On my morning walk I passed the site of one of our city day camps just as two camp counselors arrived for work. I assume it is Silly Hat Day at camp, because both girls climbed out of their cars wearing large, colourful hats. One girl called to the other: “What do you think of my hat? Do you love it, or do you love it?”
I didn’t get a picture of her hat, but it was a large-brimmed, splotchy, hat-of-many-colours that would challenge anyone to love it. But the camp counselor did not allow non-love of the hat as an option.
Do you love it, or do you love it?
With her big smile, she made it clear that everyone was going to have a lot more fun if they loved the hat in all its splotchy glory.
I walked on and pondered some hats I have been challenged to love. My husband has an impressive collection of hats, and some endear themselves to me more than others.
His pith helmet, for instance.
He hasn’t worn this in a while (and in no way should he take this as encouragement to pick it up again), but on really hot days in the past, he pulled this off the shelf and wore it happily. On the surface I would say I don’t love a pith helmet, but when I dig deeper, I do love that it means my husband is not a slave to fashion. I love the independence it represents. It’s practical. On the hot, humid July days we get here in Ottawa, it is the coolest head protection he could choose. In a backhanded way, I love that hat.
Then there’s this red and white polka-dot beauty.
Late last spring we had a sunny day with warm temperatures and ski hills full of snow: Spring skiing Nirvana. My husband scrounged around at the back of his closet and produced this hat. “This was the height of fashion for spring skiing in 1978,” he told me. I reminded him that this was not 1978, but, unfazed, he wore it anyway.
If you asked me if I love this hat, I’d say “No” at first, but I do love how it instantly teleports my husband back to 1978 and happy youthful memories. In a roundabout way, I love the hat.
This one is a Canada Day staple.
Yes, it is an inverted beer mug, and yes, it features the stereotypical “Eh?” expression that makes me cringe. I sigh when this one comes off the shelf, but I have to admit that everyone who sees it smiles and laughs. I love that it tells the world that Canadians can laugh at themselves, that we have the best beer anywhere, and that we live in a country fun enough and free enough that people to wear inverted beer mugs on their heads. In a surprising way, I love the hat.
This one I love without reservation.
My walk was a long one this morning, so I moved on in my thoughts from hats to other situations when it is most helpful to ask: “Do you love it, or do you love it?” Some situations seem inconvenient or unpleasant at first, but love and laughter or some other positive experience lie within.
- Sleep interrupted at 5:30 a.m., by a child who crawls in to snuggle.
- Repainting a room, to welcome friends into a new guest room.
- Getting fired from a job, right before your perfect job comes along.
- Missing your exit on the freeway, and then hearing on the radio about a traffic jam on your planned route.
- Following a misguided GPS that takes you on a long, convoluted route to your destination, along a beautiful country road with gorgeous scenery.
It’s best to not allow non-love as an option.
If we dig deeply enough or wait long enough, love surprises us where we least expect it.
On Monday I drove to a local shopping mall to pick up my daughter from work. As I waited in my car for her, I watched people and cars come and go. One woman in an SUV drove aggressively into the parking lot and veered into the last available handicapped spot. The woman, wearing a cropped top and short shorts, jumped out, tossed her highlighted hair, checked her French manicure and trit-trotted (I might say “flounced”) into the mall in her platform shoes. (I swear none of that is an exaggeration.)
I thought of all the people I know who have, or have had, mobility issues. I thought of the people who really need that spot because chemo treatments depleted their strength, or they are recovering from knee surgery, or they must use a cane or walker.
I didn’t do anything though. It happened so fast I wouldn’t have had time to, and you never know. There wasn’t a lot of her that wasn’t exposed for all to see, but maybe—just maybe—she had a disability I couldn’t know about.
Flash forward to the next day. My friend, Jo-Ann, writes The Ostomy Factor blog. (Better WITH a bag than IN a bag.) She has an ostomy bag that she calls Percy, and she writes with humour and inspiration about her life as an ostomate. In her Tuesday post, entitled “Walk a Mile in Other Shoes,” she shared an encounter she had with a woman outside an handicapped washroom. Jo-Ann’s close personal relationship with Percy is not visible to others, so an indignant woman scolded her for using a facility intended for the handicapped.
