Linda Ellis

The Dash Poem - AUTHOR

Read the poem, watch the movie or buy The Dash products at the end of this article!  Get The Dash Book SIGNED here!

Where do I begin?  Well,...The Dash of course!  You see, thirteen years ago, I wrote a poem...a relatively simple rhythmic lesson on life.  Since that time, The Dash, as it was appropriately titled, has become a daily reminder for many, a life-altering experience for some and a way of life for others.  Being The Dash poem author has changed my life in more ways than I can mention, though I'm sure many will be revealed as I continue to "blog."  Fun word, isn't it?  Blog, blog, blog.  Anyway, I should probably mention that I have the writer's equivalent of ADD.  I have many scattered, random thoughts.  For years, I've tried to fight these haphazard (and often irrelevent) ideas that enter my brain as my fingers are trying to type my thoughts from three minutes ago, but recently I've given up fighting.  I am now just rolling with the flow, whether the end result is 100% coherent to the reader or not.  However, I will try to do my best to remain as focused as possible.  Hey, is that a squirrel!!???

As I mentioned, I am the author of The Dash poem.  I have however, considered changing my name to Ann Onemous or Arthur Unknown as those seem to be the two names most attributed for writing my poem.  As the author of The Dash poem, people often have high expectations of me.  A couple of years ago, I began doing some public speaking around the country.  It became quickly apparent that many were seeking spiritual or emotional guidance from me!  I've always done my best to listen carefully to everyone's "dash" story.  I cry with some, embrace others.  I care, I really do, sometimes to my own detriment.  And, oh how I love listening and sharing stories with everyone as we travel to different cities!  I now travel with a friend/assistant who handles book sales so that I may have time to visit with all of those folks who wish to share their dash stories or those of their loved ones. 

However, I must say that I am who I am.  I am not a counselor.  I am not an advisor.  I am a poet who had a particular insight into life which somehow created a worldwide, for lack of a better word, "awareness."  I am very proud of that accomplishment and have received thousands of calls and emails about what my poem has meant to people.  I receive them every single day.  It has been almost inconceivable to me.  But, as I mentioned, I am who I am.  I let a curse word slip every now and then. ;-) I have a beer or two with friends at times and I don't go to church nearly as often as I should.  But the fact is, I ALWAYS try to treat others with kindness and respect.  That is one of the messages that I tried to convey in The Dash poem.  Living a dash that you can be proud of doesn't mean trying to be perfect and changing yourself to fit the mold of what people tend to think of as a "good" person.  To me, it means doing the best you can every day to live a life which may someday allow you to leave behind a legacy of kindness, love and laughter.  I try to think every day of what people will remember of me, should I not see tomorrow.  Someone once said, if you want to know how to live your life, think about what you want people to say about you when you're gone, and live backwards.  That is a great strategy. 

Another thought I tried to convey in The Dash poem is respecting others.  I once received an angry call from someone who told me they loved my poem, but that I had left God out of it.  I told him that I hadn't left God out of the poem.  If he didn't feel God within the words, then it was he who had left Him out, not me.  I wrote The Dash poem for devout Christians, as well as athiests;  for Catholics, Jews, Baptists and Muslims.  My goal was to reach anyone and everyone who might read this poem, and hope that he or she be inspired enough to live a better life and/or treat their fellow human beings with love and kindness.

I am posting a link to The Dash poem below.  For those of you who haven't read it, and also for those of you who have, I would love to hear your thoughts.  Please respect my copyright.

READ THE DASH   VIEW THE DASH PRODUCTS www.lindaellis.net Linda Ellis Copyright 2007

Final Words

Copyright 2009, Linda Ellis

In stories I have previously penned, I have referenced one of my father’s favorite sayings.  He used to say in a joking manner, “I think we should all be born with expiration dates stamped on our forehead…like a carton of milk.”  And since his death several years ago, I have often contemplated this unique concept, its simplicity and the blatant truth behind his rationalization.  He was suggesting that if we somehow knew when and where we were destined to leave not one more footprint on this earth, it would somehow better the days we live on it.

