Guidlines for relating with others

I don't know who Dave Packard is or why I had saved the following in my inbox but I think these 'rules' are super helpful to think about when spending time with anybody.  I'm really good at number 10.  Not so good at number 5.  And terrible about number 8.  What about you, what do you think of these 'rules'? Are there any you disagree with?

Dave Packard's 11 Simple Rules

1. Think first of the other fellow. This is THE foundation — the first requisite — for getting along with others. And it is the one truly difficult accomplishment you must make. Gaining this, the rest will be "a breeze."

2. Build up the other person's sense of importance. When we make the other person seem less important, we frustrate one of his deepest urges. Allow him to feel equality or superiority, and we can easily get along with him.

3. Respect the other man's personality rights. Respect as something sacred the other fellow's right to be different from you. No two personalities are ever molded by precisely the same forces.

4. Give sincere appreciation. If we think someone has done a thing well, we should never hesitate to let him know it. WARNING: This does not mean promiscuous use of obvious flattery. Flattery with most intelligent people gets exactly the reaction it deserves — contempt for the egotistical "phony" who stoops to it.

5. Eliminate the negative. Criticism seldom does what its user intends, for it invariably causes resentment. The tiniest bit of disapproval can sometimes cause a resentment which will rankle — to your disadvantage — for years.

6. Avoid openly trying to reform people. Every man knows he is imperfect, but he doesn't want someone else trying to correct his faults. If you want to improve a person, help him to embrace a higher working goal — a standard, an ideal — and he will do his own "making over" far more effectively than you can do it for him.

7. Try to understand the other person. How would you react to similar circumstances? When you begin to see the "whys" of him you can't help but get along better with him.

8. Check first impressions. We are especially prone to dislike some people on first sight because of some vague resemblance (of which we are usually unaware) to someone else whom we have had 

reason to dislike. Follow Abraham Lincoln's famous self-instruction: "I do not like that man; therefore I shall get to know him better."

9. Take care with the little details. Watch your smile, your tone of voice, how you use your eyes, the way you greet people, the use of nicknames and remembering faces, names and dates. Little things add polish to your skill in dealing with people. Constantly, deliberately think of them until they become a natural part of your personality.

10. Develop genuine interest in people. You cannot successfully apply the foregoing suggestions unless you have a sincere desire to like, respect and be helpful to others. Conversely, you cannot build genuine interest in people until you have experienced the pleasure of working with them in an atmosphere characterized by mutual liking and respect.

11. Keep it up. That's all — just keep it up!

A long transition

I found a succinct way to define to an expat friend of mine what it felt like for me to move to the States back in 2009.  I thought it worth sharing.

When we moved to Baltimore it felt like I was torn from my identity.  I lost a lot of what it meant to be me.

I was suddenly a wife.  I was no longer a teacher.  I wasn't a Kiwi in the sense that everybody around me was Kiwi: how I spoke and acted was now alien.  I no longer had music groups to be involved in.  I lost my church family, all my close friends, and my family no longer lived nearby.  My sole job was suddenly to support Jbird: a job nobody could tell me how to do, or train me through a degree into.  I didn't have an income or even a car.  We lived in a tiny apartment where I spent 80% of my time watching American cable TV and baking.  The ocean was there (though it isn't here) but it wasn't swim-able, there was certainly no surfing.  All of my everyday stuff was an ocean or two away, I had just a suitcase of clothes and a viola.  People assume that because our skin is white and we speak English, our culture is very similar to the American culture so they expect us to just blend in.  But it's not, and it's hard to.

It was quite different from moving to Bangladesh back in 2005.  The Bangladesh move was a great adventure.  It had an intended time frame.  I had an identity in my teaching and being completely surrounded by other expats so that my expat-ness was normal.  I had a means of supporting myself.  It was hard, but now I think it was hard in an easier way.

I don't write this to complain.  I write this to express myself, I feel almost freed by this realisation.  Of course everything is different now, I have reshaped myself and life doesn't feel so hard, or the amount of hardness in my life is a more ordinary amount. 

