Even though it's common to almost everyone under my age who sits at a computer, blogging is a new journey for me. I met someone at a professional event for publishers and writers this week who put me in my place. First, when I told her I was "thinking about" some different writing projects, she said, "Thinking about it isn't enough. You won't do it. To do it, you have to do it." Duh! (I didn't really say that. My brain just went into the lingo of teens, around whom I spend the majority of my time.) Second, she handed me a sassy-looking business card and told me to check out her blog.
Result of the conversation? Now I'm doing one of those projects -- starting a blog, not just thinking about it. As soon as I can put together an idea for business cards, I can hand them out with attitude, too. Easy enough, at least enough for the first baby step.
Today's Teacher Pets story: If You Get Yourself In, You Can Get Yourself Out
When I heard the frenzied scratching by the kitchen cupboard, I figured that Ginger, my seven-year-old Tonkinese cat, had simply wound her way through some of the large bowls and casserole dishes stored there and couldn't quite figure out what to do next. Instead, I discovered with dismay that she had somehow gotten stuck between the back of the cupboard and the wall. After about an hour of occasional wild-sounding meows and more scratching, reminiscent of an Edgar Allan Poe story, and without having figured out how she ever managed to find her way behind the cupboard, I called the humane society to see what I should do. As an after-hours caller, I was referred to the sheriff's department non-emergency line, which referred me to the fire department.
The fire captain gave me the standard "cat talk."
"Lyn," he said, "we can come out if you want us to. We can punch a hole in your wall or whatever it takes, but here's what we have found out over the years. Time after time, when a cat is stuck in a hole or up a tree or in a cupboard or wherever, it won't stay stuck. If she found her way in, she will find her way out."
In short, he advised patience.
Two and a half hours of patience later, I finally noticed Ginger's face poke out of a small hole in the cupboard by the sink. How she got in, I don't know. How she got out, I saw. She finally snagged her paws over the edge of the wall and hauled herself, slipping and sliding, back through the space. She shook herself off -- perhaps with a "Thank-God-that's-over" shrug -- and then proceeded about business as usual as only a cat can do.
I have thought often about that statement the fire captain made: "If she found her way in, she will find her way out." It applies to my own life, too, especially in terms of spaces where I have no business going or spaces where I don't quite fit. I might find my way into someone else's problem to solve, taking it on as my own. I might find my way into a situation where I don't belong, either physically or ethically. If I find myself in those spaces by accident, it's one thing. If I go there intentionally, it's another. If my desire to help someone I care about takes on the flavor of control, then I don't belong there. If my desire to keep job security begins to compromise my professional standards, then I don't belong there. Ginger's In and Out Lesson applies.
If I found my way in, I can find my way out. I may have to stay stuck until I'm extremely uncomfortable. I may take some time to poke around before I stick my head out of the dark spaces. I may have to stretch my limits or scratch and claw, but I will emerge on the other side.
Then I can proceed, perhaps not with business as usual, but with a new outlook.
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