It makes me wonder; if we did know exactly what our “expiration date” was, how would that information lead us to do things differently?  How would that knowledge affect the way we live our lives and treat others?  Would we live consistently respecting others and showing our loved ones how much we care, or would we live selfishly, insensitive to the feelings and needs of others, waiting until the closing days or hours to make amends, knowing that our “final words” are what would be considered most significant and therefore, most memorable?

I recently read an article about someone who attended a luncheon with several highly accomplished people.  The speaker had given them two minutes to write a response to one question:  “If you knew you were dying, what would your final words be?”

Apparently, despite the highly polished resumes of those in attendance, not one of them referenced their notable accomplishments or spoke of their high-value material acquisitions.

Each attendee, instead, indicated that their last words would be focused on their loved ones.  That, in itself, speaks volumes regarding what should truly be considered “success” in life.  Work, becoming successful and setting personal and professional goals to achieve, are all vitally important aspects of life.  However, in the end, our true worth and significance comes not from what we have accomplished or attained, but in the legacy we have left in the hearts and minds of those we’ve loved and who have loved us.  When all is said and done, what will matter most are those relationships and bonds we’ve created through time with people in our lives with whom we’ve shared love, laughter and memories.

Death is not known to be an efficient entity.  Therefore, the date of our ultimate departure is not likely to be something we can prepare for slightly in advance, or schedule in ink on our busy calendar.  There will be no notification email sent out with the subject:  PENDING DEMISE.  For most of us, it is highly unlikely that we will know our “expiration date” and therefore, be given the opportunity to speak heartfelt and articulately, our carefully selected, “final words.”  Just the thought of that type of premeditation is uncomfortably morbid and truthfully, rather depressing for most of us.

However, after contemplating what my own response would be to the speaker’s question, it occurred to me, that these days I am living now ARE my final words;  not just the “words,” but everything I am currently doing and saying to, or for, others.  These are the things that will be remembered by my friends and loved ones -- the way in which I am living my life, my actions, and relationships with them on a regular, everyday basis -- ARE my final words, which in essence, epitomizes the old adage, “Actions speak louder than words.” 

I now believe that this concept has had a positive effect on how I live my life and treat others.  The simple expression, “these are my final words,” coupled with trying to live an example of those final words through my life’s actions, continue daily, to help make me a better person.

 

www.lindaellis.net

 

One Lucille

Recently experiencing the metamorphosis of my beloved hobby, creative writing, becoming a “business” involving contracts and lawyers, I have become convinced that the only way the human race survives and continues to thrive despite itself is due to an unspoken and delicate balance. I am referring to my own version of the well-known balance between good and evil, calibrated on a more human scale, which I have dubbed the balance between the unscrupulous and the Luciles.

I’ve even gone so far as to develop a "Lucile equation" in my mind. It helps me to mentally cope with those inevitable and unavoidable encounters with those folks who, through their own actions of chicanery, make me question my own compassion, understanding and patience.  (Basically, those fellow human beings with whom I do not wish to play in the same sandbox.)

Using what my family affectionately calls, “Linda Logic” I’ve created the following equation: For every ten unethical, immoral or dishonest people, there is one Lucile to maintain the balance. Let me elaborate further on this human equation…

As an inspirational writer in this world, some days it’s difficult to be truly inspired. I often mentally feel like, in a line borrowed from the show Cheers, “It’s a dog eat dog world and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.”  Yet, I’ve found that there are still many of us who, even after being repeatedly manipulated, remain hopeful by maintaining a belief in a “mankind is comprised of an underlying good will overcome evil” philosophy. Though increasingly more cautious, we “hold outs” will always remain naive and unsuspecting of the unscrupulous who, like hungry lions, hide in the shadows waiting for opportunities to pounce.

Recently, on a rainy, dreary day with one of my routine sinus headaches slowly rearing its ugly head, I stopped at a well-known hamburger chain to grab a biggie sized #1 combo meal. (Though I’ve made respectable strides toward rehabilitation, I am admittedly a junk food junkie and that day, I needed a fix!)

