible opening line for a film or short story, it fills me with dread and drama. Or is that excitement. Or maybe relief. I'm not sure which. So many reactions to that simple fact. Tomorrow, the movers come.

I've lived in the Boston area for 27 years, more or less. By this time next week I will be on a road trip, to my new home in Kansas City, Missouri. (I had to pause to make sure I was spelling Missouri correctly, though I can spell the equally complex Massachusetts with ease. So much to learn.)

I'm undertaking this move for all of the right reasons. My beloved has an exciting new job, I will be launching full-time into my own work, we're moving forward together into the next new adventure. But right now, all I can think is Tomorrow the movers come. I will be uprooted.

It's a complex thing, putting down roots in a place. It means you become accustomed to the faces and tones, the geology and geography, the way the light plays across the trees, the smell of the air. It's intimate. I know the subtle cues of spring here, that the scent of the marsh is rich with life, not rotten. I know how to navigate my home in the dark. My body has adapted to these seasons, this light, those drivers and that fit of a key in a lock.

And tomorrow, with no uncertainty, I am going to uproot myself and search for fertile soil 1500 miles (almost) away.

I know, people do this every day and often over far greater distances.
I know, modern technology will make this so much easier than it would have been pre-internet, pre-telephone, pre-postal system.
I know all of these things.

And I know I am echoing the American expansion (or invasion, depending on how you look at it) that I am following in the time-compressed footsteps of those who came to America, to Massachusetts, in search of new vistas, then left the East coast in search of wide open spaces. I know I will come to love the prairie and plain, the rhythms of the new city, the people and faces and scents that will be revealed to me.

I know all of these things. I know I am lucky and that unexpected joys await me, that my love and I are doing this together, that this is the best choice for us both.

But for right now? I just know that tomorrow, the movers come.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

p.s. Please don't worry. I'm okay. Feeling uprooted is natural and to be expected. I'm looking forward to digging into new soil and finding out who I grow into there. It's just in this moment, in this jumble of boxes and recycling and confusion... it's a bit much.

Endings and beginnings

My life has been a bit of a wild ride lately. I’m not complaining, merely observing, that having a birthday, attending two intellectual conferences (presenting at one), deciding to move half-way across the country, quitting a job and leaping into self-employment, all within the space of two months, is a lot. I’ve had to reset my thinking about the world and my place in it several times in rapid succession.

While overwhelming, I think this is good. When we become too comfortable, we cease growing; it’s these periods of rapid acceleration that help us see who we really are and uncover new potential, but boy, this has been a roller-coaster. It’s included quite a few goodbyes and hellos with more coming and, I’ve realized, this is something we’re not taught to handle, not in school, not in work, not in most of our lives.

Endings and beginnings happen all the time. From the first time we go to school (both an ending and a beginning) to our deaths (an ending and maybe a beginning) we have repeated opportunities to shed the old and embrace the new. American culture, at least, teaches us that it’s the beginnings that matter, far more than the endings, yet I think there are strong lessons to be learned from each. The last few months have really highlighted that for me.

Last week I left a job I’d held for over 12 years. In that time I’d grown, stagnated, succeeded, failed, helped and hurt the organization I worked for. Over my last few weeks at this company I had many people tell me that they didn’t want me to leave, that the place would never be the same. I didn’t really know how to respond at first but, as I thought about it, I realized this was an opportunity not only for me, but for the organization. Sure, I represented something there. Sure, I hold knowledge that may not be replaced. But my absence allows the company to look for new solutions to the holes I had filled, find new and possibly better ways to solve problems. It allows the organization to grow mindfully, just as I am growing mindfully by leaving. I take with me a wealth of experience and lessons learned - it wasn’t time wasted. It’s at once an ending and a beginning.

It’s the same thing as I leave the New England storytelling community for a cross-country move. 

This is the community that has nurtured me, held me, shaped me and helped me become the teller and person I am now. And I’ve had an impact on this community, organizing events, mentoring new tellers and so on. As I leave, there are voids that will open up, places into which others can grow. As I leave, it’s the end of a period of my life, but a new one begins. It’s a time of rich possibility. 

There is that trite saying, For every door that closes a window opens. I don’t know if this is always true, but I do know that endings create opportunity for reflection and growth that we would not otherwise receive. Endings create space we might not have otherwise noticed. Endings are a kind of beginning, if only because they provide an opportunity for a pause in the midst of an otherwise busy world. I wish we valued endings more, or at least were more willing to talk about them - even the hardest of endings give us opportunities to do what we might not have otherwise done.