Banana-slam-a-grams

We've been introduced to a new game - bananagrams - and I'm hooked.  The introducees had three copies so they lent us one of them.  I even play alone on occasion and whenever I am about to spend any time with anyone, I take it with me just in case we get a chance to play.  It's really easy to explain - which is a nice reprieve from our usual rule-laden-German-board-game-fetish - and it can be a quick game, or played multiple times over a whole evening.  It also allows for conversation, especially if the people playing are not super competitive.  It's a word game, similar to scrabble, except FUN (no offence, A. McLean).  It offers lots of opportunities to play around with your letters, rearranging them into different words if needed.  Although you're competing against someone else, your word board is independent of theirs.  In stark contrast to this, when I play scrabble I often feel overwhelmed by the others' words, stuck for ideas, and then regret placements I make.  Probably some practice at it would help me but I'm so put off by it, I decline any offer of a game.   

Here are the boards my friend and I made last night while we gossiped about our husbands and ate chilli-corn bread pie out of mason jars. They may it look easier than it is.  This first one is mine - that 'c' at the top kept getting in my way last night.  I had some great stuff going with the 'x' but had to rearrange to fit in new letters as they were added.  The second is my friend's.  She won.

The truth behind my excuses

When I don't really want to do something, I often use my favourite cultural barrier excuse: They won't understand me when I approach them because even though it sounds like we speak the same language, there are so many nuances that are different, it feels like a completely different language.  It's my favourite reasoning to not doing many things and it sits on the tip of my tongue many times a day.  Pathetic, huh?  I use it more here than when I was living in Bangladesh and people legitimately came from a very different culture and spoke a very different language.  When I was in Bangladesh, everything felt like an adventure and I loved opportunities to throw myself at them.  Catching the local bus, for example, which many expats never attempted.  I would have to cover my head with a scarf and practice the little bit of Bangla that I possessed, sitting up the front with the ladies, or just squeezing in where ever there were two centimetres for space, nervously watching out the window and wondering if we were headed in the right direction.  I take that back; others were far greater adventures than I.  They understood more of the culture, were far more fluent in the language, and were more willing to get to know the locals.  But compared to some of the expats, living in their expat world, I was Tarzan.

Have you ever put something off for so long that when you finally went to do it, you realised you didn't really want to do it at all?  That in fact, all your sensible reasoning was really avoidance?  I'm currently putting something off.  This time, my verbal reasoning {what I tell people} is that I've been too busy and I have been waiting to finish school to get to it.  My inner voice reasoning {what I tell myself} is that this is a cultural thing: I'm not sure how to go about it here in the States.  If I were in NZ, people would do it in a similar way as I want to, and it would be easier.  But I realise now that the true reason is that I'm just a tiny bit nervous.  Actually, I'm significantly nervous.  But.  Others have done this before me so surely it can be done.  Plus everyone tells me now is the time!  And I will do it.  First thing in the morning.  You catch me if I don't.

A change in status

For the first two years that we lived here I was obsessed with my label, with being something {somebody} more than I was.  When we met someone new, the conversation would often start with how Jbird was here in the States to play the piano.  But then the person would turn to me and ask the big, sad question: "and what do you do?"  I grew to hate that question. 

When I pondered on what to answer, I tried to mix it up a bit.  Sometimes I'd start with: I go to the library multiple times a week, I've taken up crocheting, and I cook a lot.  I've put on 5lbs since we got here.  Or...I watch reruns of [insert current favourite show].  Because in that first year, I watched a lot of TV.  It was disgusting.  We haven't had cable TV since then and my life has been all the better for it.  I did often say I'm a teacher. But that was my least favourite answer because then I'd have to add on the visa pointers: but I'm not working at the moment because to get a job, I need to be sponsored by the company for a work visa...No, there are two types of international student visas, Jbird's doesn't allow me to work.  The other visa, the one he didn't get, allows a wife to work. etc. etc.  I made it too complicated because it was too important to me. 

Since we arrived in Bloomington last August, this hasn't been an issue because I could answer I'm a student.  It was a much more satisfactory answer to give and it also reflected how I felt about myself.  I have been doing something that helped my career and it has been great.  From last Wednesday, I'm no longer a student - so long as I pass everything.  However, I don't think I have the same anxiety that I had about who I am.  I kind of like just being me in the here and now.  At least, I hope I do.  I suppose week-one of my big status change is quite early on in the game and it's easy to be optimistic right now.