Using my unique clean table scanning technique, I found what I deemed to be the most hygienic place to savor my, void of any notable nutrition, vein-clogging, high cholesterol meal.

But when I placed my tray on the table, I felt a cool chill from the vent positioned directly above my selected seat, so I quickly repositioned myself to another table in an adjacent row. An elderly woman, one table over and facing my newly chosen location, happened to notice my shiver and said to me with animated motions, “There’s a vent over here, too.  It’s chilly in here!”

I smiled back at her and nodded in complete agreement. Apparently this friendly acknowledgement was, to her, an invitation to begin one of the most enlightening and enjoyable conversations I can remember having in many years.

It began with talk about our recent rainfall deficit and soon blossomed into stories of her children, her recently installed pacemaker, President Truman and her personal opinions on rising gas prices and those who oppose drilling for oil in the US.

I quickly noted that she was sharp as a tack and very intelligent. During the next 45 minutes, I eagerly learned of her children, her strong belief in God and the fact that she’d survived cancer at the age of 38. One of her most memorable statements, among many, was when she said, “I told each of my children that they do not belong to me. They belong to God and he loaned them to me to do the best that I can.” Another statement referred to the news she’d received almost 50 years prior, that she had cancer. She said she prayed to God to give her just enough time to raise her children. Then she added humbly, “And look how much more He’s given me. I’m 87 years old and the first thing I do every morning is thank Him for yet another day.”

In her stories, she referenced her husband, but didn’t share how he’d passed. Though she still proudly donned a gold wedding band, I surmised that he must be deceased because all of her statements used the “I” pronoun, never “we.”  My “angel of the day” said things to me that afternoon that I can’t forget. At one point, she looked me sincerely in the eye and said, “God bless you and enjoy your life, honey. It goes by so fast.”

When it was time for our unexpected “visit” to end, she stood up with her tray, faced the counter of the restaurant and staff and with a charming exuberance exclaimed, “Thank you! That was DELICIOUS!”  With that, I smiled and followed her out the door.

In 2005, my first gift book was published, co-authored by Mac Anderson and titled “The Dash…Making a Difference with Your Life.” It is a book about how you spend your dash, that little line on your tombstone between the dates of birth and death.

I happened to have an extra copy in my car and offered it to Lucile as a gift because it coincided with the perceptions of life she’d chosen to share with me that rainy afternoon. You’d have thought I’d offered her the moon. She clutched it to her chest with both hands and said she’d cherish it forever. I offered to sign it for her and before I’d completed the sentence, she leaned forward to see what I was writing, pointed her finger at the page and replied excitedly, “That’s Lucile …with one “L!”

I thanked her for her wisdoms, wished her well and walked to my car.  As I started the engine, I heard a horn beep twice. I turned to see her driving away and blowing a kiss in my direction.

I drove away that day with a renewed outlook. It felt, in a way,  as though my heart was smiling.

 

www.lindaellis.net

 

Is That You?

I wrote the poem, Is That You? to illustrate my belief in the possibility that our lost loved ones occasionally send us “signs” to let us know they are still, in some distant way, a part of our life.  Maybe it’s just the optimist in my soul, or maybe it stems from an inherent desire to never completely forgo the relationships I’ve held with friends and family.

A perfect example of this concept is the photo below.  My father, who was also my best friend, passed away several years ago.  He LOVED to fish.  It was more than a hobby for him, it was his life’s passion.  Recently, during a visit with a friend to a butterfly sanctuary, I began a conversation about the “signs” that I desperately wanted to believe my father was sending me since his passing.  My friend was intrigued by this thought process, but I felt, not thoroughly convinced.  After all, it could sound a bit far-fetched to some.

