Look at that little guy … a young praying mantis, sitting next to Pumpkin (R.I.P.), one of the most fearless animals I have ever known.
How is the mantis so brave? Is this innate to his species, or an individual who takes risks or is just naive and inexperienced?
Looking at ourselves, if we aren’t fearless like the mantis, how did we get this way? Perhaps the bigger question is can we become more brave?
I believe there are two core emotions – fear and love, the opposite of one another. To become fearless, or start heading in that direction, we need to love ourselves more, to tip the scales. We need to let go of things we were told that we were. These often had nothing to do with us, but more to do with the individuals that told us. Think about it.
Many of our behaviors that make us unhappy today were once developed as children because we needed them in order to cope or survive, whether to make others happy or comfortable or just to leave us alone. But we can look at ourselves now, at our fears, our outer coats of beliefs that no longer work in our lives, and release them.
It was Socrates who said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Looking and seeing who we are underneath those once-needed layers, we can love and accept ourselves for what we find, forgive ourselves for behaving in ways we have not understood. And we can change. It takes time, and it’s not always easy, but we are capable of change.
We are always braver than we believe.
p.s. As for the yet-unnoticed, young praying mantis … I called Pumpkin over to my back door for a snack, and the little one, apparently having made his point (to me), quickly disappeared.
There are often advantages for a younger sibling having an older (in this case) brother or sister. The one I’m writing about has had an unintentional and lifelong impact.
We grew up in a family of readers. It made perfect sense that we would be read to as children. Where the older-brother-advantage came in was when my Mom would read to him, I was also on her lap. I was likely only about 1 year old then, but I looked on, taking in every word on the pages.
As we grew, I continued to soak up the words and stories meant for an older child. I was three years old when he was seven, the reading level of the New York Times. The amazing and unintentional result? My Mom realized that, at the age of 5, I could read a newspaper! She was very quick to point out that it wasn’t with full comprehension, lest I get a “big head” about it, but the truth is, without my older brother, that never would have happened.
My point here? Never underestimate the ability of a child to learn at an early age. If you have kids or grandkids, keep the youngest one(s) close by while you read to their older siblings because they, like me, will soak it in and get a head start on both reading and learning.
Let’s always read to the little ones at bedtime. It’s worth making the time, even for one story. It undoubtedly helped that my brother and I were both read to each night before we drifted off to dreamland.
It also helped that our family were readers. Our parents and grandparents were always reading novels and/or newspapers. They were my role models. Do we really want our kids having the idea that the only way to read is on a phone?
Having a membership to the local library is invaluable. Bring the littles along whenever possible. Let them experience the magic of so many books at an early age, to feel the joy of `what do I want to read now?’
As I move along in life, I become increasingly aware of what our future needs. One of those things is adults who can think and reason, learn and have compassion, all of which are inspired by an early love of reading.
p.s. Did you know that reading picture books to children is proven to develop compassion? Read more here.
You mean personal growth? In a drawer? Yes. Here’s how.
In the far back of this drawer were several bundles of tableware that I had not so much as looked at in all the years I’ve lived here. Service for eight, plus an odd assortment of spoons and serving pieces. I decided to see if they were worth anything.
After appraisal, there was one lone spoon that was sterling silver, for which I got $33.00. That was nice. I let the rest go.
The next payoff came in my taking everything out of the drawer; thoroughly cleaning it all, plus the interior of the drawer itself. With the extra space, I did some happy re-arranging.
Now my life is not just cleaner, but lighter, and has more room. When we let go of what no longer serves us, even in small ways, we have more room, and that’s when we grow.
What have you been doing to allow more room for growth?
Never doubt it; there’s a lot goes into your beloved book getting into the hands of the reader who will cherish it. There’s writing, illustrating, and otherwise creating the book itself, and then promotion and sales.
And here’s one of the great results – at the Tinicum Arts Festival, I sold seventeen books in two hours! How did that happen? First, we have the gorgeous illustration of Stella Mongodi to draw one in. Then, the lovely new cover design, wrapped around a magical story (if I say so myself.) Lastly, we have someone who loves talking to people about her book … me.
