Language Barriers

I am watching my sister teach a machine quilting class to seven Russian women, none of whom speak English. Likewise, she speaks no Russian. There is an interpreter, but even with her attempts to relay language there is chaos.

The women know the basics of the machine--sort of. Even while she sets up, though, there are many questions and multiple camera phones capture her every move.

She has no choice but to resort to pantomime. I detect some frustration, but only because I know her so well. The women just see a smile and patience.

While watching, I am also reading an email from my son, Seth. He has been in Korea one week after studying the language intensively for 9 weeks. It was not enough. He can understand very little and communicate even less. I sense in his emails a bit of frustration, although he doesn't admit it. I just know him.

I am reminded of the many times I have traveled and struggled communicating. Even now, I'm sitting in the quilt shop contemplating (writing about) my sister's struggle rather than venturing out in the city to encounter my own communication problems. I will tomorrow and the women will be very impressed by my independence and adventuresome spirit, but today I am postponing my own communication difficulties: how do I get to this place? How do I get back to my hotel? How much? Where am I? Which train?

Usually, a lack of communication is frustrating. Sometimes, though, it is enlightening. Funny how it stretches us. Even with the language difference and cultural difference, this group of women is laughing, smiling, learning, quilting, and growing. They are understanding...at least something. They are asking her to pose for pictures; they are nodding assent; they too are pantomiming. Communication, although fragmented and slow, is happening.

Language barriers naturally complicate communication, but sometimes we struggle communicating even when we speak the same language. Misunderstandings are more nuanced. We respond to tone, we are impacted by what is not said; we worry about intention and innuendo and feelings (usually our own).

Interestingly, much of this doesn't happen when there is a language barrier. We celebrate even the simplest communication. As I watch the quilting women "talk" and celebrate their success, I am struck by the idea that we ought to replicate this celebration even when speaking the same language. Perhaps if we celebrated communication, miscommunication would diminish. Perhaps if we paid more attention to when we got it right, rather than when we got it wrong, we would get more right. Perhaps we should take more joy in the simplicity of communication rather than getting bogged down by the complexity of language. Perhaps.

I will celebrate our success in effectively negotiating a price for these fashionable items!

Written 22 September 2015

To list? Or not?

It has become quite the trend to blog about lists (yep, this is me following that trend): 10 things to do (or never do); 10 signs of happiness (or unhappiness); 10 signs your spouse is cheating...

At least weekly--and I would surmise even more often than that--my social media threads suggest I read an article filled with numbered strategies on how to be better or happier or skinnier or more successful. Sometimes I read them; usually I do not.

Today my feed advertised an article, "10 Things Confident Women Never do." I didn't read it. I did, though, as a confident woman myself, ponder what might be on the list. I admit I even spent a moment composing what I believe should undoubtedly be the first item on the list: 1) a confident woman would never read a list of things confident women never do.

Looking for confirmation that you are confident is essentially a sign of insecurity. Reading a list of things confident women never do in order to strategize about how to be more confident doesn't seem a likely way to increase confidence. In fact, the list might make the non-confident woman feel less confident as she recognizes her behaviors on the list. Seems a vicious cycle. In a conspiracy theory mode of thinking: perhaps the list is in fact designed to keep readers who can only be described as insecure feeling ...  insecure (hence, keeping the demand for such an article alive and well).

As a confident woman/person (does it really matter if I am male or female?), I don't need reassurance that I conform to a list; I don't need evidence that I am actually secure. Not reading it, I believe, is a personal declaration of confidence.

But these kinds of lists bug me for other reasons as well: when advice becomes listable, reducible to a small number of must-dos (or don'ts), it generally becomes trite and useless. Case in point: David Letterman made for a career for himself, among other things, making top ten lists, lists that by their very mention invoke laughter. Lists that are nothing more than jokes. And why are they jokes? Because his writers find funny things to say? Of course. But on a deeper level, the very concept is laughable. Part of the humor is the formulaic claim that all things are reducible, listifiable, rateable, and static.

I do believe in some lists, though. Lists that are useful, lists that remind me what to buy, lists that prioritize my tasks for the day, or even lists of things I want to accomplish in my lifetime. In fact, I could be described as an "avid lister" in this regard, but I'm not really into digesting lists that are designed to make me feel good about myself, or bad about myself, or suspicious, or superior.

My current list!

Instead, I plan to focus my reading time on reading good literature, on books that compel me or articles that truly educate me. I may eventually compose an article listing my top ten reads...but probably not since I won't likely add that to my list of things I need to do.

Written August 9, 2015

Beware the Empty Nest

We're not that great at selfies, but we are great at adventuring!

Empty nest: a reality I have dreaded the last few years, knowing full well it was approaching more quickly than I could admit or wrap my mind around. People warned me about it, made jokes about it and its impending doom, and truly made me worry.

For the last 22 years, my life has revolved around the two children that we brought into the world. We hadn't had Meg for more than just a few weeks when my husband, Mitch, came home from work and began what had become our primary conversation once she entered our lives: how is she, how well did she eat, how many diapers had I changed, how much did she sleep? For some reason, it struck both of us that particular day just how much our relationship, particularly our communication patterns, had changed.  We had been together for seven years and had forged a relationship centered on shared interests, intellectual stimulation, and adventure. In a matter of days, though, all of that had been replaced by her. And when we added Seth to the picture, we had twice as much to discuss, to worry about, to focus on.

As the kids developed interests, so did we. As the kids studied for school, so did we. As the kids struggled, celebrated, and grew, so did we. Truly, our relationship centered on our common goal of investing every ounce of energy we had into raising happy, confident, competent children. And, as a result, our conversations centered almost exclusively on them and their lives (although as they aged we talked less and less about their bowel movements). In the process, we seemed to lose the first seven years of our lives together, those interests and conversations and that relationship that had been the beginning of our journey. Perhaps we could be criticized for investing ourselves so fully into parenting that we neglected our marriage. But it was a decision mutually agreed upon and consciously made. It was a decision we had never regretted.

About a year ago, knowing this day was on the horizon, we began talking about how we would fill the holes and gaps. We talked about developing new interests, taking up new hobbies, and both of us worried, I think, about living alone in the house together. We worried about what we do without the kids, without our center.

That day is here and many people regularly ask me if I am ok—with genuine concern in their voices. I feel a bit guilty that I have nothing but happiness to report. I am sad that my children are grown and that phase of our lives is over, but unexpectedly, an empty nest has proven less difficult than I had anticipated. In fact, it has proven to be fun. We have essentially picked up where we left off and our relationship is once again our focus, except now we have adult children, our beautiful best friends, to share it with.

I now believe that empty nest is the wrong metaphor and our fears were without merit. Our lives are not empty. Our home is not empty. Our relationship is not empty. In fact, the opposite is true. Our lives are more full as our children fill their nests and share them with us. I am now thinking I should warn others that an empty nest may, in fact, be something to look forward to, that an empty nest is a just reward for those wonderfully crazy parenting years. 

Oh, and as an added bonus, we can streak from the bathroom to the bedroom worry free (you know, if we forget to take a clothing item to the shower of if we change our minds about what we want to wear)!

Written January 18, 2015