When car shopping, don’t rule out the potential for serendipity

By Kim Evans

Community Column for Herald-Times, Bloomington, IN
October 8, 2009

About a year ago, my husband and I realized we needed to replace our 1995 Ford Contour. With an odometer reading of 120,000, she was running poorly, requiring us to purchase the expensive grade gasoline, and she only gave us 22 miles per gallon.

We had special memories in our Contour. She was the car in which we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital. She was the car whose rear passenger window became plastered with sparkly dolphin stickers placed by little hands. She was the car we drove on family vacations to the Gulf and Atlantic coasts.

It was hard to part with our Contour. But a decade had passed, and it was time to let her go.

We began thinking about what kind of car we wanted: economically-priced, fuel efficient, yet not hybrid (out of our price range), with plenty of room for our family of three. And safety was important. This could be the car our daughter would learn to drive in about six years. (Where did the time go?)

After many hours of online research, we decided our first choice was a used Toyota Corolla.

Next was the task of finding our perfect Corolla out there somewhere, our vehicular soul-mate. I intended to conduct this car search as efficiently as possible without letting it take over my life. I entered the car-shopping zone, that hyper-alert state where one’s eyes are drawn like magnets to every car ad in the newspaper and every car lot in town. I was on a mission.

I searched Cars.com for local deals. Nothing was quite right. I turned to the classified ads and didn’t see any prospects at first.

Then one day I saw an ad that looked promising. Model year 2006: Check. Reasonably-low miles: Check. The type of transmission we preferred: Check. In our price range: Check. Sunroof: Bonus! CD player: Bonus! I called the number listed and scheduled a test drive that evening.

When we arrived at the owner’s house, I noticed he looked familiar. I thought for a moment. Could he possibly be someone we knew? As it turned out, the answer was yes. He was an old friend of my parents, and was actually a guest at our wedding 15 years ago!

We drove the car — loved it. Everything felt right, even the color. When we returned, our friend even volunteered to drop the price by $300. Sold!

Things don’t usually happen this smoothly for me. Really.

The serendipity continued. With the deal done, we chatted for a while, and the topic of music came up. Our friend mentioned to my husband that he knew a guy who was looking for a new bass player for his band.

My husband, who had been thinking about playing in a band again, wrote down the guy’s phone number and scheduled an audition later that week. He was asked to join on the spot.

So the end of this story finds us with a beautiful dark blue fuel-efficient car in our driveway, my husband playing bass in a band called Lazy Piranha and our Contour sold at our neighborhood yard sale to a couple who were happy to buy her.

And whenever anyone asks me where we bought our Corolla, I tell them we purchased it from a family friend.

Active listening is foundational to a civil society

What’s truly hopeful is that we have the means to evoke more goodness from one another. I have witnessed the astonishing power of good listening and healing available when someone gives voice to her experience. I have also learned that when we begin listening to each other, and when we talk about things that matter to us, the world begins to change.    –Margaret Wheatley, Turning to One Another

This quote takes me back to a paper I wrote during my senior year at IU. It’s somewhere in a dusty cardboard box in my basement now, but I recall the topic was about listening – listening as a means to facililtate change. Looking back, I think I was on to something. As a 22-year old, I didn’t think I had much wisdom to offer, although I think I got an A on my paper.

Current events have me once again thinking about listening, and how we don’t do it well in our culture. Listening is fundamental to a civil society, and one could argue that the lack of listening has reached a crisis level in our country.

Listening is something that is demanded of children, yet we forget there is a difference between merely hearing and truly listening. Listening is a learned skill.

Learning to listen is reinforced in one of the earliest places of learning, the classroom. Why is our state considering beefing up subject matter training for teachers when they really need more support in how to facilitate the learning that occurs in their classrooms?

Striving for more and more expertise is an investment in mastery that isn’t necessary. What good would the enhanced subject material do for students don’t know how to listen well? Wouldn’t learners be better served by a teacher who is invested in providing an environment where these students can take more responsibility for their own learning?

We are a resource-rich nation. Placing the expert label on teachers sets up a dangerous model for learners to always be searching outside of themselves for the answers.