Maybe I will get some pointers by watching Jason Segel on the Five Year Engagement again.  Have you seen it yet?  You really must.  I know I've talked about this movie before but it really is my favourite.  Jason had to learn how to be himself away from the context he thought made him happy for his fiancée.  And he got really good at it, except that he didn't realise so he didn't let himself be happy.  Anyway, they work it out, and I think we've worked it out too.  Right now, I'm going to enjoy the sudden lack of deadlines with sleep-ins and not really very busy busy-ness.

Funnies from the Simpsons

My friend sent me this clip about grad students from the Simpsons.  It is our life!  I love the scavenging for bread.  It's not exactly like that, but if there's free food, Jbird is there with bells on.  If there are any left overs at said free food function, he tries to bring some home for me.  Marg: Bart! Don't make fun of grad students, they just made a terrible life choice.  

We don't hate this phase of our lives, there are lots of good things about it, but I definitely hold onto the 'phase' because that means it will end one day.

Accent-a-licious

I met the new kiwi at the music school.  He's from Wellington and his accent is heavenly.  Which is a silly thing for me to say because everybody I meet says to me: I just love your accent.  Literally everyone.  Just yesterday I spent half an hour listening to someone go on and on about the British accent, as she had decided mine was British.  And that I must be Australian.   These days I nod and smile.  I used to tell them I loved their accent too.  But they mostly didn't get it: after all, they don't have an accent.  I digress.  

His accent was heavenly and it actually made me homesick. Talking to people in NZ on skype no longer does this to me.  I'm used to being away from them, and they just sound like them, not like a Kiwi.  His was not a familiar voice but an ordinary voice.  I wanted to pack it up in box only to be opened on special occasions but the technology is not yet available and I suppose he has use for his voice. 

I didn't make a particularly good impression on the Kiwi, we barely talked.  I'll have to try again another time.  Maybe I'll get the chance to win him over with my Shepherd's Pie one day.  It should be a good one: the potatoes and beef grown here are supposed to be the best in the world.

Farewell Uncle Willy

My Uncle Willy passed away two days ago.  When there's a death and you live a thousand miles away, it's hard to believe that the person is really gone.  He was my Dad's Uncle, and was always loving and friendly.  Whenever I saw him he would want to know what I was doing and where I'd been.  Because he was always asking me about me, I don't really know much about him.  This might also be because I haven't seen much of him in the last decade.  I do remember him telling me shortly after his wife passed away from breast cancer that he missed receiving the type of physical touch that you take for granted when you share a life with someone for many years.  A gentle touch as you walk passed each other.  It's one of those things you remember someone telling you because it seems important, an observation to help you know what love is when you don't think you've experienced it yourself.  More recently, he had a lovely girlfriend who was always with him.  They were very sweet.  The two of them are sitting together in the Short family photo at our wedding.  I think that's the last time I saw them.  She will find his loss very hard.  He has also left my Great Aunty Mary - my sole living blood relation of that generation, and several children and grandchildren.  I suppose the new generation is being born and starting to grow up. 

I am courageous

I do not always love teaching.  In fact, I think I can safely say that there have been more moments where I have simply hated teaching than there have been the opposite, moments of pure joy in my profession.  Maybe it's just that those horrible moments are the ones I remember.  I have often wondered what was so wrong with me that I couldn't just get it right. Or when this 'hard phase' would pass and I would be able to teach with the ease of the experienced and wise.  

During my first, death defying year of teaching, I was told that it should take about six years to feel like I was in my own skin.  The idea of five more years of...what I can only describe as a visit to hell and back...was almost soul destroying.  Almost.  I cried a lot and then I got a new job, with some music responsibilities, and I carried on.  Into another hard year.  Then I had a six month music teaching job and felt almost cherished by the staff, and enjoyed some great musical moments, so things were a bit better.  But they weren't great.  I still felt like when it came to teaching, I was running backwards up a muddy hill.  Then I taught internationally.  It was during that time that I had my favourite class I have ever taught.  This class seemed inspired by myself and their peers and I finally felt like I was actually teaching more than I wasn't, that it was almost effortless.  Unfortunately, the thing that stands out the most about that class is that it didn't really have any children with major behaviour issues.  So then I attribute my success to that - not having to 'deal' with a naughty kid.  Having a dream class - one that every teacher dreams of.