The hero needs to ride off into the sunset before she can find her next adventure. The town needs to bid her adieu before they can build the next great thing. We need to cry, grieve, mourn before we can move on. Buried in each ending is possibility and the potential for new worlds. Even in midst of our own deaths, if we are lucky, there is opportunity for new experience and growth. Even as we say goodbye to those we love, we can create new stories, new memories and new relationships.

Treasure your endings and do not consider them failures. They are the universe reminding us that now is the time to grow, to go, to take wing and fly. We never know what might happen next.

Failing and Flying

Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It's the same when love comes to an end,

or the marriage fails and people say

they knew it was a mistake, that everybody

said it would never work. That she was 

old enough to know better. But anything

worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that

anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her

like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back

through the hot stony field after swimming,

the sea light behind her and the huge sky 

on the other side of that. Listened to her

while we ate lunch. How can they say

the marriage failed? Like the people who

came back from Provence (when it was Provence)

and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. 

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, 

but just coming to the end of triumph.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Cartography, boundaries and mapping my life

I sometimes think of my life as a cartographical dilemma. I am my own city-state, surrounded on all sides by other city-states. We engage in constant negotiation over boundaries. Where can we build bridges? Where would walls be more appropriate? How do we negotiate? What’s more, these cartographies are medieval maps, hand-drawn relying on instinct and supposition, story and emotion. They don’t have the distant satellite view of a modern map, though they are every bit as much influenced by politics and desire and perhaps more honest because of their individual nature. 

The metaphor falls apart, of course, when the human heart comes into the equation, as it must even on physical maps with geographical and geological boundaries. What are my personal borders? How do I reconcile their flexibility - the incursions I will accept from one person are not the same as those I’ll accept from another - with survival? The limits of those incursions can even change within a relationship - what was okay yesterday is not okay today.

I wasn’t raised with clear boundaries. It was understood that my plate would be eaten from, that who cared for whom and when was fuzzy, so perhaps it makes sense that I have tended to care for people well beyond when most would have stopped, have tended to accept more responsibility for the actions of those I love than is reasonable. 

In the last few years I’ve had opportunity to examine my own boundaries, to think about where I end and others begin with a clarity I wish I had exercised years ago. 

This isn’t an easy essay to write. This isn’t an easy essay to write in the context of a hard world, where good people are driven beyond their breaking point and need help. This isn’t an easy essay to write in this hard world, where good people will accept the help offered, and then ask for more than you can give because all they can see is their own need. 

I struggle with this last point. It isn’t unreasonable for these good, broken people to ask for more because, after all, I’ve been able to give before. I’m rarely clear with my limits because I often don’t know them until I’ve exceeded them. And even when I’ve exceeded them my tendency is to keep trying, to attempt to fix things that aren’t mine to fix, things I cannot fix because the solution was never in my hands to begin with. So, ultimately, I can’t blame these good broken people for continuing to ask for more, more, more. The responsibility really lies with me, with a need to communicate more clearly, to lay out clear limits sooner, without becoming hard-hearted and rigid. I think maybe the key lies in remaining flexible, honest and clear. It lies in understanding my own limitations which may help me ultimately be more compassionate and able to render care, because I will know when to stop before I break.

Which brings be back to maps. There is no GPS for relationships and the human heart. But, maybe, there could be maps. A good map is easy to read. It suggests a world with easy routes and boundaries. You know that this land ends here, that this road goes there.  You understand what you can and cannot cross and the landmarks you’ll see along the way. 

I am my own cartographer and must refer to my illustrated map complete with smudges and scribbles and warnings that “here there be monsters,” so I can continue to navigate these complex relationships. And I need to remember that I cannot read anyone else’s map, only my own. I can only mark my own boundaries. I can only put up my own warning signs. I can only modify my route, by my own map, as my own navigator, not by the back seat driving of someone else’s need. 

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

On failing to blog daily in December

This was not an easy post to write. It feels very vulnerable and very honest and very whiny. Feel free to skip it. Let me add that I was inspired by the Bloggess' honesty to write this. She is one brave lady.

Some of you may recall I had some pretty big aspirations for December; I was going to publish regularly in not one, not two but three blogs. To no ones' surprise I didn't manage to do this. I did get some good stuff out, but I failed in my larger goal.