This is what is playing out in our country right now, and it isn’t working.

I spent several months earlier this year in a leadership training group where we practiced active listening. Our sessions took place in circles, where each individual could see the others, face-to-face. There’s something about sitting in a circle that provides better acoustics for listening. Perhaps it is because there are no corners. The leader sat in the circle and participated with the rest of the group rather than professing to be an expert on the subject matter (although she was the creator of the program).

Each voice was valued equally in this circular setting. The introverts had equal opportunity to share with the extraverts. We reflected listening to one another by recording powerful “readback” lines from one another’s writing and sharing these lines with the group. What a wonderful feeling it is to be listened to in this way. And it is a great way to lift up themes coming from the group for further exploration.

I facilitate writing workshops using this model. It is a joy to witness the rapid improvement in confidence, voice, and writing ability in young writers over the course of even a single session. I believe this is a direct result of the active listening we practice.

Perhaps this is an over-simplification of a complex issue. Yet it is true that listening is foundational to a civil society. Try a simple experiment today. When having a conversation, repeat back one phrase to the person who spoke it. Begin with “So I hear you saying…” Don’t interpret. Just repeat what you heard. 

See what happens.

 

Interesting messages received along the journey home

by Kim Evans

I’m driving home from a fun-filled Labor Day weekend with family in Chicago. The dome light shines on my page. Wind rushes through the moon roof. A semi-truck roars by me on the passenger side.

“Winds of Change.” I see these words pass by on a billboard along the interstate. At night billboards appear like illuminated messages floating through space. Signs are everywhere. I recently saw a sign that read “A Call to Consciousness” outside a church when I was in the process of deciding to take a step into a new chapter of my life. And now I notice a yellow road sign that reads “Watch For Ice on Bridges.”

Winds of Change ... A Call to Consciousness ... Watch For Ice on Bridges .

My thoughts go to images of angry people at town hall meetings. One such photograph was on the front page of this newspaper. I am disturbed by those who are being influenced by the fear mongering, allowing themselves to be manipulated without learning the facts. It’s so much easier to let others do the thinking. I wish people would suspend judgment and emotion long enough to do some research, then engage in a civilized exchange of ideas.

Emotions are so high right now. Emotions cloud thinking. It is painful to watch people rage at one another. And now with electronic communications, it is too easy to push the send button and spread negativity to others, even those in one’s own family, one’s own flesh and blood.

Winds of Change ... A Call to Consciousness ... Watch For Ice on Bridges .

This late night drive continues to activate the right side of my brain. The color red transports me back to the scene in the tailgate area before the IU football game last Thursday. We park a few blocks south of 17th Street, and are treated to a walk through a sea of drunken college students. I’m a little stunned at this public display; if this type of consumption must occur, isn’t it best limited to private residences and bars?

My 11-year-old daughter points to a group of red T-shirt-clad young men and women preparing to drink beer from a tube attached to a funnel. She asks “What’s that, Mom?” I don’t want to lie to her; nor do I want to ignore her question. So I respond, “That’s called a beer bong, honey. It allows someone to drink a whole bunch of beer really fast, basically by-passing the process of swallowing, and pouring it straight into their stomach.” I tell it like it is. She cringes.

I draw a parallel between beer bong consumption and fear-mongering. They both recklessly bypass the intended channels of consumption. No swallowing of beer. No examination of facts. Straight to the stomach. Instant gratification is the quickest way to the desired effects. A jolt into an altered state of consciousness is so much easier than a thoughtful one.

It’s getting late. We leave during the third quarter of the football game, and pass a group of red-eyed students staggering into Gate 14. I wonder if they will be able to navigate the stairs. Walking south of 17th Street again, we pass the lawn littered with empty Natural Light cases, beer cans and bottles. A uniformed crew appears to be preparing to clean up the mess left behind. There is no connection between the individuals who participated in the mass consumption and the clean-up of their mess.

Winds of Change ... Call to Consciousness ... Watch For Ice on Bridges .

Sometimes messages come from interesting places.

