Cemetery Visit

 

Tales of Scarlett

 

Eliminating the Word “But”

I worked to eliminate the word “but” from my communication long ago. It’s been so long I can’t fully articulate why. I know it’s poor communication. Consider, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings but…”  When I hear that I know the message is insincere. The person isn’t taking responsibility for their action; doesn’t truly know its impact; and is likely to repeat it.

The use of “but” is also marker when observing others at work. By noticing who uses it, I can gauge their effectiveness. It can be a simple and revealing tool. Recently, I came across this explanation:

A very smart woman I worked with once told me that if eliminated the word “but” from my professional vocabulary, l'd find greater acceptance for my ideas, and greater cooperation from my team members. She said people would have a very different perception of me if I could change this one thing.

The reason, she said, is because the word “but" negates everything that precedes it, and you cast a negative spin on anything you say when you use it. Consider, for example, "We can do it this way, but it'll be way too expensive given our budget," versus "We can do it this way, and if we do, we'll need to cut back on other important features." The first indicates that we can't even consider the option. The second acknowledges possibility and describes consequences.

"But" is exclusive and isolating, “and" is inclusive and welcoming. She was absolutely right, and it's advice I have used with great success for the past 30 years of my life.

[Author unknown]

Joceile

6.18.22

Switching off the Lamp

Contemplating the final act in last night’s dream brought to mind LAMP. The License Application Mitigation Project (LAMP) was an information technology (IT) project in the Washington State Department of Licensing (DOL) in the 90s in an effort to consolidate IT software programs into a consistent, cohesive program across multiple IT services within DOL. (Did I lose you already?) Imagine, for example, the driver’s licensing program written in software language that can no longer be effectively changed after decades of tweaking. It can’t access vehicle licensing nor cross reference it in any way as vehicle software was developed separately. Neither could communicate with the other. (Whose dang abandoned car is this? Where does the fool live now? Or, we’ve lost Joceile Moore. What’s the license number for her vehicle?) Getting information from one system to the other required ridiculous amounts of staff time. 

This hamstrung overall systemic changes, law enforcement requests, and other entities needing information. (Systems that couldn’t communicate with others of their kind sound very quaint now.) Millions of lines of patched code created ongoing bugs and glitches requiring hours of correction and tinkering by IT professionals (at a very high rate of pay, I might add) which required inserting additional lines of code. (I am not a software engineer. This is my lay understanding so don’t quote me.) LAMP was the first of its kind for the department though not the first large scale attempt for state government. The legislature approved money for the project. (The acronym stuck but I had to look up the words behind it.)

I joined Personnel (now called human resources or the universally beloved term “HR” by employees everywhere) at DOL in December 1995. As a personnel officer, I supported the IT division but not the LAMP project which was a separate entity with its own budget, staffing, and leadership. I worked with personnel officers who supported project employees. Staff from the project and IT overlapped and transferred between divisions based on staffing needs. LAMP was allowed to hire contract workers with limited rights and no union affiliation. (My part-time position was originally funded by LAMP. Each employee position in state government is funded by a division budget. Because I didn’t directly support LAMP, technically my position shouldn’t have been funded out of that budget. But, who was checking? My management had dire labor needs and I had dire employment needs.)

Staffed by skilled professionals, LAMP was plagued by missed deadlines and cost overruns. The work was incredibly complex. A change here affected others down the line requiring follow up and correction. (If one wanted to create endless high paying opportunities, this was a trough. Of course, this was never the case.) Project employees were under constant pressure, long hours, and continued threats that time was running out from state leadership, an oversight board, and the legislature. With each passed deadline, the agency pled for more time. Three more months led to six which led to twelve. Completion was always on the horizon.