Jo-Ann responded with her usual grace and dignity. Bravo to her.
When I read Jo-Ann’s post, I breathed a sigh of relief that I had not said anything to the woman the previous day, because you never know. I wouldn’t want to be the person who reprimands another person for taking an action they really needed to take.
But. The woman the previous day had no handicapped sticker in her window. She bounced into the mall with no difficulty. I waited fifteen minutes for my daughter, and the woman did not come back out during that time, so even the lame “I’m just popping in for a minute” excuse didn’t apply. My gut instinct told me that she is one of the hapless people who prances through life with a selfish disregard for others, somehow Teflon impervious to cosmic justice (at least in this life.)
What to do with that?
I guess, day to day, we have faith that most people respect the reason and the need for handicapped parking spots. Day to day, we have faith that the people we see using them are doing what they need to do to deal with a challenge, whether that challenge is visible to us or not.
And maybe every once in a while we can take a “reminder action,” like they did in Lisbon. The wheelchairs in this photo all had signs on them saying “Be right back,” or “Just picking up something.”
“Failure made me look forward to the next game. If I had a bad game, I couldn’t wait for the next day, when I could brush off the failure and try to do better.” —Gary Carter in Still a Kid at Heart: My Life in Baseball and Beyond
The book Mindset: The New Psychology of Success by Carol S. Dweck made me look at the people around in a whole new way. The results of her studies show people approach life in one of two ways (or a mix of both): with a fixed mindset or a growth mindset.
As Benjamin Barber says it, people are learners or non-learners.
People living in a fixed mindset believe their abilities, like intelligence or talent, are inherited and fixed. They evaluate their intelligence and believe it cannot be changed. They give up on music lessons because they don’t believe they inherited the “gift” of musical talent. They document their abilities, but they don’t spend any time developing them.
When people choose to live in a growth mindset, they work at developing their abilities through perseverance and hard work.
People who live in a fixed mindset believe that when they fail at something it means they are a failure. They don’t want to be seen to fail; they perform routine, repetitive tasks they know they can manage instead of risking more challenging tasks at which they might fail.
When growth mindset people fail, they use it as an impetus to work harder and to try new approaches. Their resilience leads to success.
When I read the quote at the top of this post, I know Gary Carter had a growth mindset; his failures led him to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Thomas Edison had a growth mindset; his failures led him to lightbulbs and other fantastic inventions. J.K. Rowling had a growth mindset; her many rejections led to my favourite Harry Potter books.
Sometimes we inadvertently encourage a fixed mindset in others when we measure success only in terms of winning or losing, or when we try to protect our children from the pain of failure. When soccer teams don’t keep score so no team “loses,” or when schools hold “leaving ceremonies” instead of graduations, the result is a washout of mediocrity.
We definitely encourage a fixed mindset when we see intelligence and talents as inherited and fixed. When math teachers believe students either “get” math or not, and sport coaches favour a certain physical build over a determined athletic spirit, they pass over gold mines of potential talent.
The good news is that the first step to progressive change is accepting that we have a problem. We can ask ourselves, “Do I want to stall myself, or my kids, or other people kids, in a fear-filled miasma of mediocrity? Or do I want to keep growing and getting better and taking on new challenges even if it sometimes hurts when I fail along the way?
We can teach our kids that to fail is to succeed because that means they are out there doing something. We can teach them to feel the pain and then extract lessons from their failures. We can teach them that a single failure doesn’t define them and that there’s always room for growth.
We can teach them to do the hard stuff with excitement and not a fear of failure.
“If you only go through life doing stuff that’s easy, shame on you.” —Patricia Miranda
“Farming is the first rung on the ladder of a functioning world.” —Arjun Basu in Waiting for the Man
For no reason I can explain I dreamed about Murray McLauchlan one night this week. In a vivid technicolour dream that stayed with me even upon waking, McLauchlan crooned an unidentifiable musical tune to me and then drove away in a dented old Chevy pick-up.
I would never describe myself as a diehard fan of his. I had not thought about him in a long time. Why on earth did he pop up in my dream? I did a Google search, and the first link (after Wikipedia, of course) was “The Farmer Song.” Always one to follow signposts, I decided I needed to write about farmers.