As soon as I’d uttered the words, “I think we should at least remain open to this idea, should such a sign appear to us,” I turned to see this butterfly perfectly perched on the branch above me.  I quickly grabbed my camera to see if I could capture the moment, and prove to myself that what my mind’s eye had convinced me I was viewing, had indeed been there.  I also wanted a picture to show others as I was curious to find out if my friends and family could discover in this scene what I had.  Look carefully at the tip of the butterfly’s wing on the left of this photo…

Some people see it.  Some don't.  Keep looking if you don't.  To me, it's as plain as day, but maybe that's because I want to see it.

Possibly a coincidence.  Probably a fluke.  But either way, it brought me solace and comfort that day to know that maybe…just maybe, my favorite fisherman is still close by.

Is That You?
Linda Ellis copyright 1998

We suffer and we grieve
when we lose someone whom we’ve loved
and it brings us comfort to believe
they’ve been called from "up above."

And often times I’ll wonder
in the things I do and see
if somehow they’re trying to let me know
they are watching over me.

I believe more each day
that flukes occurring just by chance
don’t happen by coincidence,
or by simple happenstance.

And I’ll find myself wondering
if each incident is a clue,
or if I should dare to consider asking
the question, "Is That You?"

Is that you in the vivid flower
standing in the midst of the weeds and grass
or in the multi-colored prism reflected
from the light upon my glass?

Is that you in the ray of sunshine
that I feel warm upon my back
or in the most brilliant star that shines
as the sky fades into black?

Is that you in the whirlpool of autumn leaves
captured by the breeze
or in the single leaf that will grace my path
as I walk beneath the trees?

Is that you in the sign that suddenly appears
when it seems I’ve lost my way –
or in the strip of clear blue sky
peering through clouds of stormy gray?

Is that you in the lone butterfly
that appears before its season
or in the smile of a passing stranger
that I receive without a reason?

These occasions have begun
to somehow calm my sorrow and fear.
For though you’re gone, they may be your way
of showing me that you’re still near.

Linda Ellis
www.lindaellis.net

 

Boxes

by Linda Ellis, Copyright 2009, www.lindaellis.net

I started cleaning out a back closet the other day, and on the top rack, I found three large boxes.  I recognized them instantly and drew in a slow, deep breath as I brought them down from the shelf where they’d spent the last five years, undisturbed.

I carefully pulled back the tape that I distinctly remembered applying on the day I brought these boxes home.  I recalled the tears that fell under the strips of tape as I pressed them slowly along the corners and seams of each box to securely hold them together until I was ready to open them again and, with a clearer mind, inspect their contents.  I thought how ironic it was that this product was called “masking tape” as I had certainly tried to “mask” my feelings that day by attempting, unsuccessfully, to seal my hurt and pain inside each box as well.

I opened the first box and began to carefully sift through the black and white photos, documents and papers.  My eye caught the corner of a sheet of paper that I recognized as being written in my handwriting.  As I removed it from the box and began to read it, I realized it was a poem I’d written to my father when I was thirteen years old.  In it, I’d referred to a favorite joke of his: “Daddy, I know it must be hard…seeing your little girl grow up.  Telling everyone you know, that you’ve raised me from a pup!”   I grinned as I recalled the witty sarcasm in his own voice every time he’d repeated that little joke.  I remember staying up late one night writing that poem and leaving it for him in his lunch box so he’d open it and read it at work the next day.  I wondered now, how often he’d reread it over the thirty years he’d saved it.

Then I looked back into the box.  I glanced at his passport, some silver dollars, anniversary pins from his employer which marked his ten and twenty year anniversaries, etc.  I found an old fishing license, some bills, receipts, birthday cards and letters.

I sat motionless staring intently at a photo I’d taken of him about a month before he’d passed away.  I asked myself how it happened that seventy four years of walking this earth could eventually be contained within three boxes. 

Then, it occurred to me, that what my father had actually left behind was so much more than one could place in any box.  Even if it were possible: if love, guidance, support and protection were tangible items, there could never be a box enormous enough to house all that he’d given me.