I'm reading an amazing book about this at the moment.  It has outlined my problem as my own fear.  A fear of being fearful, a fear of inadequacy.  The author tells me I will always feel this fear, and that I should always feel it, because if I don't, I will probably no longer be trying to relate to my students.  And if I am able to embrace my fear, I will have integrity and know my own identity.  It's a beautiful book to read.  Even though it's called The Courage to Teach*, I think it's equally applicable for any profession.  Don't tell me you never feel afraid.  Or perhaps you are not aware of your fear.  

This book, and this Masters degree, and these years where I've only visited teaching for a few months at a time, have helped me know that I do want to be a teacher.  But also that it's a hard career and I'm glad for the break, for the time to study and think.  But I will be back in the classroom one day.

*By Parker J. Palmer

On handing in some work, being a klutz, and motivation

I'm handing in an essay today.  There was a point when I was proof reading this essay that I was in tears because I thought my writing was so awful.  My encouraging husband told me it's because my writing has improved a lot but so have my expectations.  My feelings of frustration come because I want my writing to be better than it is, but he tells me it's already better than other things I've recently written.  Good teaching on his part, teachers have to be motivators. This is an example of wanting to be able to do something straight away, wanting to avoid the inevitable klutziness of developing a new skill.  My lecturer had me read something about that just this week.  It seems obvious, right?  Yet if we don't have motivation, good guidance, or know how to progress, we reject these feelings of klutziness and give up.  

Back to the essay: I finished it last week but a wise sage (a.k.a.: Jbird) once said to me when I suggested I might hand something in early: Annabel, think of it as a piece of art, keep working on it for as much time as you have because it will never be perfect.  He then went on a spiel about his piano playing.  He does like to preach and he says some pretty good stuff.  Unfortunately, I'm not always patient enough to listen.  So I've read and reread this tedious piece of work for the last few days and today is 'D' day.  It's a funny journey.  Now that I'm handing it in, I'm less sure than ever that I'm on the right track.  It seems that my writing has been whittled down to the simplest terms and I've begun to wonder whether it has enough depth.  I probably know it too well. 

Only three more of these to go and I'm done with this degree.  Hooray!

Control freak...

...I am one, have you noticed?  I think it helps me feel that I have power over my life here.  I measure what I eat, how long I sleep, how often I socialise, the hours I spend studying, the amount of bible study I do, and my leisure time.  And I like it.  I tell myself my boundaries are all in perfect order and that's what makes me happy.  Jbird is a more happy go-lucky, carefree kind of person, and we often come into conflict when he wants to throw something unexpected into the mix.  I'm a pretty powerful opponent and I often/sometimes get my way. 

This passed weekend I let myself loose and somehow I felt normal, less stressed out.  I let myself enjoy spending time with some different people, and found myself relating to them on lots of levels.  Oh, and there were some stellar cooking-in-the-kitchen moments.  Life didn't feel like a struggle, in fact it was easy.  I didn't feel far from home, instead, I felt at home.  The problem was that I wanted to live every minute of it so I over did it.  Three late nights followed by early mornings, and I have to admit that I succumbed to an afternoon rest yesterday afternoon.

Oh, the glory of it.  And the guilt I felt on waking.

What do you believe?

I heard the Australian Ambassador to the US on NPR* yesterday.  He was giving advice to those interested in entering politics as a career.  He asked: What do you believe? In summary, he was suggesting that if you don't know what you believe and you are merely entering politics as a career, you could become a dangerous person.  I guess if you don't believe anything in particular, you won't stick to your guns over particular issues but will instead take whatever seems the best option at the time.

What do you believe? It's a pretty heady question.  Are they your guns you're sticking to, or has someone swayed you otherwise?  Do you stand in ovation because you truly thought the music was beautiful or because everyone around you is standing?  Do you go places because others were there first?  Buy things because others are buying them?  Love things because others love them? What's your passion?  I'd really like to know.  xx

*National Public Radio

Manky side burns and baggy sweaters

I recently went to The Five Year Engagement with Jbird.  It was nice of him to come along to a chick flick with me.  A friend of ours from our youth orchestra days in NZ is in a photo in the movie and it made me want to see it. 