This column appears in the 9/10/09 issue of the Herald-Times newspaper, Bloomington, IN

Bloomington changes with the seasons, but learning never ends

It’s time to gear up for the annual migration of students into our small town. Circumstances are always changing here, and as much as my human nature resists change, I love the total package of Bloomington: the seasonal fluctuations, the town and the gown. As the product of two IU students who fell in love, got married, and decided to build their lives and family here, I bridge both worlds.

This summer I had the opportunity to stroll through campus, deserted and quiet like a ghost town. In my current phase of life, activities like walking through campus carry more significance than they did when I was student here. I feel as if I am walking on hallowed ground. My mind stirs with the thoughts of the students and scholars who walked these very paths over the past 189 years.

Here are some campus scenes and sensations that are presently calling up from my memory to be shared in this community forum.

The Hippie Hangout. I don’t think I’m hallucinating. In the 1970s I remember riding down 10th Street in the back of our red Dodge station wagon, passing by Dunn Meadow and staring wide-eyed at the mass of bell-bottomed, long-haired students throwing Frisbees, sitting in the grass talking, and enjoying the sunshine. We called it the Hippie Hangout.

The Sugar and Spice shop. When I was in early elementary school, Mom returned to college to finish her degree in education. I frequently accompanied her to campus. One of my favorite places to visit was the Memorial Union. I called it the Elevator and Escalator Building. Mom always treated me to a gingerbread man at the Sugar & Spice shop. I remember munching on my cookie while I sat in the row of seats at the base of the escalator, biting off one arm at a time, watching the students walk by.

The Wrubel computing center. Dad worked at Wrubel when it was located in the basement of the HPER building. We descended a concrete staircase to enter his department, humming with room-sized mainframes, the cutting-edge technology at that time.

Tenth Street stadium. Just steps across the parking lot from Wrubel stood the old stadium, now the location of the beautiful campus arboretum. The Marching Hundred practiced there. My brother played trombone in the band and I loved watching them rehearse.

Assembly Hall. I was lucky enough to be in a family that held season tickets in 1976. Need I say more?

Showalter Fountain. I was a student in 1987, part of the mad dash of NCAA championship revelry to Showalter Fountain. I was there when one of the fish statues was stolen. (Disclaimer: I didn’t steal the fish, and I don’t have a description of the people who did.)

The Library. I never quite got over the amazement that the IU library is huge enough to hold a cafeteria. And the stacks: floor after floor, row after row of nothing but books. A guaranteed quiet place to study.

Ballantine Hall. Even as a young adult, I always appreciated the beautiful walk along the creek from Jordan Avenue to Ballantine Hall. Back in the ’80s, “Mad Max,” a campus crusader, shouted his sermons to passersby outside the building where I spent many hours in liberal arts courses.

It is my hope that the influx of new and returning students take a moment this semester to realize they are making history: their own personal history from a brief yet important time in their lives, and a contribution to the collective history that walks the pathways of the Indiana University campus. I sometimes wonder why we are given the wisdom to appreciate something so many years after the experience itself. Again, I return to the truth that the learning really never ends.

It’s too early to say goodbye to another summer season

I’ve always had trouble saying good-bye to summer. As much as I try to deny it or push it down, I feel a grief at summer’s end like no other. The 10 weeks fly by so quickly.

Written or unwritten, most people have their list of summer wishes. While some are realized and some are not, this is the time of year to accept it all and begin making the transition to a new season. So, as we gear up for the start of another school year, here is a look back at this columnist’s memorable moments from the summer of 2009:

• Being away from my family for seven full days in June — the longest separation I’ve had from my daughter. While I was away, we talked on the phone as she was putting her very first batch of homemade scones in the oven. This produced a flash of awareness that, at age 11, she doesn’t need as much help in the kitchen as much as she used to.

• Sneaking away one evening to meet my husband halfway between Bloomington and Cincinnati at a Batesville pizzeria for dinner — being reminded that the most romantic dates are those that aren’t set up to be romantic.

  
  

• The feeling of terror upon finding out my 70-year old father fell off a ladder while trimming a tree near his house. Relief that he only has a small fracture in his lower back that should heal up just fine.