I've been thinking about why, both why I set up such a large goal and why I failed. Which leads me to some thinking about blogging in general and where I may go with it. Stay with me here, I promise it's not all navel gazing.

I've written before about the tension between written and spoken language (though this post is no longer an accurate reflection of this tension for me). I identify as both a storyteller and a writer. Both art forms help me understand the world, my place in it, what I believe and help me say something to the world, though they do it in very different ways. These two identities are inextricably linked, but I find myself fighting more resistance when writing than I do when telling.

Oddly enough, standing up in front of people is less frightening that sitting down in front of the screen. There are lots of reasons for this, but one crucial piece of it is interaction. When I tell a story I can see the impact immediately. When I write that happens rarely, if ever. That's why blogging appeals to me; there is a chance that someone will feel or think something in response to my writing and they just might let me know.

As I look at this, my inner demons are telling me this may be one of the most self-centered, whiny things I've ever written for public consumption. Talk about a cry for attention! But aren't we all motivated by a desire for interaction? For conversation? For touch, for a smile, for the knowledge that what we do has an impact upon an individual or the world? Blogging makes that possible and I'm sure I'm not the only blogger who uses this form because it allows for conversation with the reader. Of course I write for my own edification, but I am not enough of an introvert that I'm content with shouting down a well. I want to know that what I say is heard.

So I think I set such a lofty goal for myself in the hopes that it would help me find an audience, that I would be able to converse with you and find out if what I say is meaningful, useful or entertaining. I also wanted to use this as a springboard to better writing habits, to understand my own thought process more, to begin work on a book; I hoped knowing I was writing for someone to read immediately would help.

So what happened? A couple of things.

1. At least in the U.S. December is a crappy month to try to set aside significant time for a new creative endeavor. The whole world conspires against you.
2. I got tired of listening to myself. I didn't rally the necessary support to write  regularly. Instead of hoping for reader responses (which isn't fair, how many blogs do I comment on? Right.) I should have simply found friends to bounce these ideas around with. The posts would have been stronger and I would have enjoyed the process more.
3. Self-sabotage, fear, intermittent depression, inner demons (who ask me why would anyone want to read this anyway, you know those voices, I'm sure) on and on and on.
4. And when these factors converged (December, poor planning, not organizing support, demons) I froze. I had nothing to say. I let other things get in the way. Doing the dishes and checking cnn became far more urgent than writing. Hello resistance, my old friend.

What have I learned?

I love this format, it's a great marriage of the immediacy of storytelling and the contemplative work of writing. I need to remember that blogging, like any other creative undertaking, can't be done in a vacuum so I need to rally support, friends who will help me be a better writer and more regular blogger. And I need to remember that resistance, in all its forms, is a damnable beast, but a coward. By doing the thing that frightens me, in this case writing this very post and feeling afraid that either no one will read it or you will all disdain me afterwards, I move forward.

And that is why this post isn't entirely navel gazing. We all get afraid sometimes. When we face our fears we often discover they aren't as overwhelming or as dire as we thought. And if they are, we can find allies to help us defeat them.

I'll keep writing. I hope you keep reading. And if you're so inclined, say "hi" from time to time. I'd love to hear from you.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

On birthdays and blessings

Today is my birthday. I have taken to writing a list on this day every year to celebrate the things in the world I most cherish, the things that help me understand my place and role, the things that simply make my heart soar. If you're interested in previous lists just go to other Octobers on this blog, you'll find them there.

I am so grateful to be in this beautiful, perfectly broken, transcendent world. And I am grateful for:

1. Each breath.
2. My lungs and heart and body.
3. My senses.
4. Luscious tastes.
5. Colors and patterns.
6. The world rushing by my ears.
7. And even the persistent whine of tinnitus, that reminds me that I am alive.
8. The scents that waft by, noticed and ignored.
9. The touch of my lover's hand, the rasp of my clothing on skin, the breeze on my cheek.
10. The beloved people in my life, known and unknown.
11. My family.
12. My chosen family.
13. My dear, dear friends.
14. And those who wander further from me, my co-workers and those I see in passing.
15. And the strangers I will never know who each have their own complexities, dreams and birthdays.
16. Story
17. Art
18. Music
19. And the wisdom to occasionally remember that these things feed me as much as any food.
20. Work. Not merely a job in these tight times, but the work of my hands and my heart.
21. Craft, the labor to make something good.
22. The places books take me to.
23. The joy of discovery. "Oh yes!"
24. And sharing that discovery. "Oh yes, and..."
25. My mind. And the range of emotions.
26. And the minds of others.
27. The resilience of my body.
28. The gifts of age.
29. Wonder.
30. Disagreement.
31. Problems to be solved.
32. And mysteries to ponder.
33. The places I will never go.
34. Wildness.
35. Water.
36. Wagging dogs.
37. Language.
38. Singing, even if others may not appreciate my voice.
39. Laughing until my stomach hurts.
40. Good food.
41. Change. The passage of time and the knowledge that things will change.
42. Silence.
43. Unexpected beauty.
44. And this life. This singular, glorious life.