If you don't know the plot, I don't want to spoil it for you, but it felt like it spoke to us both on some complex levels.  Yes, there are levels to this chick flick.  It was set in San Francisco and Michigan.  I love seeing different places in the States in movies since moving here.  This is such a diverse country, and I've often met someone from there and can then relate further to why they are the way they are.  

The main theme was the big question of the limits of compromising 'life' for your partner.  I'm ashamed to admit that I often fight poorly with Jbird, telling him I just want to go home, or life would be better if we weren't here.  I don't know if I've used it in a fight, but I have definitely thought I'm here because of you, the stakes are high, you can do better than you are doing and I feel mad.  It feels horrid, so vulnerable, to put it into words here.  The movie helped me with this.  It showed me that I have compromised, sure, but I have managed to become myself again, somewhere that I didn't choose.  If we had moved somewhere more elegant or convenient, I am sure I would have hit the same struggles that I have here and I had in Baltimore.  

I often say that these years are precious years for us, but they often just feel humdrum, boring, and uncomfortable.  If I were at home, I'd be teaching, or have a baby, and probably be feeling those same humdrum, boring feelings.  But I don't think I'd have learnt so much about Jbird or myself in the process.  I definitely wouldn't cook the food I cook, or bike everywhere I go.  I probably wouldn't know how to crochet or knit.  And I doubt I'd have started a blog or decided to finish this Masters. 

Do you want to know what Jbird says when I tell him I want to go home?  He tells me Well, let's talk about that.  Maybe that's the right thing to do.  Every time, I swear it.  It makes me kind of teary to think about.  By saying this he lets me know that even though it doesn't always feel like it, him and I are in this together, and we will get out of it together.  Lovely hubby o' mine.

The movie made me laugh, it made me cry, AND there are two great wedding scenes. People, even Jbird wanted to cry but manned up and didn't let it out.  A must-see.

Tag - you're hit

I got hit by a car when I was a little girl.  It was on Rosebank Road at that field next to Rosebank Primary and Rosebank Peninsula Church - outside Judy's house, if you're from the Short whanau*.  I had just finished attending said primary school and didn't know the teachers at the new school, giving me a sense of freedom.  I was outside of the law and I no longer needed to cross at the lights on that busy road.  Unfortunately, I didn't yet have that sense of how fast cars go, or whether I'd make it between the moving vehicles passing me.  I remember watching the car approaching, it kind of hesitated like it would stop, it nearly did stop but didn't quite, and I continued to run anyway.  

Neither the driver nor I could really believe it.  In slow motion, I kind of slid over her hood, landing on the grassy verge with a giant graze down my thigh. She couldn't take me home as she was driving a two seater sports car with a baby sitting in it's car seat.  The only other person that stopped was riding a bicycle.  I insisted I was okay and could walk, that home was only 100m away, I'd hardly been hit anyway.  I think I must have been pumped full of adrenaline.  When I got home, I was so exhausted from the shock, I climbed into my bottom bunk bed and slept until morning.  

I told my mum I'd slipped in a puddle as I ran through the rain without my umbrella.  When people asked, I continued to use that as the excuse for my torn up leg because I had a weirdly strong feeling of shame.  For jaywalking, for causing that lady to hit me, for 'bending' the truth.  

*whanau - family, NZ Maori

The dirty life in true events

On Friday, Jbird and I attended another international student event.  I am always a little apprehensive about these events beforehand, whether I'll enjoy my time, and have anyone to talk to.  The cons of going seem to outweigh the pros yet I tell myself to go and attend with a mixture of both scepticism and enthusiasm.  At least I have Jbird, he's in it for the free food and the games.  I ended up being happy I went despite my scepticism, finding a community of people that lean on each other for support and have not-being-American in common.

The event on Friday was a picnic at a 'real American farm'.  Can you hear my sarcasm?  I was sarcastic because of the need to authenticate the farm by calling it 'real' and 'American'.  I guess I'm not used to being treated alongside a group of other internationals.  I also think a lot of the people that attended may have never visited a farm before while I lived on one until I was 5 when we moved to the city.  Then I visited it bi-weekly. 

It was a family farm, not far from here. And it was exciting.  These people are growing their food they way it should be grown.  The grass grows waste high, they keep all the animals in one section of a paddock but they move them every day to a new section.  If the weather's good, it can take them up to 90 days to return to that first section.  They're eating grass the way it was meant to grow: tall with long roots.  When the animals have been moved, the roots fall off, and the chickens are put on their old section to scratch up all the seeds, preparing it to sprout fresh grass.  They're happy on that section because they're omnivores and it's covered in left-over grass seeds and bugs that have come for the dung.