All of that sells a book, but I think it’s the last one that “closes a sale.” When I’m talking about reading, writing, how the book came about, etc., it’s not sales — it’s just undeniable enthusiasm. I realize that not everyone is as outgoing as I am, but if the frame can be shifted from the “job” of selling one’s book to the sharing of excitement about it, that makes all the difference.
While Where Do Butterflies Go at Night, 2nd Edition was one of a handful of picture books available, it was a big draw for parents, grandparents, and even teachers looking for something to read to “their” kids. I was thrilled that Butterflies checked off so many boxes of what these lifelong readers sought in a book for little ones, and that was quite inspirational in me wanting to seriously get back to the book waiting on my desk.
My major purchase at the festival? a pair of earrings with the traditional Japanese Maneki Neko, literally, Beckoning Cat (or lucky cat), which is a symbol of good luck for its owner. I’m grateful for all the help I can get!
Is luck involved in selling our books? Maybe, but I think a genuine appreciation of our own talents, what we’ve accomplished, and the enjoyment of sharing that with others goes pretty far.
Growing up in a house with a very anxious mother wasn’t easy. It affected everything and everybody. While I understand as an adult why things were the way they were, it was difficult as a child living with someone who needed to control just about everything. I didn’t consciously know it then, but I longed for someone in the house I could just `be’ with … without intrusion, always accepting, always comforting, and who’d never give up a secret. And my dog became that someone.
When I was 5, my brother 9, our parents decided we were old enough to have a dog, so at Christmas they gave us a beautiful Boxer puppy. I don’t think either of us quite `got’ the concept of having a dog at Christmas when there were still so many other exciting presents to open and play with. But Tinkerbell, as she was named, was not to stay with us very long. Within a few months she developed epilepsy. I don’t remember seeing the seizures my mother described Tink having on the kitchen floor, with blood and foam spewed all over the room. Perhaps I willed myself to forget. There were no cures for epilepsy back then, and Tinkerbell’s only option was to be returned to spirit. I was so young, and hadn’t become very attached to her yet, I don’t think I completely understood what had happened.
Then our parents got another dog. She was sold to them as a Boxer, 6 months old. I recall my mother being so happy that she didn’t drool like other Boxers whose faces were pushed in. There was a reason for that … she wasn’t really a Boxer. At best, she was a Boxer/pit bull terrier mix. My obedience trainer, when he looked at my childhood photos of her, told me that she was pure, and that was how they bred American Pit Bull Terriers back then. It didn’t matter … she quickly became the best friend and confidante I longed for. Her name was Dutchess. My mom had `officially’ named her Dutchess Von Wiggles because she had a butt that was constantly in happy motion.
Dutch couldn’t sleep with me as she wasn’t allowed on the second floor, so I slept with her whenever I could downstairs. We watched TV together, me resting my head gently on her side; and we curled up in sleep on the living room floor. Dutchess learned all the tricks a dog learns, and loved to go for walks or play outside in the yard. I can honestly say, in a way that only a dog or animal lover would understand, she was everything to me … she was my best friend. I did have a human best friend – happily, I always had friends — and I had my big brother to play with and taunt, but Dutchess was different. She was just what I needed – another soul in the house that simply loved me straight out, no matter what. And I adored her for that.
When I was little, my parents would cover her eyes and ears and I would hide. Then they’d let her go … “Find Jeanne!!” And Dutchess would search every nook and cranny downstairs to see where I was hiding, just bursting into wiggling, wagging joy when she found me. What child doesn’t live for those moments? She made me feel safe in a childhood where feeling emotionally safe wasn’t easy. Dutch was the heart, soul, and embodiment of unconditional love. She was both my rock and my wings, my compass and stars; she was my comfort and confidante. She was one little girl’s very best friend.
* This story was originally posted in 2007, and has been edited and updated.
Still A Dreamer 