Any others? 44 seems like such a short list.

I wanted to end with this picture and the reminder that, no matter how tired, frustrated or fed up we are at any one point in our lives, things will change, whether or not we want them to. We can influence most of those changes and, even if we can't, we can moderate our own responses. The person I was at 12 didn't yet know about the smell of the air in Tuscany, the joy of listening to a new storyteller, that persistence pays off. I feel so tender when I look at her, wishing I could tell her that things will get better. Someday I'll look back at the person I am now, at 44, and marvel at what I didn't yet know.

Oh, and let me add - the cat's name was Taffy. She lived to 18 and was a great friend.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

The devil is in the details - another round with identity

I've written before about identity, how we define ourselves in a multitude of ways and how those definitions change in different contexts. Lately I've been thinking about how self-definition can be shaped by the small details. This is especially true when we create general definitions of someone else (make assumptions) or when we focus in on one facet of ourselves to the exclusion of all others. This is both useful and dangerous.

For example, I was walking on the beach recently and met a woman who was very carefully picking up only one kind of shell out of the many available to her. Further down the beach I met a couple picking up a different kind of shell. Now I think of the woman as, "The lady from Michigan who likes the pointy shells," and the couple as, "The people with tattoos who like the translucent shells." They told me their names but I don't remember them. Were we to meet again it would be the detail of the kinds of shells they like that I'd remember. It's a handy memory trigger and, were I ever to encounter them again and tell them about it, they might tell me that I'm the woman from Boston who liked the shells with barnacles. True, I am, though I am also much more than someone from Boston who likes shells with barnacles, just as they are more than a woman from Michigan who likes pointy shells and a couple with tattoos who like translucent shells. We all have far more facets to our personalities. This generalization, as such, isn't particularly harmful to either of us.

Where this becomes more dangerous is when we make generalizations about someone and then don't let them outside of those boundaries - they are a nationality, a religion, a gender, a kind of shell. I'm sure you can think of many examples when this has born terrible results. We can also internalize those limitations and be bound by them. I'm a woman so I can't be athletic. I'm white so I can't understand oppression. You get the idea.

Another internal risk of definition by detail is when we take one detail of who we are and make our whole. It's where obsession and limitation can be born. Some of these obsessions can lead to amazing things. If someone believes that they are only a scientist or artist or writer then the world may be richer for it, but if they never achieve success in their chosen field, while the world won't know, their life may be full of the pain of perceived failure.

I know people like this. They wanted to be an artist, for example, but set such a high standard for themselves that anything else seems like failure. They couldn't see the other facets of their life - family, friends, career, connection - as a success, so have accepted the definition of failed artist as their only definition. With each subsequent setback in their life, whether associated with their career, their health or some other setback no different from that which any of us will experience, they retreat further into the definition of failure. By embracing only one aspect of their identity - artist (or whatever label you may have embraced), they have forced themselves into a small and airless box that allows for little hope of change. Had they been willing to pick a broader set of details with which to define their life then they might not now feel so trapped by their circumstances. It's heartbreaking to watch but not something anyone can convince them to change. Other examples of detail-driven identity that can function as trap include fear of success or failure and fear of choosing an identity at all.

Of course, we all engage in all of these detail-oriented behaviors to some degree. We all make assumptions about others, internalize external assumptions and create minute roles for ourselves. It's what we do with these devilish little details that matters. If we embrace them knowingly and with a positive cast then we can at least strive to use them for positive change ("I will be the best artist I can be, even if no one else knows") rather than turn them into our own gilded cages.


(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Identity - You are my sunshine...

My week-long series on identity was hijacked by the cold from hell. Instead of being a blogger I became a shambling consumer of tissues and cough drops.  Yuck. While identity is a topic that continues to interest me, I'm not sure if I will post on it through the coming week. Stay tuned.

