We Are All the Winners

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

This blog entry should be titled “Things I Can’t Do.” Settle in. There’s a long list. I’ve already admitted I can’t paint, and I can’t crochet. And I don’t do math. Or play basketball. (Although to be fair, I am an exceptionally experienced bleacher-sitting, fanatic-cheering, heart-in-my-throat-at-the-score, exhausted by-the-end-of-every-game-I never-played, admirer of my seven children and growing number of grandchildren who have competed in high school sports.) I had a friend recently tell me that she couldn’t think of anything she’d ever tried that she wasn’t good at. The sad part is, I’ve known her for a long time, and she is not bragging. For her, it’s a fact. For me, not so much.

Take Spanish, for example. Sophomore year in high school, everybody had to sign up for a language. I signed up for French. Nine weeks later, my dad got reassigned, and the new school didn’t offer French. Only Spanish. OK. So I struggled along. Junior year, another new school, I managed to finish 2nd year Spanish. Senior year, new school again–this time, where the student body was mostly bilingual and  Spanish was their first language. Got a “D” in Spanish on my report card. (I don’t think I’d ever even had a “C” before.) I was humiliated. I cried when I brought it home to my folks. My dad was quiet for a long time. I certainly didn’t expect his response.

“How hard did you try?” What? I wasn’t much for studying. Mostly, I just had a healthy memory, and I floated along using it. “Well, then. It’s good to know that the things that matter are seldom easy. The difference is how hard you are willing to work.”

Oh, crap! I hated that assessment. Most of the people I knew were members of military officers’ families. In my limited teenage view, I had no idea that they were a pretty rarefied group. I figured they were just naturally good at things; that’s how they got promoted. Now, suddenly, I was confronted with a whole new worldview. What if nobody succeeded without effort? And what if there were some things which, no matter how hard I worked, I would never be good at? It was an unsettling prospect.

When I headed to college, I was confronted by one subject area after another with which I had no prior experience. I was forced to study harder just to keep up, much less excel. I scrambled my way through astronomy and aced my required ear training class for a music minor—despite my hearing loss–by dating the professor (which I suspect helped my grade considerably). Not long after the end of a spring semester, I was whining to my mom one summer afternoon about how it seemed like everybody around me did things better than I ever could, and she said something that threw my perspective out the window.

“Janice, you’re missing the point. You’re not a failure because you’re not the best. You win! You’ll be lucky to know lots of people who do things better than you do. That’s what makes life rich. One person pens the music; another sings it. You get to enjoy them both.” It was shocking to me to wrap my head around that idea. I didn’t have to be the best at anything? I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before? After all, I lived on a planet with about seven billion other people. When I actually considered it, there were ALWAYS going to be millions of people who could do things better than I would ever be able to, no matter how long and hard I practiced.

Consider pie crust. My mother was the queen of pie crust—light, flaky, beautiful pie crust, every time. It seemed like it should be easy. Only four ingredients–flour, salt, shortening, and water. How badly could I screw it up? Millions of ways apparently. It took 40 years of practice before I figured out how to consistently make a tasty crust. But, interestingly enough, my kids still devoured the pies during the first 39 years of practice. Was it possible that perfection was not a requirement in pie making?

And knitting. I had a friend who used to take her knitting bag with us to the movies. Truth. Her needles would click away in the dark as she concentrated on the hero chasing after the villains. To my knowledge, she never dropped a stitch. Not even during the climax. How much practice does it take to be so good at a skill that you can do it in the dark? Without even thinking about it? Or what about my current neighbor who can successfully back up her heavy-duty truck–with four horses in its trailer!–two feet from the fence between her yard and mine. Every time.

Once I opened my eyes and bothered to look out instead of in, I discovered people all around me who had developed unique and exceptional skills. The best part? Over the years, they have cheerfully shared their gifts with my family and me. My mother was right. Communities aren’t defined by competition; they are welded together by generosity of spirit. When that happens, all of us are the winners.