The items in these boxes contained a paper trail which began in 1930 and ended in 2004.  From their contents, anyone who hadn’t known him would have been able to ascertain his financial status, how many children he had, where he’d traveled, different residences throughout his life, but not what truly made him the man he was.

I realized then, that what was in these boxes, didn’t truly matter.  What mattered most in my father’s legacy were the things I still carry with me every day: the life lessons I still hear in his words repeated aloud in my mind, the respect that he demanded I show others, the love and affection I feel free to give my children, the humor I find even in the most difficult situations and the empathy for others I feel in my heart when I see someone who is suffering.  

Those are a few examples of the “things” my father left me.  Maybe that’s why God has made such things, intangible.  For if they were physical objects that we could see and hold, they might very well be sealed in boxes and put high upon a shelf to be revisited every five years or so, instead of being remembered and utilized every single day, literally inside the soul of a still living, breathing being.

After going through the boxes, I'd found that I was not yet ready to discard their contents, and probably never would be.  So, I resealed them and put them back in the closet.  Yet, this time, I placed them on a low, visible shelf as a reminder to me, a reminder of the most important lesson my father had taught me: that I should strive to live a life that ensures my own legacy is more than a monetary inheritance to inevitably be divvied up amongst my loved ones; a life that ensures that what I leave behind will instead be carried in the hearts and memories of those I knew and loved, as a very part of their own lives. 

And that day I vowed to leave my loved ones and friends with so much more than what can be packed up and sealed…in boxes.

Copyright 2009 Linda Ellis

Make What's Left, Right

by Linda Ellis, Copyright 2008, www.lindaellis.net

When we are young, we never really consider ourself a person who will eventually grow old.  We know it’s a fact, yet the true reality doesn’t sink in until much later.  When you are 17, thinking of yourself as an 85 year-old doesn’t even seem fathomable.  Even as we grow older and reach milestones such as 30, 40 and beyond, we don’t truly realize that the total of the years behind us is silently, and with rapidly increasing momentum, catching up with, and inevitably surpassing, the years we anticipate will be in front of us. This epiphany didn’t hit me until I was celebrating the third anniversary of my 40^th birthday.  J

So, of course, I started to make some changes around that time.  Not that I had been living my life as a shrew, but I felt that I could definitely use some positive changes, especially when it occurred to me that I hadn't a clue how much time was in front of me vs. the time I’d already used up.  In my mind, I pictured my lifeline as a seesaw with one side representing the years that have passed and the other, those remaining (and the heavy kid was sitting on the side of my past.)

Being unaware of our remaining time is a good thing.  That is why we are not born with an expiration date stamped on our forehead.  For instance, if at some point, we knew that we had a definite 40 years in front of us, some of us might choose to live in sin and depravity for 39 years and 11 months and then make restitution around mid-December of month 12.  However, the mere notion that we don’t know if we have 40 years, 40 minutes or 40 seconds is the basis for the title of this story, Make What’s Left, Right.  None of us are guaranteed a tomorrow.  Whether you are 19 or 91 reading this article today, you could have the same amount of time remaining on this earth and the same amount of time to take the necessary steps to make what’s left, right.  The positive changes you’ve been thinking about making “someday” or those fences you’ve been meaning to mend need to be done now.   Don’t put off making worthwhile changes because you expect or anticipate that you have a certain amount of time to follow.  This type of procrastination could end with a “too little, too late” result.

It reminds me of “sweeps week” with network television; that period in which viewing figures are calculated for various shows and channels. During these times, networks deliberately bring out new episodes, series and specials in an effort to boost their viewing figures, and therefore, ad revenue.

Keeping this in mind, and expanding on a concept from Ret. Sgt., Marc Turner, the following poem was written:

Nobody Came

by Linda Ellis
Copyright 2005

Soaked with sweat and filled with fear,
he rose quickly in his bed.
The dream he'd had the night before
was so real inside his head.


Every image and every emotion
the night’s hours left behind 
was clear as crystal in his memory,
 forever engraved upon his mind.

He could still see his lifeless body,
a silken pillow ‘neath his head,
and what should’ve been a room of mourners 
was an empty room instead.