  
  

• The realization of a dream to offer a Young Women Writing for (a) Change circle in our community.

  
  

• Making moon-blessed water: setting out a jar under the full moon — an emerging tradition between mother and daughter, daughter and friends.

  
  

• Moon jellyfish glowing in the ocean near our feet as we walked along the beach at night while on vacation in coastal Alabama.

  
  

• Floating on the waves.

  
  

• Watching my nephew’s theater camp performance of “Man in the Mirror,” then finding out about Michael Jackson’s death right after the show concluded.

  
  

• Late-night firefly shows. There’s nothing like fireflies in Indiana.

  
  

• Discovering how a sensitive person is prone to difficulties with reading Harry Potter books at bedtime. “He Who Shall Not Be Named” has a tendency to creep into one’s dream life and frighten one into a shivering crouched position on top of the toilet seat.

  
  

• Letters from a reader, reminding me of the “I-me-my” syndrome in my columns — that I am close to Bob Hammel’s record (which isn’t such a bad thing in my book).

  
  

• Sharing Mom’s peanut shell antics with Herald-Times readers — Mom saying she felt “like a celebrity” that day.

  
  

• The sights and sounds of Drum and Bugle Corps performances in Lucas Oil stadium, sitting between my brother and husband, reminiscing about our involvement in the activity more than 20 years ago (has it really been that long?), all in agreement that Indiana University’s Memorial Stadium offers a much better atmosphere for the experience.

  
  

• Buying fresh basil from my friend Denise at the farmer’s market.

  
  

• The unusual coolness and low humidity — not so conducive to juicy red tomatoes in my garden.

  
  

• Retiring my daughter’s purple L.L. Bean dolphin backpack from school use, the one she has used since first grade, not due to wear and tear, but because she’s grown into a more stylish, over-the-shoulder, messenger bag for sixth grade.
  

OK, now the nostalgia has really kicked in. Therefore, I officially declare that summer isn’t really over until sometime after Labor Day. This declaration is supported by a Google search that reveals the last day of summer is Sept. 21.

School starts too early, anyway. Let’s just submit to the illusion of eternal summer, youth, happiness, barefootedness and freedom. Who’s with me? We’ll call it the Declaration of Never-Ending Summer.

Wise words of girls create inspirational week at summer camp

It is simply self-defeating for any community to discriminate against half its population. We need to challenge these self-serving and outdated attitudes and practices .” Jimmy Carter, July 15, 2009

I was relieved to read Jimmy Carter’s recent stand against the Southern Baptist church’s subjugation of women. His article titled “Losing my religion for equality” reminded me of the importance of my emerging resolve to do what I can to nurture the voices of girls and young women.

I was recently blown away by the depth I experienced in the words of girls ages 9 to 11 during a week of summer camp I helped facilitate, themed “True Nature: Our Wild Dreaming Selves.” We held the camp at the Poplar Grove Schoolhouse on Bloomington’s east side, the new writing home for Women Writing for (a) Change, a project that has been active in Bloomington since 2004. It was through my participation in the women’s classes that the calling sprang forth to bring this work to girls.

I feel the temptation to write this column from merely a historic perspective: how the sound of pencils scratching on paper and the sights of children deep in concentration filled this building, how we ate lunch at picnic tables under the large shady trees in the back yard, followed by spontaneous games that filled the yard with joyful running and laughter, complete with a skinned knee. These scenes transported me back in time to what it must have been like in the early 1900s when this schoolhouse held classes for elementary-aged children. I enjoyed the full circle sensation, the connection of today’s ultra-modern, high tech life to a more simple time sans computers, televisions and cell phones.

But the experience held a depth that transcends history. These girls carry within them a deep wisdom that cannot be ignored. I was honored to be bathed in their words about sacred places, dancing candlelight, ocean waves, the way flowers know how to make the earth feel better, the intertwining of earth and soul, mother nature, breathing underwater, love as mentor, awakening courage and the shared love of writing as a means of self-expression and imaginary exploration. Writing in community with these girls strengthened my own words.

