Three Levels of Creative Ideas

Creative:
I wish I had thought of that.

Outstandingly Creative:
I want to meet the person who thought of that.

Oh MY GOD! Original and Creative:
If I thought my whole life, I never would have thought of that.

—me strauss Letting me be

Becoming a Person

When I was about 16, I noticed that kids who didn’t go to my school didn’t know that I wasn’t cool. It took me totally by surprise. I already had resigned myself to a life of being hopelessly uncool forever. I would marry a hopelessly uncool guy and have hopelessly uncool kids. I was pretty sure that was how the world worked.

Yet in a couple of trips to Chicago, I found out that the universe is so big, no one could figure out one set of rules for who is cool. Their rules were way different from ours—God forbid they should show up at my school in their white socks—and the school two blocks away had yet another set of rules. What a relief it all was.

Years later though, I noticed that sometimes I acted like someone might find out that I really wasn’t cool. Even when I had moved 150 miles away from the kids at school, I still had their ideas in my head. The real world might not have believed those thoughts, but I still did. I had to get to know myself all over again.

Today people would probably call it re-inventing myself. But that would be wrong. Anyone who’s been in high school knows you have to be a unique individual to pick who you are the first time around. So I think of it as becoming a person.

I’m not sure I’m finished yet.

—me strauss Letting me be

The Oak Tree by the Riverbank

The majestic oak tree holds court on the riverbank at the border of my childhood backyard. Even now it stands so tall, holds its leaves so high, that I still have to stand back and look up to see them. The barrel trunk, covered with gray-black bark, must lead some folks to think it looks old, rough around the edges. Those folks have never been friends with a tree.

To take in this tree properly was a ritual I perfected before I was four feet tall. Start watching 30 yards away. Let the tree grow in view as I walk out to join it. I was the camera zooming in on the character of this single straight and stately tree that was guarding the gateway to the river. The oak, with its perfect crown, was indisputably king of that river landscape. Though my heart had no words, I knew I wanted to be like that tree: strong, firmly-rooted, and straight about who I am.

The big oak was my friend, my refuge from people who talked too loudly, too abruptly for a painfully shy little girl. It was calm and comforting, ready with shade and a place to be. It was a thinking tree, a dreaming tree, a watching the world and learning tree. It was a place for being a butterfly with my eyes or for watching my big brother mow the lawn to look like a baseball diamond.

Most times I went alone, leaving the world to do whatever worlds do. Sometimes I would lay back looking up through the leaves at the sky for hours. Sometimes I would go every day and then not go for weeks. I never worried about that tree. It always was and always would be.

On the riverbank in rich black dirt lives a benevolent tree--a king with a perfect crown--strong, rooted, and utterly itself. Like a person, that exact tree could not have happened anywhere else. Somehow that tree had come to be in that place for me. I know that the same way I know that I'm the only one who ever hugged that tree. It was near. It was free.

I grew up. I couldn't take the tree with me. Which is not to say I thought about it. I didn't think about the tree--until I needed space to breathe.

Now I know I didn't look at that tree enough. I didn't sit to watch butterflies enough. I didn't lay back to look up through the leaves enough. To me that tree would always be there. I was right. That tree is still there.

I am not.

Other people visit houses where they once lived.
I go back to visit that tree.

—me strauss Letting me be

Grace and Humanity by Being

A sweet, young child from Korea, a promising young writer, came to this country when she was 10 years old. Her heart is a soft melody, her soul adding the softer sound of harmony. Yet, she could not express her gifts, for the journey had taken her language from her.

In the 11 or so years before we met, the child learned her new home, her new culture, her new language. She learned to read again and proved to be a beautiful writer in her second language. She became a woman, a college graduate. Today she works in design, always weaving her quiet song into a thoughtful shape, a softly-focused rain photo, a breeze of color, or her own gentle laughter.

If a person could be a sunlit, soulful mist, she is one--quiet in her manner, refreshing in her grace. The air around her is cleaner, clearer in her presence and opens up to make room for her out of respect. So few can carry strength so lightly and beauty with such strong hands. I wonder how one so young, in turn, could be so wise. It makes me stop--holding my breath--feeling and knowing that all we talk about is deeply understood and appreciated.

My journal says: I will write about her one day because the world should get to know her. Of course, they will not see all there is to see, but neither she nor I will care.

We walk this world so very different from each other, yet so very much the same. It makes me wonder where we met before. Why didn't I recognize her until this juncture? Maybe we fought a war together, as now we are seeking our place. We each look for a way to reconcile what we know with what we see, and what we see with what we are told.

