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some thoughts on persistence and resilience

Yes. That spiky green plant growing in the gutter of my neighbor’s garage is a stalk of corn.

Every time I see it, two words come to mind: persistence and resilience.

The gutter’s only a few inches deep; there isn’t much soil for the plant to sink its roots into, or space for those roots to spread out. Yet it’s persistently kept going—kept growing—all summer long, in far less than ideal conditions.

The corn plant is a misfit by almost every definition of that term—in the “wrong” place, with no opportunity to be “productive” the way we usually think of it—but as far as I’m concerned, it’s had a rich, meaningful life. Over the course of the summer, its existence—though unconventional—has offered me some important insights.  

Turns out persistence and resilience are far wider and deeper than my previous perceptions of them.

Somewhere along the way I connected “persistence” to performance. You keep at things until you “get it right.”

Now—thanks to the corn plant—I’m rethinking that.

It’s dying as I type, as are all the fields of corn and soybeans in my part of the world. Our finite Midwestern US growing season is nearly over.

But the corn plant was never going to “get it right” in the traditional sense of that phrase. There wasn’t enough space, enough soil, enough nutrients, or enough water for that corn stalk to do what corn stalks are supposed to do: produce an ear.

It grew anyway; did what it could where it was, how it was.

And it’s inviting me to do the same.

Rather than focusing on mastery and productivity, what persistence looks like for me now is being intentional about just continuing to show up in my life—being present to what’s happening in me, in my circumstances, in my relationships, and in the world—whatever that looks like on any given day.

(And here’s the disclaimer for the previous paragraph: I’m not saying doing things correctly or well is a bad thing. I’m intimately acquainted with the sense of accomplishment that comes with a job well done, and it’s something we human creatures need to nurture our self-confidence. But I also know myself well enough to know there’s a shadow side to that for me—my “I-have-to-do-it-all-and-do-it-all-right-the-first-time perfectionism—I need to be wary of.).

I’m reconsidering how I think of resilience too.  

We had some epic thunderstorms in June and July, with torrential rains and high winds that left the corn stalk looking sad and bedraggled for days at a time. But even though on more than one occasion I thought it was done for, it eventually perked up.   

Resilience has always been tied to time in my mind. I thought how fast I got back on my feet was what mattered.

But that wasn’t true for the corn plant, and according to psychologist Adam Grant, it isn’t true for us human creatures either.

“…Resilience,” Grant says, “is not about how quickly you bounce back—it’s about how fully you recover.”

Rome was not, as the old saying goes, built in a day, or a week, or a month, or a year. Things—grief, tasks, maturity, relationships, love, life, growing things—take as long as they take, and I’m (once again, and again, and again, and again) being invited to let them; to take my time and not rush.

They came from an unconventional place, but those invitations to be more “corn-ish” are true and real, and I’m accepting them.

How about you, Dear Reader? What are you being invited to do—or to let go of— these days?

And from whence do those invitations come?

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This month’s shelfie…

On the last weekend of August my town hosts the Balloons Over 66 hot air balloon festival. There are all kinds of activities—food, music, arts & crafts vendors, balloon rides, and more. You can even volunteer to help crew for one of the balloons. One of my favorite events is the used book sale at the library. That was the source for this month’s shelfie. I got the entire collection of titles for just $1.00. Hurray for public libraries!!

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As promised, here’s the latest teaser from my novel-in-progress.

Outside In, Chapter Four: What’s in a name?

Marcus synced his laptop to the screen on the wall, accessed the video archive database, and pulled up the initial story on the Hall case. She was world famous at the time of her death, as popular as Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie, but Trista Myers-Hall had grown up in Tampa and was beyond a household name there. Everyone knew her, and everyone loved her, because no matter what she did or where she went, Trista always came back home. She made it big as a model in New York right out of college, and then came back home. Then she turned her sights on Tinseltown, and the string of blockbuster movies never seemed to end. But every time she finished filming something, she came back home. And when she was home she was involved in anything and everything that was going on in Tampa.

            Marcus saw her at local media events and social gatherings where it was incumbent on both of them to put in an appearance, but they also ran into each other regularly at Bucs, Rays and Bolts games, shows at the Straz Center, and they frequented the same bars and restaurants. But seeing that oh-so-familiar face in the video suddenly made Marcus’s skin crawl. The clip was clearly labeled “Trista Myers-Hall,” but the person staring back at him could have been Norine Simmons’ twin sister. He typed a reminder into his phone while the rest of the I-Team reporters filed in for the staff meeting.

            “Nice outfit!” Steve observed, stopping to stare appreciatively at the image on the screen. It was a promo shot from the red-carpet world premiere of Trista’s last movie, and she was dressed accordingly—in a sea of Versace tulle and sequins that covered everything while at the same time left nothing to the imagination. “To what do we owe the pleasure of Trista Myers-Hall’s delicious appearance? Just a little Monday morning motivation?”

            “No,” Marcus admitted. “It’s more than that. A lot more. Let’s get the stories that are already on the board covered, then I’ll fill you in.”

            Status reports were given on the stories already on the agenda, follow-up tasks were assigned, then the room fell silent as everyone waited to hear what he had to say about Trista Myers-Hall.

            “You all know the story. We covered this thoroughly when it happened a couple of years ago,” Marcus began, “along with everybody else on the planet. Tampa’s native and most famous daughter Trista Myers-Hall was found dead in her Davis Island mansion, cause of death inconclusive but suspicious, motive unknown, evidence nearly non-existent. A couple of persons of interest were interviewed, but no one was ever arrested, and none of the other leads has produced anything. The family’s still pressuring the investigators to keep digging, but with every day that passes, the possibility of there ever being an arrest and a trial gets more remote. I got a phone call out of the blue Saturday from someone familiar with the case who is convinced Ms. Hall is not at all who we thought she was. And some of this new information is compelling, to say the least. I’m. . .”

            “New information?” Brad interrupted. “Every reporter from coast to coast covered this story, but we had the inside track because she lived here. We knew where she went to grade school, middle school, high school, and college. We knew her favorite color, her favorite brand of handbag, her favorite drink, what she ate on her burgers. Hell, we knew the name of the pet canary she had when she was five! We knew everything there was to know about her, and what little we didn’t already know, we were able to dig up, because we knew where to look.  What else could there possibly be?”

            “Well, for starters, what if her name isn’t Trista Myers-Hall?”

            “Oh, come on!” Charlise protested. “Not only did we know her, we know her parents and her grandparents. Her entire family’s lived in Tampa for multiple generations!”

            “Unless they haven’t,” Marcus countered. “What if the Myerses and the Halls aren’t really her family? Does the name Vanessa Christine Helm ring any bells?”

            All he got for a response was blank stares, so Marcus continued.  “It doesn’t mean anything to me either, and I know (or at least have heard of) everybody who’s anybody in this town, but the caller insisted that’s what her real name was and hinted there are documents to prove it. I’ve already done a little digging, and hardly any of the information we have matches what I was told on Saturday. If any of this stuff is accurate, there are some huge inconsistencies at the very least, if not a scandal of nuclear proportions. I know this all sounds impossible, and frankly, I’m not sure right now whether I believe everything the caller told me or not, but we were asked to get to the bottom of this, ladies and gentlemen, and we will. It’s what we do.”

Who is she, really? Trista Myers-Hall or Vanessa Christine Helm? Does it matter?

And where did Norine Simmons come from and why is she here?

What other surprises are lurking in this story everyone thought they already knew?

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