No one to stand, no one to speak,
no words of love, no prayers...
no flowers with cards of sympathy,
just empty tables, empty chairs.

Remembering the details of his dream...
his body cold and all alone
and the realization that nobody came 
chilled him to the bone.

He thought, “How could this have happened? 
Not one person came to grieve?
Of all the people in my life, 
was no one sad to see me leave?

Were all my years a waste of time? 
Did my life not have worth? 
Were there no hearts or lives I touched?
Did I leave no footprint here on earth?

What could be the reasons why,
nobody cared, nobody came?”
But in his heart, he knew the answer; 
he only had himself to blame.

He knew his dream was not reality,
but it made him stop and think;
in the chain of human kindness, 
had he been a broken link?

He vowed that day to start anew,
to stop fretting and complaining,
to touch a life and make a difference 
with every day he had remaining...

to change the way he lived his life 
so that each day would include 
an act of kindness, thoughtful deed, 
a simple show of gratitude…

to leave a legacy of kindness, 
and focus on what’s true and real,
trying always to remember 
just how other people feel...

to make these changes happen now...
to show compassion, share a smile, 
for tomorrow is never guaranteed 
and today is here for just a while.

Hence, when his days have come and gone,
as tears fall and flowers bloom, 
a large and mournful crowd will fill 
what was once an empty room.

(Concept and Contributions by Marc Turner)

960 Minutes

by Linda Ellis, Copyright 2008, www.lindaellis.net

960 Minutes.  According to my calculations and my current schedule, that’s how many minutes, approximately, averaged, that I spend awake out of the 1,440 minutes contained within each “day.” 960 Minutes.

Therefore, I strongly consider each of them to be MY minutes and they belong to no one, but me.  I, alone, have the choice where and with whom I choose to share my minutes and what situations or emotions are (or aren’t) worthy of utilizing these precious commodities.

When applicable, I find myself repeating the phrase:  “Choose how you use.”  Just as you ask yourself before making a purchase, “Is this really worth my money?” -- ask yourself before engaging in negativity or cynicism, “Is this really worth my minutes?”  Before you start worrying about something that may never materialize, ask yourself, “Is it worth my minutes?” 

Today, we watch how we would spend 960 dollars more carefully than how we would spend the same amount of minutes, our daily ration of time, though the latter is far more precious to behold and should be budgeted with the utmost attention to detail.  Instead, often we’ll spend our 960 minutes as though they were recyclable or in endless supply. 

When you lay your head down tonight and preview in your mind how you spent your allotted 960 minutes, which words will best describe the answer?  Did you share your minutes with contentment, laughter and joy or did you choose to share too much of this finite resource today with anger, resentfulness and aggravation?

A good example of my new thought process was played out the other day in the parking lot of my local grocery store.  A woman (dialing her cell phone) ignored a stop sign and pulled directly out in front of my car.  With a dexterity that would have made Mario Andretti envious, I swerved and somehow missed hitting her SUV.  Afterwards, however, when she should have chosen to express gratitude, I turned and noticed her hand gestures, which unmistakably and vehemently expressed sentiments quite the opposite.  My blood pressure rose rapidly, but through gritted teeth, I repeated to myself silently, “Choose how you use…choose how you use.” 

I chose to continue to drive forward, unresponsive to her provocational actions.  I’m not going to fib and say I didn’t spend five or ten minutes in anger or distress over the incident because I certainly did. However, I then let it go.  I let it go.  I did not let it fester and eat up more minutes than it could have.  The situation simply wasn’t worthy of using up my minutes.  In fact, writing these two paragraphs is the first time I’ve recalled the incident since. 

I remember thinking that evening, as a strategy for my new 960 minutes theory, that maybe I could stay awake ten minutes later doing something I enjoy, just to recoup the lost time!

To summarize, I say BE MISERLY, GREEDY AND SELFISH with your minutes!  Don’t let others dictate how you spend them.  They are completely non-refundable; you can’t buy more, you can’t borrow someone else’s and you can’t get them back once they’re gone. 