They say that some children never grow up. With my heart I do hope that she, now a woman, is one. She reflects grace and humanity by being. Moonhee.

—me strauss Letting me be

McCartney's Flashlight

My Second E-mail to McCartney:

I was writing this when your message came:
"McCartney says that she's been productive, but her mood is dark today. I want to give her a flashlight, but I don't know how. Even if she weren't halfway across the country, I know a hug wouldn't be the answer. Sometimes even fixing someone else's problems isn't easy."

McCartney's E-mail Answer:

"A hug always helps, and guess what.
What you wrote made me smile, a really big smile, because you care. Thanks for
the flashlight."

—me strauss Letting me be

Fascinated and Frightened

I am

at the same time

fascinated and frightened

by people and things

I do not understand.

—me strauss Letting me be

My Mind on Rewind

I am inexplicably afraid of high open places and small closed spaces. When people talk about pain, it makes my legs hurt.

Someone told me, "If you don't like high, open places, you probably died from a fall in a past life."

I must have died from a fall and been buried alive, if that's how it works. I'm going with a wiring problem on the legs thing. No, the problem is in my genes.

SPEC FOR PHYSICAL RISK GENE:
BASIC SETTING: absolutely no risk/absolutely no risk
EXCEPTIONS: to save life of loved ones
INCLUSIONS: no positioning of the body in places in which an overactive mind might possibly conceive of pain as the outcome

I do not seek the company of activities that risk physical pain. My brain is programmed to avoid it. I do not jump from airplanes or ride in submarines, no bronco busting, not even an occasional, deep sea dive into an underwater grotto. It's curious that I seem to be hardwired this way.

Margaret says I should leave my brain to medical science. I say it's an electrical short, like a glitch in an old VCR. I do something; my brain auto-rewinds, and I'm sucked right out of wherever I was. I'm a superhero in reverse.

Rewind is so fast; it's an adrenaline rush of its own.

—me strauss Letting me be

Group Think for the Homogenously Challenged

People in groups fascinate and frighten me.

A person, two people, or three, that's fine with me. People in groups--especially homogenous groups--that gets a little dicey. People in homogenous groups can develop "group think." I'm lousy at group think. I was absent the day they taught homogenous grouping at my school. It's so outside my world view, that while I'm looking at the elephant in the room, the group might just have "group thinked" what color to paint the ceiling. How people magnetize their minds to satisfy a quest for unanimity is of compelling interest to me.

If only I could get the knack of group think. Maybe there's a book, "Group Think for the Homogenously Challenged." If I could even fake it, then I would look like one of the group. Then the group would no longer find me suspect. As one of the group, I would be forgiven my faults and applauded my virtues. I would be protected. That would be nice. It would be an illusion, but it would be nice. It's a beautiful illusion--everyone agrees, and so everyone is safe because they agree. I'd like my piece of that illusion . . . for a day or two.

I just can't seem to get my mind to bend that way. My curiosity gets in the way. I can't help but wonder what the people who aren't talking want to say.

—me strauss Letting me be

The Parable of the Young Man

She found herself walking past the brownstones. The brownstones she had looked at, longed for, loved. She felt alone, but no longer lonely. Hers would be a good life. The gentle drape of her scarf on her face was a comfort that told her who she was in the crowd walking past yet another new building going up.

She neared the water--the cold dolphin-gray lake—and she felt only slightly afraid when the waves began crashing upon the shore.

"This is right," she thought. "This is how the water should be on this day."

A tall, fair-haired young man in jeans and an army jacket fell into step beside her, unaware that they had become two on a journey.

"Where are you going?" he asked, not invested in her answer.

"To my life," she replied.

"I'll walk with you," was his return.

They drew near the lake, and they saw the people who were afraid.

"I should be with them," she thought. "I am like they are." She was more than surprised to find herself still walking with the young man. He was her protector. He was not her guide. Merely a companion, he walked, and she walked with him.

The waves turned brown and became fierce, crowding the shore, worrying the mudstone walls until they became one with the waves.

"Suppose I lose my footing," she thought, but still she kept walking over ground that should have given way under her feet. She journeyed with the free-spirited young man, but only because his way was her way too.

Finally they reached the safe hill, still green with grass, waiting in a sliver of sunlight. Watching their way, they climbed, and settled, and rested facing the lake.

"You thought you should be frightened and frozen," he said.

"Yes," was her only remark.

They sat in silence, watching the water calm. He gathered up thoughts from an old companion. She searched out meaning from a new one.