Employees and managers I respected were involved. With a heavy heart, agency leadership was forced to terminate the LAMP project before completion prior to the year 2000* resulting in loss of employment for many, contract terminations, and layoffs. Agency employees were dispirited. (Cynics would say it had wasted millions.) Personnel assigned all its staff to manage position reductions and determine lay-off options for individuals. (Notifying employees of lay-off options is also known as the second worse job in human resource management.) Many employees’ only option was termination. (Known as the worst job human resources.) I was tapped to support staff facing employment uncertainty. (Eventually, I pointed out to my supervisor I was also facing employment uncertainty as my position was entirely funded by the condemned budget. “Oh, I never thought of that,” she said. “Do you need support?) The project director was a respected and beloved man. (I’ve forgotten his name.) He was kind to me (and approved my funding). He became ill towards the end. I don’t think he lived long after.

I have memories of many good people leaving by the end of the century. Planning for Y2K also affected massive numbers of records. With calendars flipping to the year 2000, Y2K ended with either much ado about nothing or such success that some believed it had never actually been a threat. [For the younger generation, Y2K related to results of a long standing software design identifying years by only two digits. The original design economized limited early computer processing power and memory. As the year 2000 neared, a software reckoning approached. Dates would be interpreted incorrectly by computer systems worldwide. Anyone born in 2001 would be mistaken by computer programs as born in 1901, a nightmare for driver’s licenses and any other data referencing dates.] 

Into the this timeline, I start my dream... 

We were in hour 28 of a new IT crisis. We were short staffed. Anyone who could handle a keyboard was enlisted to help. It was beyond the capabilities for many staff who’d been roped in. Supervisors were on vacation. Staff were elevated in the emergency for positions they weren’t qualified for. We were recording everything so we’d know later what we did for people who knew what they were doing to backtrack and fix later. We couldn’t let anyone go for poor performance because we didn’t have enough bodies. My laptop memory was filling up. All our laptops were running out of memory. (Could this be a metaphor?)

Finally we started calling IT employees who had left the agency for one reason or another years or decades prior to come back and help. I was discovering them with laptops, commandeering unoccupied offices and other available spaces, trying to keep things moving. Glad to see so many of them, I was still intimidated by their brilliance. When I was leaving for a break, former employees repeatedly came to the door needing help with access because they no longer had keys. (We didn’t have keycards.)

I greeted them with surprise and delight because I hadn’t seen them in so long. I met an old friend at the door. “Wow,” I said, “It’s like I’m in the last season at the end of a long series when they bring back old characters in a dream sequence.” (If you’ve ever been tortured by “Grey’s Anatomy,” you know what I mean.)

With a wry smile she said, “That’s because we are.” Suddenly, I knew she was right. We were in the last season of a long series. 

Exhausted, I remained outside. Walking through city streets, there was social upheaval all around. With the usual commuters in buses and cars competing with bicyclists and pedestrians, stunned refugees in various states of clothing threaded their way with backpacks, rolling luggage, and occasional grocery carts filled with worldly belongings. 

I met a friend in this throng of humanity. It was literally and figuratively an uphill climb. Ultimately, I was in a car following packed cars around a great coast of flat wastelands. Unable to understand why cars continued to follow the road, I veered off. It looked smooth but was in fact a dense, sticky combination of oily sand and mud. The car slowed and lost traction. “Oh,” I thought, “this is why no no one goes out here.” Before getting stuck, I worked the car back to the road, continuing to follow others into an uncertain future for me, my partner, and my child. 

Does the dream mean anything? It’s hard to know other than we’re in for a rough ride. I’ll hold onto those I love and be kind to those I don’t as the only sure course in the road ahead. Who will do the same? I can only hope they show up at the door so I can let them in and get them settled to help in the crisis. 

In a plea for Life, reporting from the front.

Joceile 

6.11.22

(2022, that is.)

[Foggy red lake sunrise signaling bad weather ahead.] 

• https://archive.seattletimes.com/archive/?date=19970322&slug=2529983

The Lunatic

I often feel like I live with a lunatic.  No, not Ronnie.  It’s that person I have to hang out with all day and all night for my entire life.  It’s me.