If only the rules stated that when we reached 90 years of age, we could simply write a letter to the “Life Customer Service Department” stating, “In 2008, I spent 10,950 minutes filled with aggravation and frustration.  Since the customer is always right, I am officially requesting that those misspent minutes be added back to my life’s account.  I will await your confirmation.  Thank you.”

Life has its moments and unfortunately, there are times when sadness and despair are inescapable. However, 30 minutes per day spent in avoidable discontent equates to more than one week per year from your life; seven days, which could have instead been lived…enjoyed…relished and celebrated.  It’s your choice.

So today, instead of repeating the overused expression, “Have a good day,” I say, “Enjoy your minutes!”

Linda Ellis

Copyright 2008

Be Contagious!

by Linda Ellis, Copyright 2008, www.lindaellis.net

Recently I had some professional photos taken for publicity purpose and afterwards I sat in the studio for 90 minutes waiting to view my "instant" photo proofs. As I sat repeatedly repositioning myself in a chair with no arms and silently admiring the handbag of a customer seated nearby, I overheard the sales woman (whose nametag should bear the title,"Flattery Manager") speaking to a viable patron.

Apparently this company had figured out that showering customers with adulation regarding their photos, including,"oh, look at that beautiful smile" and "your eyes look so bright and attractive in this one" had a direct impact on their quarterly profit margins. (I guessed that this particular employee had recently completed the "Catapulting Compliments to Increase Sales" section of the company's training manual.)

Then it was my turn. I was seated in front of a large screen as my photo slideshow was displayed with accompanying background music, that if it had contained lyrics, would have repeated one chorus: "Buy this picture; it flatters you. And while you're at it, buy this one, too"

But I had my defenses up, prepared to hear the empty praises aimed more at my checkbook than the truth. As my pictures began to fade in and fade out, I waited for the trained Flattery Manager to tell me how "beautiful" the expression on my face was, or "what a great hair day" I was having as I'd heard her say to my predecessor. Therefore, I was surprised by the particular adjective she'd chosen instead to describe my photos. She studied each photo and then thoughtfully turned to me and said, "your smile is so..." I anticipated the word she was going to select as a sales tactic, out of the hundreds of potential adjective candidates; "pretty," "attractive," (or even "straight" or "white!") But, no she used the highly underestimated adjective CONTAGIOUS to describe me!  "Contagious?" I replied, partly disappointed that I didn't receive my inflated compliments and partly curious why she'd chosen that particular descriptive word. I thought to myself, "maybe she meant congenial or considerate, or even consistent!"  I asked for clarification. "Contagious?" I inquired once more. Her nod confirmed the trait she'd apparently detected in the expressions captured by the camera's lens. Then another sales woman approached and concurred, "yes, she is contagious!"  

Hmmmmm. Well, okay. I've got a contagious smile. I can deal with that. It could be worse. Granted, the word did not encourage me to write a bigger check for more photos, but it did get me thinking.

Later, I even looked up the word, whose figurative definition is: “likely to spread to or affect others…transmittable…transferable.”  Suddenly, I realized that “contagious” was indeed a complimentary characterization, even though I'd only heard it used previously in negative terms. In fact, it was one of the most sincere, flattering compliments I’d ever received!  

I’m glad I’m contagious!  And although I didn't plan to repeat that aloud in a crowded room or elevator, I vowed then to strive to become even MORE contagious!

Furthermore, I think it would be a nicer world if everyone displayed a smile or an attitude worthy of being dubbed “contagious.”  I briefly had visions of single-handedly starting an outbreak of a contagion the medical profession would call the “amicable virus” that would spread like an epidemic and infect millions!  It would be a plague transferred by person to person on airplanes, in traffic jams, in lines at the grocery store…

Alright, alright, maybe I got a little carried away with my newfound attribute, but I do intend to proudly continue to “infect” everyone I meet as long as I am able with a “contagious” smile and a positive, “communicable” attitude, too!