At last the sun pushed past the clouds, taming the lake and calming her heart. He rose, and she rose. Their journey together had come to an end. Up ran a joyful, fair-haired young boy, dragging a school bag and glowing with life. As she took the boy's hand, he hugged her as fierce as the waves, relaxing her until they became one.

When the loving reunion was over, she looked for her companion. The young man had vanished with the disappearing gray day.

—me strauss Letting me be

Advice from a Stranger

The VP of a midwest publisher was putting together a free-standing bookcase during set up at a trade show. He had turned the bookcase upside down and was tightening the shelf screws. Noticing me, he explained his technique. Pointing out how gravity was in his favor, he said, "It's better to screw down than to screw up."

I liked him immediately.

—me strauss Letting me be

A Glimpse or a Glimmer

Kindness often comes in a glimpse or a glimmer. Yet a simple kindness pulled me from my life to rediscover humanity. Kindness most surely felt is the kindness of a stranger for a child.

The young man in the torn shoes and army fatigues helps my son up from a fall. The stranger keeps walking as the young boy gazes after him, quietly asking, "Who was that mom?"

I think to myself that many would answer that he is a homeless person. For us that day, he was a person, a friend. Is it because he kept walking that I think it might be so? Certainly more friend-like than some who claim the term. Unconditional friendship given. Nothing asked or needed in return. Who was that masked man?

It's years later, and I still think of this event. The good feelings are written on my soul. It's heartwarming to think that there are people out there who might also be looking out for my son. I was changed by a glimmer of friendship.

Five minutes before, he might have been invisible to me.

—me strauss Letting me be

What You Won't See for Free

The part that you
won't see for free
is the simpler, sweeter
part of me
the wholer, smarter
start of me
the softer, kinder
one
who knows
how to be.

That's the part
you really ought to see.

For that part, you have to look at me.

ME Strauss 7/28/05

—me strauss Letting me be

No More Leftovers

Today for the fun of it, I played a game. I imagined that I had only good memories of everyone I know. They all came with a clean slate. No little hurts, no history to haunt anything they did or said. What an experience.

Suddenly everyone looked brand new. I was on vacation in a world of fabulous friends. In one fell swoop, I had wiped clean a bunch of useless little memories. No need to think about what they were. Like leftover food, they must have been crumbs of things that didn't quite fit right, or sit right, with whatever had been on my plate at one time or another.

I had let these crumbs get stuck to the people I love. They'd been stuck in the back of my head, too, like leftovers in the back of an old refrigerator. Until today when, for no particular reason, I decided to play a game that gave everyone a clean slate . . . a clean plate with no leftovers.

Gives a whole new meaning to "clean your plate."

—me strauss Letting me be

My Brain on My Other Sleeve

Tom and Margaret don't see my feelings on my sleeve. Tom says I speak in sound bytes. Margaret says I'm a tough negotiator. They are right about what they see. But they are not right about what they don't see.

I'm lucky. My brain, when I keep it well oiled, is like a Duisenberg--old, but it can out run most other guys on the road. I so enjoy the opportunity to use my brain---to stretch--and it happens so seldom that I pounce on the chance to answer any question without thinking about where I am. It's as if my brain sees life as a game show and needs to buzz in. That's not how I see the world nor how I want the world to see me. I think that life is about more than winning.

People tell me not to be so clever. What they're really saying is that they don't know what to do with me. I don't know what to do with them either. I ask questions they're not interested in. I point out elephants in the room that they can't see. At the very least, could I take my brain off my sleeve?

" . . . and while I'm at it, if I could make myself a couple of inches shorter that would be great too!"

I worked on the problem. I taught myself to wait for people to ask for my opinion. I did. They did. It helped . . . a little. Yet, even when I didn't say a word, I was still that smart person sitting in the room.

Luke says that some folks worry that I can expose them for what they don't know. I say I've got to get better at letting them know I have no need to do that.

Now and then I get to meet with folks like Luke, Margaret, Tom, or McCartney. They ask the same questions I do. They don't notice my brain on my sleeve because they have their own in the same place. We talk out loud about the elephants in the room. We say ludicrous things like, "That's the seventh time you said the word iteration in the last hour." I feel lighter after my brain has been out to run races with them.

People still tell me not to wear my brain on my sleeve. I let them know that I think they're smart--and tell stories of stupid things I've done--I shouldn't have to do that. It's like apologizing for my brain, but it seems to help.

Maybe if I put my hands on my head and lean back during meetings, people will forget what's on my sleeves.

——me strauss Letting me be

Conversations in My Head

Sometimes my head wants to talk things out.
Sometimes my head wants to worry things out on its own.
Sometimes I can't figure out what my head wants.
Sometimes I don't want to listen to it anyway.