I live with the obsessions, random thoughts, anger, and passion. The repetitive stories, memes, complaints, dismay, complexity.  I get to hear it all and for what?  Just a life well lived?  When did I say yes?

Does a life well lived make up for it?  The carrying-on, the whining, belligerence, bad behavior, insensitive spoken words, and all the rest?  Underlying it is the voice asking, “Why?”  “Why do my feet hurt?”  “Why did my car get dented?”  “Why do I love this fraying shirt so much that can’t be replaced?”  Why, why, why?

Or does the love, a kind gesture, or a listening ear even when I’d rather howl, become a gift freely given that counts most in the physical world and that of the soul?

Do these things balance out even though I live with the person that can’t explain the mystery of life, or why I hurt so bad for no reason, and why I want to slug inanimate objects, or pull out my hair?

As if this weren’t enough, she’s also busy in her virtual reality. Her dream world is not observable by others but very, very busy including most Popular Annoying Moments, Scariest Worries, and Regurgitating the Past with Nazi Appearances and other Frightening Creatures. (I’m so grateful I never saw a zombie movie.) Sprinkled in are Murder Mysteries and Great Spy episodes with me starring as protagonist. I didn’t know I could play a clever secret agent man or an indomitable Sherlock Holmes. I wake up to just get peace and quiet. 

The lunatic has problematic play lists for daytime hours too.  Greatest hits include, “Most Embarrassing Moments,” “Biggest Mistakes” and the most popular, “Best Bad Decisions.”  Please, amnesia would be good right now.

In all this, if I sit quietly, I can feel the love inside, the desire to do good or at least do no harm, the knowledge or belief, if you will, that I am part of the earth and no more important nor less important than the smallest of life.

The lunatic often apologizes to inanimate objects or what some people would consider non-sentient  beings. I had an influx of tiny sugar ants on my desk. The lunatic hated to kill individuals and apologized to each one when forced to do so. After treating my desk and finding a dozen or more dead, the lunatic had a memorial service. I have to be vigilant in keeping her from taking me altogether down Crazy Street. 

Awhile back, I made a file folder called, “The Good Things” so when I’m feeling blue I can reflect on them.  It includes nice things people said or wrote to me; text exchanges; and my written remembrances of conversations about qualities of mine that felt good. My daughter cites a statistic that for every negative comment, it takes ten positive comments to erase that one powerful negative.  The folder could be my ticket out of regret lunacy.  Put another way, it keeps the lunatic focused on good things when I need a break. 

In addition, the lunatic thinks I’m some kind of writer. She’s forever taking notes, writing things down, electronically filing email exchanges. She thinks she’s a reporter at Life’s front. She pesters me to write things down anywhere, anytime, and thinks she has to report them to the internet newsroom. There’s only so much I can do with this kind of lunacy with a front row seat 24/7. 

I think we all have some version of that chatter. We give different names to that inner Critical Voice. Still, who is going to turn off this ghastly noise in my head?  I breathe deeply.  I meditate.  I gratefully watch the water, trees, birds, bugs, and mountain in the land of my birth.  In a final desperate distraction, I watch a Mets’ baseball game or a Monte Python movie.  I still hear those thoughts, “You should have bought that.”  “Didn’t you feel ashamed?”  “That was a big mistake.”  “How long are you going to hold onto that?”

They say the only way out of life’s problems is through them.  That’s no joke.  I gotta keep living this life.  I’ll see where it goes and where it ends.  In the meantime, this shit is hard work.  I don’t remember signing up for this. 

I’m still looking for the 1-800 number to express my dismay.  If I find the number, I’ll probably be on hold for a century.  That’s how they get us to buy into this life.  We can’t get a hold of customer service to resolve our complaints.

To Life.

Joceile

4.5.22

 

[Picture of me and cat, Scarlett, while I try to get a grip on the lunatic. There’s no certainty Scarlett has an internal voice like mine. The creep!]