Do you remember my recommendation for the book: The Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball?  It made me want to grow more than a few mere vegetables.  This farm wasn't the size of the farm in Kristin's book, but it was as inspirational.  It was neat to be on such a farm after I'd spent all that time enjoying the story of one. 

The Introduction

I just wrote a pretty nice introduction.  I don't know if I'll use it because I wrote it before I wrote any of the body of the essay, and it might read too much like a narrative.  However, at the moment it makes a lot of sense to me and I'm glad because not much of anything else was making any sense.  I like it enough to put it here just in case it doesn't make the final cut.

When considering this essay choice, it was hard to clarify what ‘cultural background’ meant.  I kept emphasising the word ‘cultural’ to myself, considering what culture might mean.  I don’t believe people are ever a single culture.  In my own life I have always identified as a Pakeha/European, it seemed essential to who I am.  Yet I moved to the USA to find that I am not that here.  Here, I use my country descriptor, New Zealander or Kiwi.  Neither ‘Pakeha’ nor ‘European’ would make sense to an American. 

It made me think: Well, what is a Pakeha?  Why are we European?  I have heritage but I know the move from rural to urban in my early life affected me in tangible ways while I'm unlikely to consider who my great-great-grandparents were.   After some research, a definition was found which satisfied my unease: “For each individual student the intersection of social class, ethnicity, and gender can markedly influence cultural practices, preferences, and prior experiences.”  (Alton-Lee, 2003).  I came to realise that the word ‘background’ needed more emphasis.  It alludes to what has been, and what is but is not necessarily seen, to influences on a life.  etc. etc.

Alton-Lee, A. (2003). Quality Teaching for Diverse Students in Schooling: Best Evidence Synthesis Iteration (BES). Wellington, N.Z.: Medium Term Strategy Policy Division, Ministry of Education. 

Democracy in life

Two of my classes are focussing on democracy in schools.  I guess it's the go-to phrase at the moment.  I think it's been a popular idea for years now, I feel as though I am very slow to catch on.

It's all about being accepting of student's viewpoints, really hearing what they have to say, taking it on board, and even portraying it in our own actions.  I was worried that it was a tad humanist, as some of the authors portray it in their humanist educational models, but I have been able to place it into my Christian world view through James' teaching of a foundational lesson in favouritism.  It's easy for us to 'look up' to certain people and to 'look down' on others too.  We don't even have to say anything to do this, we can merely think it.

I have been reflecting on my reactions to my most beloved (Jbird) and realise that I'm not always very democratic in our marriage.  It's a pretty helpful insight.  Just because I don't like something, doesn't mean it's wrong and that I need to convince him of my point of view.  I can tell him, but I ought to listen (really listen) to his point of view too.  Plus, get this, he shouldn't have to tell me what his viewpoint is, he can choose to keep it to himself.

Yes.  It took me three years to realise this. <sigh> I'm just a baby! I'm not saying I've been a dictator in our marriage, either!  Though some of you may sometimes wonder.

A legacy: don't punch it down

I got out some more Julia Child DVDs from the library this week.  The series is called Baking with Julia.  They're from her latter years and she has guest bakers in to teach us delightful recipes.  On one of the episodes, Nancy Silverton comes in to teach Julia how make a custard brioche tart with a white secret sauce and a poached fruit compote.  She had all of my taste buds tingling by the time she served it up.  It was so good, Julia Child literally cried, declaring it the best dessert she'd ever had!  You can find the recipe here.

The Baking with Julia DVDs have brought me to task about my focaccia baking.  Most recipes call for a very short rising time, and only one, but her guest lets it rise three time and then rest again.  The third rise lasts 24-36 hours in the fridge!  I was shocked to learn that punching down dough is  baloney.  It needs to be folded over, quite carefully, if you're to redistribute the yeast to its food properly, and not punch out all the air that's been building up.  I found the focaccia recipe here and have a loaf rising in the fridge for dinner tonight.  And two frozen for a later date.