Linda Ellis

Copyright 2008

A Round Tuit

by Linda Ellis, Copyright 2008, www.lindaellis.net

When I was a child, my father had a special way of making his point.  Now, years after his death, I am learning every day that those unique ways he had to ensure his lessons were imprinted in my mind, actuallly worked. 

One of the most vivid examples of my father's unique style of parenting was his response to my lack of enthusiasm when he had requested that I take care of something.  I distinctly remember having a habit of answering my dad's requests to do chores with, "When I get around to it..."  This answer was not the response my father preferred from any of his children, but unfortunately the one that he'd receive most often, at least from me.  He was a tad more strict with my three brothers than he was with me.  (My brothers would argue the use of the phrase "a tad more..." claiming that I was spoiled as the only girl.  Hmmmmf!)

Anyway, one particular afternoon my father had politely requested that I complete some mundane chore that apparently I didn't find particularly interesting.  I answered him curtly with my standard, "I'll do it, dad.  When I get around to it!"  I couldn't help but notice the unmistakable Cheshire Cat grin on his face as he reached into his pocket and handed me a little cardboard circle, about 2" in diameter.  Both sides were printed with nothing but the word, "TUIT." Yes, he had, in essence, found a way of making sure that I'd gotten a round tuit.  At the time, I remember trying to appear as unimpressed as possible due to the fact that the result of this little stunt was my having to do whatever task had been requested of me that day.

Now, many years later, I find myself applying this a round tuit philosophy to the daily struggle of prioritizing the endless list of "to-do's" that I've created and tend to revise hourly.  As I push those, what could be deemed as, "less important" tasks to the bottom of the list, such as:  "call Aunt Margaret" or "make lunch plans with Susan," I can almost hear myself saying "I'll do it when I get around to it." 

Well, not anymore.  Today I placed a round tuit on the top of my to-do list.  Those items listed under it will now become #1 priority and the others will just have to wait their turn.  Life is too short and no one is guaranteed a tomorrow.  Putting off doing the meaningful things because life gets in the way, is no excuse anymore. 

Dad, it looks like I finally got it.  I just wish I'd gotten a round tuit sooner!  Thanks! 

Linda Ellis

Copyright 2007

Ordinary Days

by Linda Ellis, Copyright 2008, www.lindaellis.net

Last night I had a conversation with a friend of mine whose mom has been battling cancer.  She said her mom told her that when my friend was little, they had a set of special dishes, fine china I suppose, that was only used on very, very special occasions.  Her mom said since she has been facing this challenge, those dishes are set on the table on a regular basis and she regrets not using them on even the most ordinary days in the past. 

I began thinking about the phrase, "ordinary day."  So many of us count down the days until our next big event, that we discount those days in between and tend to label them as "ordinary." Often we'll count them down as though they have no value.  "Only 14 days left until..."  If there is nothing special scheduled...no vacation, no holiday, not even a package in the mail, then the day is considered ordinary and we endure it as if it were some sort of task instead of living it to the fullest.  I've begun a new way of thinking in my life and that is that no day should be considered ordinary.  Every morning when the sun rises and you wake up, should be considered special.  In a poem I titled, "Every Single Day," I wrote:  If the span of every lifetime were cut into pieces with a knife, then every single day would be...a single slice of life.

If you view every day as if it were a single slice of life, and not just 24 hours to pass to bring you closer to some special happening or event in your life, then you can learn to appreciate and experience all the life contained within each and every day with which you are blessed.

The definition of the word ordinary is a commonplace condition or situation.  Is there anything common about a sunrise?  Is there anything common about the colors of the leaves changing in the fall?  Is there anything common about the way in which a flock of birds can fly in such a synchronized formation?  Is there anything common about the way a sunburst's perfect pattern appears through the clouds as if designed by some computer program?  All of these magical events, and so many more, happen on ordinary days.  If we learn to realize the uniqueness and beauty found in each day, then we can realize that no day is ever ordinary.

Linda Ellis

Copyright 2007