Week Eleven WooHoo - Further down Abbey Road.... Here comes the sun! ......Oh, it was there all along.... WooHoo!

Money, money, money, money.... Money!

Boy, oh, boy.  This week called forth a few of the good old days!    The week started out with a tattered memo from 1996, hidden inside a stack of old pictures my mother-in-law was sorting through and unloading.  She unloaded them into my memorabilia pile. Why she had it, or that it was even around after all these years, is beyond me.   At first I thought it was some kind of cruel joke rained down on me by my guardian devil.  I could see the vengeful little guy’s eyes sparkling in evil delight as he set before me a vision of the money bags of days gone by, slashed to ribbons...coins scattered along the path of way back then.  The memo announced glad tidings of great joy!  It read:  Due to my accomplishments in areas of teamwork, successful completion of goals and projects, and attitude, I would be receiving a yearly bonus. This might not seem like a noteworthy tidbit of information, except the bonus alone exceeded the wages I received in  2011.  That was comprised predominately of unemployment with a little part-time job in the mix.  Uh, oh... I  feel myself slipping into my “fed up” American mode.... Despite what certain congressional leaders think, (they shall remain unnamed because being kind and Zen is more important to me than jumping on my bandwagon with specific names and incidents),  most folks find it not only impossible to live on unemployment, they also don’t particularly savor the stress and feelings of failure, depression and overwhelming fear that accompany the loss of job and income.  Particularly when you are the sole income.  Simply by virtue of receiving unemployment, reflects that you DID work and pay into it, and should receive it, guilt free.   It’s like any other kind of insurance, you don’t really want see your house get blown to smithereens or receive a cancer diagnosis, either, but if it happens, you get some degree of help, because you have contributed to the pool.   I’m not a bleeding heart, but I do wonder who cut the hearts out of many of those Greedy Bastards (a plug for Dylan Ratigan’s book here) hanging out in our nation’s capital.  Yeah, greed is an issue, but narcissism seems to be a bigger one; lack of empathy, sense of entitlement, and selfishness must be the traits that magnetically draw so many political contenders these days. 

Ouch.  I digress.....

I remember so clearly, when I got that bonus 15 years ago.  It was a major WooHoo for myself and my husband.  Two phenomenal vacations in one year followed, as well as a  Merry Christmas for all!  Mr. Congressman... I ask you.... Why wouldn’t I want to return to that kind of prosperity as opposed to sitting on my ass collecting your generous handout of $180 a week?  I wanted an opportunity and a job, not your financial support. 

 For a minuscule amount of time, I played in the mud of those ugly thoughts.  Comparing my life today versus my life in 1996.  I played it all the way out though, and discovered a boat load of gratitude.   Along with that rather substantial money bag, came 70 hour work weeks, sleepless nights, daily internal battles between doing the next right thing, or prostrating myself at the foot of the bottom line, at the expense of hardworking others.  Many of my acquired responsibilities were so great, there was no room left on my overburdened shoulders for any sunshine to fall. My husband was dying and I was worrying about cutting our average customer call time by 25%?  Or, how many employees we could lay off by going to an automated tracking system? 

Rather than linger there, I switched to more creative, loving, right brain thoughts and relived the two trips that evolved as a result of those funds, pre- cancer.  I recaptured the adventure, and again felt the pure joy in spending quality time with someone you love.  The dollars afforded that opportunity, then.  The Princess treatment the Christmas before diagnosis was pretty phenomenal  too.  I was showered with diamond tennis bracelet, Coach purse, silk lingerie, and expensive perfume, one of his last shopping trips.  It was nice to remember that, especially the softness in his eyes at being able to give that pleasure.  His intent was to make it memorable.  It was.  That’s what I chose to let my mind linger on when my financial abundance of days gone by tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey, look at this!”  Thank you to my guardian angel for playing those tapes louder than the ones whining the sad old country and western tune. 

Paul is dead.... Dead is Paul..

Another great walk down the lane was a Friday concert, a tribute band playing the Beatle’s Abbey Road.  As I sat in the audience swaying to Octopus’ Garden, and banging out my best Ringo Starr impression,  I was reminded about all of the hullabaloo about this album in my teenage years.  Rumor had it, Paul McCartney was dead.  Killed in a car crash, and the band was keeping it a secret.  Shhhhhhhhh...... But, embedded in the words of the songs... if played, very slowly, (or backwards), was this cryptic message, “Paul is dead.”  Another clue, was Paul’s barefoot status as he crossed the road with the other band members.  Dead people are buried barefooted in England.  Of course, Ringo was dressed like an undertaker, George was the grave-digger, and John, a sort of evangelical minister.  My friends and I just ate up this hype and rumor and took note of every little piece of evidence that lent credibility to Paul’s unfortunate demise.  We laughed about it at the concert Friday.  When I came home, I rediscovered a picture from those teenage years of my life.  That time in my life was also fraught with trauma, drama and some really negative family dynamics.  There weren’t a lot of good memories I wanted to recall.  My, oh, my twice in one week,  I got to choose whether or not to play,  find the gratitude.  I switched on Abbey Road in my head.  Who was that  hippie wanna-be in that picture with the head of hair, flowy peasant skirts, and barefooted.  Who was the guy who looked like one no parent wants their child to bring home?   I chuckled at the picture and the memories it too evoked. I made a lousy hippie.  I didn’t even like the guy.   I was way too clean, orderly, and fashion conscious.  Never really did like the look of those peasant skirts, and dirty bare feet, well, way too prissy to endure those any longer than this photo-op image.   But, it was fun (and cool)  to "act" the hippie; be young and fully alive, expressing opinions and independence and breaking away from establishment (my parents), investigating the world around me and the politics of my day.  I felt a part of changing history, unlike any other generation.  That’s the memories I choose.  

How do these two unrelated incidents relate to my woo-hoo for the week? 

Our lives are constantly changing.  Sometimes we perceive the changes to be positive, and others, negative.  Yet, contained in all of life's moments is the opportunity to see the good.  Life is just a giant classroom. Every lesson, no matter what has some recess thrown in to remind us life is meant to be lived joyfully as well.   It's up to us, to find the recess in all of those milestones in our lives.  It makes it easier to understand what the lesson was and helps us to move onto the next grade level.  

Does the phone date me?  Feet only a
bathtub could love! 

Oh, I failed to mention, we selected the “cheap seats”.  The last two rows of the balcony, two hours before the show, $10. Those days of big bonuses have dried up for me, at least for now.   And, after all,  those were the best seats in the house in my mind!   I could have even taken my shoes off and gone barefoot, like Paul.  It made it easier too for me to showcase my very best Ringo impression,  pounding out the beat on the empty seats in front of me. 

Here's to letting our thoughts drift to recess... always!   WOOHOO!