These topics did not need to be coaxed out of these young writers. Once they trusted that they were in a safe space, the words flowed freely. On the final day of camp, each writer stood at a podium and shared excerpts from what she had written in front of parents and guests. I was again blown away by their solidness and courage to share. Some of the written comments from the audience included:

“These girls were all able to express so much emotion through their writings. You can only leave here knowing there is so much good in our world.”

“What beauty lies within each of our girls. I was so touched with the depth of their wisdom. It was a gift for them to have a safe place to share their words. It was a gift to all of us to hear their words.”

“These young women remind us to be open, to see anew, to experience the world with the heart and senses wide open to possibility.”

“The gift of these young women together, learning, sharing, giving, growing — together. Amazing talents — the future.”

I believe the world needs these wise voices, whether they are housed in the body of a girl or boy, woman or man. Let’s not muffle anyone who wishes to speak from her heart. Let’s listen. Let’s celebrate. These voices are ripe with hope and healing, and that is sorely needed in our community, nation, and world.

My hat’s off to you, girls!

Working mothers should have more ways to keep their balance

By Kim EvansCommunity columnist
July 16, 2009

I’m sitting on the patio at the downtown Bakehouse, poised to write my column. After digging through my purse in search of my earphones, then untangling them from the tube of lipstick I rarely use, I am plugged into my laptop with Aerosmith’s “Dream On” filling my ears and a deadline looming. I hope the song choice isn’t prophetic.

I’m writing with the topic of work-family balance in mind, which seems appropriate as I feel the afterburn from a tense morning with my 11 year-old daughter. Most of our morning struggles are over her difficulty getting out of bed. Right now, she’s suffering from sleep deprivation induced by late nights reading “Harry Potter.” I haven’t been strict about making her turn off the reading light — who am I to discourage her from reading? (J.K. Rowling, I bless and curse you in the same breath. Note to H.P. fanatics: This is not an actual curse.)

It’s summer, and summer is for staying up late, sleeping in and roaming through the fields barefoot, playing outside all day until it’s time to catch lightning bugs. These were the summers I knew for many years. I woke up each morning and wandered into the kitchen sleepy-eyed to the sounds of Phil Donahue on our small black and white TV. I wouldn’t trade these memories for anything.

This summer, my daughter hasn’t had many Phil Donahue-ish mornings. I’ve been working more, recently taking the leap into renting an office space for my business, and feeling more pressure to show up there regularly.

I was my daughter’s age when my mom went to work full time. I remember wearing a house key on a string around my neck to school, often forgetting that key and entering the house by taking the screen out of my bedroom window and forcing the glass pane open enough to climb through.

Finding a work-family balance has been one of my deepest values since the moment the pregnancy test was positive. Like those parallel pink lines in the little window, my motherhood mission lined up before me with military precision. In my heart, I knew I wanted to be as present as possible for my child. For me, that meant working from home.

For the past 11 years, I’ve chosen the precarious world of self-employment in order to find the flexibility I need. I have carried the torch for moms working from home, starting our own businesses, cradling our nursing babies in one arm while typing e-mails with the other, holding on to the thread of showing up for our professional lives while holding the center of caring for our children.

And now I find myself feeling tired — and distinctly lacking in 401(k). I wonder how much professional equity I have built up these 11 years, working for myself from my basement office, spending many, many hours alone each day trying to get the work done before I hear the squeal of the school bus brakes outside.

I envision a future where there are more choices for working mothers, flexible working arrangements and a steady paycheck with benefits. Employers need to recognize there is strength in diversity, and a diverse work force includes working parents with varying needs and preferences.

I guess there is still hope that my writing career will turn out like J.K. Rowling’s, and even if it doesn’t, I know all is well. As I jam out to the music on my headphones, I remember the excitement I felt as a teenager at rock concerts in Market Square Arena.

I’m still that girl who loved to run barefoot in the grass and spend summer days playing in Stoutes Creek. But maybe I should turn the volume down. I don’t want to get hearing damage.

Kim Evans is a Bloomington native and IU graduate who moved back to Bloomington in 2005 to open her graphic design studio, raise her family and circle back to her writing. She can be reached at kimevans_columnist@att.net.