My heart is an entirely different matter.
I decide to follow it, or I don't.
When I'm unsure, I write, or walk, or play in the dirt.

Why does my head seem so ambiguously complicated,

when my heart seems so elegantly simple?

To have this conversation with yourself,

you're going to have to quit writing speeches

and start talking to yourself like a person.

Otherwise you're never going to listen to you.

I know you.

You can be very stubborn about such things.

You don't like it when you preach at yourself.

So what exactly is it that I’m doing right now?

—me strauss Letting me be

Luck in General

I don't need luck when make things happen.

Max: "Everyone says they want to win the lottery, but I really do."

I love it when he says that.

The game never ends
when your whole life depends
on the turn of a friendly card.

--©1980 Arista Records, Inc
The Alan Parsons Project. The Turn of a Friendly Card.

—me strauss Letting me be

Luck in Threes

People say everything comes in threes.

Why me? Why this? Why now?

My car. My headphones. My computer. All three in the hospital--car-hospital, headphone-hospital, computer-hospital--within the same three weeks. The references of my life taken away from me just like that. All I need now is to lose my keys, and my mind melts down into a little ball that rocks back and forth under my desk until someone accidentally steps on me.

Is this some self-conscious attempt to tell myself to slow down? Or is it overdue skewed Karma--Saturn in my birth sign and all of that? Who cares what it is? I just want it over, and these pieces of my routine--my intimate friends--back with me where they belong.

Bad luck. Bad planning. Bad person.
Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.
Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

Threes. Threes. Threes.

"There I said it. There I said it. There I said it three times."

"Do you consider yourself a lucky person?" Leary said.

"Well, yeah, usually I do. This week with much irony," I admitted,
rallying, hoping for a prediction of three great things to follow.

"So why think that all of your luck would be good? Luck is just a point of view anyway."

Somehow hearing that was just what I needed to quit feeling sorry for myself.

I hate feeling sorry for myself more than I hate being without my headphones.

—me strauss Letting me be

Needs and Generosity

When other people’s needs turn into expectations,
they take away my option to be generous.


Everyone wants to be generous.

—me strauss Letting me be

Feelings on My Sleeve

People tell me not to wear my feelings on my sleeve.

My mother used to say the world would eat me alive because I wear my heart on my sleeve. The first time she said that, I tried to picture how it might look—a beating heart growing out of my right wrist, spewing blood all over. A dangerous lion breaking out of a crowd of people jumping up and tearing me apart—my heart and my feelings in his teeth. The world cheering.

When I tried to do something about my feelings on my sleeve, I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how my feelings got there. So I sure as heck couldn’t figure out how to pack them up and put them back where they were supposed to be. I didn’t know where they were supposed to be. Having them on my sleeve is natural to me. Apparently, it was wrong. On the rule of where feelings should be kept. I was a loser. I had been keeping my feelings in the wrong place all of my life.

This bothered me. I was good at feelings. I didn’t get raving mad. I didn’t cry in public (much). I didn’t do crazy, feeling things beyond give a few more hugs than other people do. They were my feelings. Who were other people to tell me how I should arrange my feelings . . . ?

“ . . . and while you’re at it, if you could make yourself a couple of inches shorter, that would be great too!”

Luke says some folks worry about hurting feelings that they see so close to the surface.

I say I’ve got to get better at letting them know that just because I have feelings, it doesn’t mean that I get hurt all of the time.

People still tell me not to wear my feelings on my sleeve. I tell them they’re in no personal danger—I haven’t exploded yet—and that seems to help.

Truth is . . . I like my feelings where I can see them. How else could I get to know myself inside out?

—me strauss Letting me be

Nothing Can Prepare Me

Nothing in life can prepare me for life
except everything in my life.

So I might as well get on with living.

—me strauss Letting me be

Free Spirit

"Free spirit.” People who love me have called me that.

I used to think it was romantic.

The more I think about it . . .
the more that I know
that nothing about being a “free spirit”
feels free.

—me strauss Letting me be

Breathing Room

Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe.

I need to find more ways just to be. Not a philosophical search for existence, “to be or not to be,” but ways to set down my cares and breathe in a bit of life. My soul needs airing out now and then to fill itself up again. Unlike my body, it can’t get by on peanut butter sandwiches and milk. It needs trees, flowers, and the night sky, especially the night sky—stars to wish upon and space to let my mind wander aimlessly.

When I give my soul a little breathing room . . .
everyone I know gets nicer.

—me strauss Letting me be