A documentary I watched, About Julia, talks about her fabulous teaching style as coming from out of her not being a natural cook and having to labour to learn.  When she teaches, she knows that we need to know the intricate details.  I loved hearing this as I'm not much of a natural anything and it's easy to feel envious of others and their natural talents, especially a certain pianist in my life.  Her life is inspiring.  She didn't starting cooking until she was nearly in her 40s, it took her ten years to write her first cookbook, and her television stints were all hard work on her and her husband Paul's part.  Fame was not thrust on her, she worked hard.  

Here's to great bread and baking so good it makes you cry. 

A heart on the sleeve kind of a day

I had a little enneagram read today.  My intentions are to read about it often, to remind myself why I am how I am, but I never remember.  As usual, today it opened a tunnel of understanding which had me crying (not sobbing, just a few regretful tears) over breakfast as I tried to explain it to Jbird.  Huh.  Now, purely because I have nothing else to write about, I'm going to put it out there for you all to see.  Hopefully that won't feel too awkward.

I think I'm a number six, a loyalist.  I'm not yet willing to commit to this number because I haven't investigated the other numbers and a test I did was inconclusive.  But it does explain a lot.  Loyalists hold onto friendships and beliefs for all they're worth.  They are our safety, security, pillars of strength. Without these pillars, we crumble.  In the same breath, we are not very good at letting in new friends or beliefs, as we're extremely busy defending those old ones.

If I look at my life historically, I can remember a few snapshots of this.  The story goes that my mother picked me from school when I was five.  She said Say goodbye to your friends, Anna, it's time to go now.  <I feel as though I remember this incident, as though I can see the classroom and my first yellow schoolbag> My answer was They're not MY friends.  For Pete's sake, Annabel, they were your only friends - but they were new to me and not in my sphere yet.  At the beginning of the second year that I lived in Bangladesh, a whole bunch of newbies came in.  They were all excited about the adventure that is Dhaka.  I didn't do well making friends with many of those newbies.  I thought it was because I was tired, jaded from that crazy time, ready to go home.  I wasn't.  I was mourning the friends that had just left, writing to them every day.  Poor newbies, they didn't really stand a chance. And here I am in Bloomington, struggling to connect to people, in fact, resisting connection.  But really, I'm holding onto what has been, the communities that I have known.  Huh.  

That's not to say that I don't welcome new people into the folds of my communities.  I do, I'm extremely good at it because I believe in community.  I am a community builder.  Does that sound too contradictory?  I think this all might have something to do with why I deactivated my facebook account this week.  As a loyalist, I keep reaching out to those that I have known and loved but they're (understandably) entrenched in living their current lives.  It's time for me to live here.  Make the most of what is currently available to me.  Do I sound convincing?  I'm really trying!

Hello, happy sunshine.

As to my unwillingness to accept my number, number sixes can never make decisions without a host of people confirming their decisions for them.  So it's a pretty normal thing, really, for me not to be able to make up my mind.

A little historical detail

I was named Annabel after my great grandmother, Annabelle.  My mother didn't love the name so she took away an 'l' and an 'e' at the end.  She thought the original name was a good one for the family cow, the one you keep out the back for your every dairy need. 

Everybody called me Anna until I was 13.  I even remember talking about my name to my teacher when I was 5 - I thought the 'bel' part was a middle name, giving me two middle names.  On my first day of high school, my form room (home room) teacher asked me what I wanted to be called and I announced to the world that I had always been called Anna but I preferred Annabel.  

Most of the world didn't hear this and continued to call me Anna well into my 20s, no matter how many times I asked to be called Annabel.  I think I'd always said when asked: "My family call me Anna but I really prefer Annabel"  When I moved to Bangladesh, I didn't mention the Anna bit and I was firmly Annabel.  It works much better than my first approach.

Just before I went home last November, I sent a rather abrupt, almost shocking, email to my immediate family, who fail time and again to introduce me as Annabel.  I basically shouted at them over the interweb: I AM ANNABEL, NOT ANNA, PLEASE STOP CALLING ME THAT.  It all arose from nerves about travel, the tension that comes with planning weddings, and feeling so disconnected over here, on the other side of nowhere.   

It worked, I even got a few apologies and explanations.  On my visit home I was clearly introduced as Anna... bel (with a little pause, as they remembered).  I love you, family! Thanks for breaking an old habit for me. xx