I grew up on a farm—zero degrees of separation away from food sources. Our carrots and beans sprouted in our large garden, our meat sources pecked seeds in the barnyard or oinked in their pens, and our milk delivery systems chewed their cud in pastures outside our windows. Few things in this world beat the taste of a carrot plucked right from the soil, or the sound of milk spray striking the metal side of a milk pail, of the sight of cream rising to the top of that frothy pail of fresh milk.
Because I grew up so close to the soil and the animals, I have me an appreciation for the work involved in cultivating our food and for the people who do that hard work. As the number of degrees of separation grows between the consumers of food and the cultivators of food, that appreciation dwindles. In our increasingly urban society, where the people who eat our food never come in contact with the source of it or don’t understand the work involved in nurturing it, it is easy to take food for granted.
When a minister friend of mine (who also grew up on a farm) led a children’s time discussion at his church, he was shocked when none of the children in the circle around him had ever seen a cow standing in the shade of a tree. Some of them had never seen a cow, never mind one under a tree.
Arjun Basu describes farming as “the first rung on the ladder of a functioning world.” The first rung. In other words, before we can climb any higher or do anything else, we must begin with the soil. We must be fed.
It’s summer here in Canada. The strands of wheat and barley in our fields wave in the breeze, and the corn stalks reach for the sun. Local berries, fruit and vegetables ripen on the vine. Spring-born calves grow bigger every day and will soon be weaned from their mothers. Chicks, who have long since lost their yellow downy fuzz, flap their wings and squawk at scattered seeds. Men with calloused hands and dirt-stained fingernails squint their eyes and survey their fields. Women swing up into the driver’s seat of tractors and make their way to the back forty. Children wander into the garden, bend and pluck a carrot from the soil. They brush off the dirt and take a big bite, and there’s nothing like it.
When you eat dinner tonight, thank a farmer.
On April 25, 1949, LIFE ran this article about Augusta (Gussie) Moran of California. Under the headline “Gorgeous Gussie” they wrote: “If good looks could be translated into points on the tennis court, the girl above would probably be the Wimbledon champion this summer.” And further: “Although duly impressed with her skill, sportswriters were careful to note that Miss Moran has lively green eyes, the face and figure of a movie starlet and is the most attractive raw material they have to write about for some time.”
“. . . attractive raw material . . .” I mean, really.
The LIFE writers had a negative effect on Moran’s life. She did qualify to play in Wimbledon that year, but media coverage focused on the ruffled pair of white short-shorts visible under her skirt. Visible underwear was a first for Wimbledon, and it created plenty of tittle-tattle. Even British Parliament debated the scandalous ruffles.
In a 1988 interview with the Orlando Sentinel, Moran said, “I was embarrassed . . . because they were putting so much adulation on the character, ‘Gorgeous Gussie’. You know, I was really never anything to write home about. I was a plain girl. But LIFE magazine ran a picture calling me Gorgeous Gussie, and the British picked it up and did a real job with it. Then people would see me and I’d hear them say, ‘I’ve seen better-looking waitresses at the hot-dog stand.’ I just went to pieces. Emotionally, I couldn’t handle it.”
If only they had stuck to writing about her powerful forehand.
Tomorrow Eugenie Bouchard plays in the Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Final. Our Canadian player makes headlines for her meteoric rise in the rankings, her aggressive style of play—and her stunning beauty.
Last year’s Wimbledon champion, Marion Bartoli, made headlines for her unusual serve, her use of two hands on both forehand and backhand—and her less comely appearance.
Genie Bouchard and Marion Bartoli play tennis differently but successfully, and their physical attractiveness has nothing to do with it.
My friend’s daughter danced competitively. Most days she didn’t wear make-up or fuss with her hair, but for dance competitions she applied stage make-up and styled her hair perfectly. When she put on the barely there outfits so common in dance, people said, “Oh, you look so beautiful!” She said, “Don’t tell me how beautiful I look. Tell me how well I dance.”
Whatever happens on Saturday, don’t tell Genie Bouchard how beautiful she looked; tell her how well she played tennis.