Today in History

May 19, 1972. Fifty years ago, a junior high school counselor had spent three days researching with the district psychologist the best course of action for an extremely suicidal, intelligent, anorexic student she had worked with for the past year who could no longer stay safe with equally unsafe, divorced parents. On this day, the counselor obtained permission to drive the 14 year old Joceile to Child Study and Treatment Center, a part of Western State Hospital, to commit her/me. That was the summer I woke up from a childhood nightmare to a life that finally belonged to me. Fraught with continuing danger, I began my travels to the land of mental health that last to this day.

I was in that psychiatric residence for five months. To many people, this would be an event happily blotted out, forgotten, never to be revisited.  To me, it is annually celebrated as the beginning of my healing.  It’s not that Western State Hospital was perfect and didn’t have it’s therapeutic problems.  It’s that it was also five months of firsts in a long, painful experience with adults working to keep me safe.  

One example is that I learned how we all give cold pricklies and warm fuzzies to others.  Of course, they are silly names used for children’s learning. But it was a concept for identifying how we treat others. An outcome was learning for the first time that I could ask for a hug (a warm fuzzy) from adults I trusted and get a safe one in return. I could also give one. What a revelation for a kid starved for safe, unconditional affection!

There were many other firsts.  Some profound.  Others less so but memorable.  Group hiking trips, train rides, movies, walks, shopping trips, and backpacking with staff who truly cared.  These all happened in the company of a small community of 14 to 17 year old girls and a diverse staff whose job it was to look out for us and us for each other. (I’m sure not every patient saw it that way.) I remember going to the Puyallup Fair with eight to ten girls and staff. I couldn’t not keep track of the other girls. I remember a staff member looking to me when looking for a missing girl and I’d gesture to where the girl was last seen. It was an overdone strength, impacting my enjoyment of the fair, but I had to look out for our safety. It was emblematic of the struggle for my own safety. 

I have only four pictures of me in that transformative summer. This is the me that held on bravely and took each step that presented itself without knowing the final destination. In October 1972, I was discharged to go live with my beloved grandparents. Taking in a troubled teenager is another act of great bravery and love. Joe and Lucille are gone but their love surrounds me. 

I am filled with gratitude to my 14 year old self for her breakout contribution to a life well lived and to all of us who continue in life by putting one foot in front of the other, embracing love for ourselves and those we come in contact with. If love is a religion, it’s mine. We can’t know another’s path but we can assume they need kind regards as much as we do. 

Reporting from Life’s front. 

Joceile 

5/19/22

The story can be found here:  https://joceile-memoir.blogspot.com/2018/12/entry-1-july-28-1986.html

Pictures:  1) My counselor, Jerry, and I in the woods. 2) A volunteer, me, and a patient on the campus. 3) Me at the ocean. 4) Me after the girls badgered me into letting them put eye make-up on me—never again!

Scarlett’s Words to Live By

Scarlett, Queen of the Cat Empire, has deigned to teach me her magical secrets of success. Those of her kind frequently reiterate them. She whispers them in my ear. Just listen:

“Now is a good time to nap.”

“Nap now, not later.”

“Long naps are the answer to peace and tranquility.”

“Aren’t you feeling nappish?”

“If you wake up, you can always look forward to a nap.”

Scarlett says, “This is how those of my kind have ruled since we came upon those of your kind.”

According to Scarlett, this is my retirement plan. She doesn’t care about 401Ks, pension plans, Medicare, or social security. (She might if she was paying the bills.) As for me, I’m so tired that if you plugged me in as a 250 watt lightbulb I’d have the brightness of a 30 watt bulb. Maybe Scarlett has something here. After all, those of great royalty should know.

Joceile

5.12.22

[Picture of Scarlett, a cream colored long haired cat with tabby markings on her head, laying on a blue comforter. Her blue eyes are half open with undisguised wisdom.]