For now, however, I want to look at identity in the context of other people. So far we've looked at identity through action and identity through sensory information. Both of these are ways we tell ourselves and others who we are. Today I'm interested in how we are viewed by others.

To my parents, I am first and foremost their daughter. They will always worry about me and love me as only parents can. I will always be their little girl, no matter how old I am, how self-sufficient and how capable. 

It would be wildly inappropriate for my lover to treat me the way my parents do. Instead he sees me in a completely different light, as friend and helpmate, as sexual partner and companion through life. He sees me as an adult and someone with whom he is particularly intimate.

My friends see me as someone else entirely, while my step-daughter sees yet another person, my co-workers someone else and so on.

We don different identities with each relationship, because each person with whom we interact sees us as someone different, depending on context, the power structures and roles in that relationship, its duration and so on. With luck, the person they see us to be has some correlation with who we are inside. We need to remember that our internal definitions may be at odds with someone else's definition of us and make allowances. Or not. The song You Are My Sunshine is a chilling example of what can happen when we think someone is a person they are not.

While we can never be who someone else wants us to be, it's worth just keeping their assumptions in mind. Sometimes they let us be better than we are.  And remember, the people you know may have a different image of themselves, so be kind. If you give someone the gift of being a bigger person than they are, they just might grow into it.

So, who are you to others? Do you agree? Are you a better person in their eyes?

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Identity - I am what I do

I decided to undertake this week of blogging about identity then promptly got a cold. I'm sorry that these posts are arriving late in the day, but congestion and sneezing has slowed me down.

*  *  *

Next time you go to a party, pay attention. At some point, someone will as you, "What do you do?" which means, "What's your job?"

I think the question, "What do you do?" is far broader than just your job, with greater implications for identity than simply the job we do to pay our bills, no matter how much we may love our work. An important component of identity is action - we are defined by what we do, we are remembered by the things we accomplish as well as by the more ethereal aspects of our personalities.

If I am what I do then a partial list might look like:

• writer
• storyteller
• listener
• cook
• complainer
• intermittent exerciser
• reader
• tv-watcher
• meddler a.k.a. speaks up when she sees something she thinks is unjust
• eavesdropper
• etc

While aspects of my job are on this list, my job title is not.

I have choices about these definitions, which I embrace or ignore and which I choose to identify with. I'd rather be known as someone who acts when she sees a wrong than someone who watches too much tv. But I do both. I suspect it comes down to mindfulness: The actions I undertake more mindfully feed more into my own sense of identity. I think of myself more as a writer, storyteller, listener, cook and meddler than I do a tv-watcher and complainer. I am more mindful in the first set of actions. And I hope those actions are more memorable, though I suspect it's not always the case.

Of the things you do, what defines you? What things do you do less mindfully that you'd prefer are not part of your identity? How can you be more mindful about the parts of your identity through action you want to cultivate?

If what you do helps define who you are, keep that in mind in your next set of interactions with the world. Let your actions speak for you.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Identity

I've been thinking about identity quite a bit lately on both an individual scale and as a broader theme. Who am I? How do I define myself as an individual and in a broader cultural context? To what extent am I defined by my actions, my beliefs, my connections, by some other factors? I know these are big philosophical questions and I am certainly not the first person to look them nor will I be the last, but it's an exploration everyone should undertake from time to time. This whole blog, really, is an examination of who I am. For now thought, I'm interested in how any individual answers those questions, what tools do we use and how effective are they.

Over the course of this week I'll take a look at different factors that effect identity, how we define ourselves, how we tell our story. I'm really interested in how we talk about each aspect of our identity, how we construct our identity through story. I'm trying to get away from the mammoth blog posts I lean towards, so I thought I'd break up this conversation into different parts. Each day I'll look at a different measure of identity then next weekend I'll see if it's given me any new insight.

Topics I plan to touch upon include identity in the context of: action (I do this...) , relationships to others (I am a daughter, etc), cultural context (ways we support or violate cultural expectation or what our culture expects from us) and belief (what our belief and philosophy suggests we are). Any other suggestions?

I would love your input. Navel gazing it no way to understand ourselves, so if you have any thoughts or tips, please post them in the comments section. How do you define yourself? What do you tell others when you talk about yourself or your life? What don't you tell? When do you most feel like yourself? Thanks.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer