Bring on the change...

By Lisa A. Eramo

As many of you know by now, I turned 30 years old on July 20. In an attempt to find meaning in this new decade of my life, I did a little digging about the significance of the number 30. Here's what I found:

Interesting facts about the number 30 (found at http://www.gold-eagle.com/gold_digest_01/droke022801.html):

While the number 30 has many significations, its most fundamental significance is the fact that it is the number of the circle, or cycle. The circle, it will be noted, is the geometric expression of absolute completion and infinity. It symbolizes the continuous, yet fixed, nature of life, energy and matter along the timeline. It is the shape of every planet in the solar system and the fittest representation of all time cycles as the clock itself (being in the shape of a circle) testifies.

The clock also provides a fitting analogy to our examination of the number 30. Besides being the ultimate embodiment of the cycle (which governs the affairs of every life-form on earth), the clock is divided into 12 sections, or hours, upon a circular face. The circle itself is 360 degrees (a completed cycle in geometry), and 360 divided by 12 yields 30. Therefore, 30 has a special significance in the cycle of time.

Thirty is also half of 60, the number of seconds in a minute and the number of minutes in an hour. It forms an integral part of the measure of time itself. Thirty is the number of days in a month, and three times 30 is equal to one quarter of the calendar year. In the realm of finance, the quarter has a very important meaning in the analysis of corporate earnings. As such, it forms the backbone to financial cycle analysis since identifiable cycles of stock price fluctuations tend to occur in quarterly increments.

Thirty days times 3 is also the division of the calendar itself into four (the number 4 representing temporal completion) equal sections. It also forms the basis of the four seasons of the year and therefore is important to the agrarian economy (without which life could not exist). The farmer must plan his tilling, planting, fertilizing, and harvesting activities along these four quarters (30 x 3), with each quarter representing a timeframe integral to the success of his crop. Therefore, the number 30 also forms the backbone to understanding the commodities market as well, and is a central component in the analysis of supply and demand.

Since the cycle (of which the number 30 is an essential feature) cannot be expressed as a complete circle along the timeline, it takes instead the form of an S-shaped curve, or sine wave. This is nothing more than a bisected circle, or cycloid, with both halves connecting to form the completed circle in price and time (though not in actual form). Using this as a foundation for the understanding and interpretation of the cycle, we will proceed along this channel.

The number 30 can also be expressed as 10 x 3 (10 being the number of ordinal perfection and 3 the number of divine completeness). This mathematical structure further underlines the special importance of this number. Thirty is also the number of probation and preparation. A man, before he is fit for success, very often must toil at his trade until he reaches the age of 30 before he is ready to advance and apply all his wisdom and experience with great success. Thirty also has a theological significance since we read in Scripture that Christ was 30 when he began his public ministry on earth. In biblical numerology, the number 30 is also representative of blood (the essence of all life) and the price of blood. For example, Christ was sold by Judas Iscariot for 30 pieces of silver.

Thoughts about beauty...and stained glass windows

By Lisa A. Eramo

My partner recently shared this quote with me, and I thought I'd post it here. True strength and beauty do radiate outward from within. Enjoy!

"People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within."
~ Elizabeth Kubler-Ross ~

Being paid for what you're worth: A novel idea

By Lisa A. Eramo

We all complain about our salaries. 'We're not paid enough!' 'We deserve a raise!' 'We don't make enough to pay our bills!'

In these tough economic times, chants such as these have increased in volume and frequency, yet employers find themselves emptying their pockets with little more than voluntary unpaid time off to offer employees.

In the midst of layoffs and downsizing, what if employers actually paid employees what they were truly worth? What if our salaries actually reflected the time, effort, and passion we put into our projects and assignments? Would it help retain staff or recruit the best and the brightest? My best guess is that it surely would when coupled with a positive and open work environment, reasonable work load, and comprehensive benefits.

These days, hospitals are being penalized for providing poor care to patients, especially when patients suffer from infections acquired within the hospital walls. Even physician reimbursement has begun to move toward a pay-for-performance model in which more effective and efficient care is rewarded. Why not extend this concept to other professions as well? Pay us for the work we do. The better we perform, the more we make. Those whose final product is less than dazzling are paid less than others who bend over backward to produce the desired results.

Isn't this the way most professionals already work? Not quite. In theory, employers award us for working hard, providing us with merit-based raises each year. In reality, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is not bottomless. Employers make decisions oftentimes using a matrix to which only the higher-ups are privy. In the current economic climate, many employers have not only foregone raises, but they have also begun to cut other benefits such as retirement matching, tuition reimbursement, and continuing education. The idea of being paid for what you're worth is at an all-time low.

This idea couldn't be truer for the underpaid--and often under appreciated--profession of teaching. If teachers (the really good ones) were actually paid what they're worth, they'd be among the richest professionals in the country. And schools would be better because of it. Test scores would be higher. Drop out rates would decrease. Students would be inspired. We all know what a little inspiration can do. People would willingly enter the profession because they'd know that their countless evenings grading tests or planning lessons would pay off--literally and figuratively. What kind of teachers could a school if it paid them $125,000? Top notch ones, that's for sure.

Some may say teachers' riches come in the impact they have on students' lives...in the success stories for which they can take credit. I say let's pay them what they deserve for cultivating minds and inspiring youth. Without an education, where would we as a society be? I'm not just talking about a textbook education. Some of the best teachers I've had taught me about life, strength, and loss. Those are the lessons on which you can't put a price tag.

A lesson in kindness...introvert style

By Lisa A. Eramo

You enjoy observing others.
You are much more comfortable listening than talking.
You usually need to think before you respond or speak.
You feel drained after social situations.
Other people give you more credit than you give yourself.
You are creative and/or imaginative.
You notice details that many people don't see.

What does this make you? It means that like me, you're most likely classified as the dreaded "I" word: INTROVERT. I say 'dreaded' because most introverts are completely misunderstood and oftentimes misjudged. Unlike the majority of extroverted society, introverts remain a mysterious bunch. We are the quiet thinkers who prefer to remain in the background and who would much rather be categorized as the 'people watchers' rather than the center of attention or the life of the party.

For me, what complicates matters is that not only am I an introvert, but I am also an INFJ, according to the Myers Briggs personality test. INFJs are the rarest personality type. In fact, we make up less than 1% of the total population. Being an INFJ means that I am nut when it comes to order and logic (I'm a self-proclaimed list addict!), and that my life is ruled by internalized conflict and criticism.

But who wants to dwell on the negatives? You could also look at the flip side of the argument, which is that introverts and INFJs are extremely warm, giving, and above all, creative. As a writer and editor, my personality type certainly comes in handy. When I interview sources, I'd like to think that I am an impeccable listener, that I ask thoughtful questions, and that I am sensitive to others' needs and opinions. As a writer, it means that I leave no stone unturned and that my stories are detailed, analytical, and balanced.

I was recently reading about the power of the introvert in The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D. The book has made me realize that introverts are very capable of offering unique contributions to society. We are the thinkers, the creative minds, the feelers, and the artists. We notice things. And if the introvert is like me, we write about what we notice.

For example, I was recently reading and writing at one of my favorite local bookstores. In between stories, I was doing what I do best: people watching. And because of my keen observation skills, I noticed another customer who taught me something about kindness.

I was sitting in the cafe section of the store with a my trusty laptop, a chocolate chip cookie, and a venti black iced tea to keep me company. I was surrounded by people--the perfect writing environment. As far as I'm concerned, the louder, busier, and more bustling the place, the more rapidly my creative juices start flowing...as long as I can keep to myself and hide behind the glow of my monitor, that is.

There was one man, in particular, who drew my attention. He was probably at least 80 years old, and his glasses falling off the tip of his nose. His shirt was slightly untucked from his pants, and his head shook slightly as he read. He was sitting in one of those comfortable overstuffed chairs reading a biography of some sort. However, like me, he kept looking up from his book to watch others pass by.

A younger woman sitting next to him unknowingly dropped a piece of paper as she voraciously read her book. The man slowly got up out of his chair and shuffled over to where she sat. He bent down to pick up the paper and handed it to her with a smile. This simple act initiated an introduction followed by a handshake, a conversation, and a few smiles and laughs.

What a wonderful exchange between two strangers, I thought. I continued to watch them engage in conversation while other customers swirled around them, ordering coffee, answering cell phones, booting up laptops, or throwing change onto the counter. I smiled and reveled in the fact that I was probably the only one who noticed.

On worn out shoes, running, and turning 30...

By Lisa A. Eramo

It was 1999. I was determined to run the longest race of my life: 9.3 miles of asphalt road, my pumping heart a compass to guide me. The Boilermaker (a fitting name considering its duration) was held in the sultry summer heat on July 11--one of the sunniest and warmest days of the year in upstate New York. There were throngs of observers to cheer us on, hand us cups of chilled water, and serve up oranges to hydrate our thirsty bodies. Race veterans would say that if you could get to the six mile mark, the crowd would carry you through the rest. They were right.

Upon the race's culmination, I was the 6,997th person to cross the finish line, a computer chip in my shoe lace marking the exact moment. I was 20 years old, my body still new and young, taking the road less traveled.

There were 7,359 runners that year. We each trained, toiled, toned, and taught ourselves to find a pace. Though I'd never been an athlete growing up, I was set on finishing the race. I practiced for months on winding country roads, a backdrop of farmland surrounding me. I ran along the Erie, watching suns rise and fall, the smell of freshly cut grass seeping into my skin.

I ran the race in honor of my Calculus teacher who'd passed away the year before from a brain tumor. He was most definitely one of the most brilliant persons I'd ever met.

Although I don't run anymore, I still feel that pang of freedom when I see someone else doing it. I become distracted by their muscles contracting and moving like pistons in a machine. I see their sweat leaving a stain on sun-ripened shirts. I see the look on their faces that says 'I am running away from fear--stand aside or join me.'

I thought about running the other day when I came across the pair of sneakers I'd worn the day of the race nearly ten years ago. I took them out of the closet and tugged at the laces still folded neatly in a bow. For the most part, the shoes still looked brand new--I'm not sure how. Only the bottoms showed their age, soles that were weathered and cracked from use. These shoes had carried and cushioned me, supported my flat feet and helped to soften the blow on my weakened knees. I felt a sort of love for them--for the care they'd showed me during that time.

This July, I will turn 30 years old. I will enter a new decade of my life. I haven't really put those shoes on at all since the race. They've remained in the darkness of my closet among other forgotten belongings. Yet their importance still speaks to me when I take the time to listen: You can do it, Lisa. You can do it.

Perhaps I will don them when the clock strikes midnight on my birthday. Perhaps I will lace them up and parade around the room or go for moonlight stroll. Perhaps I will start walking and never stop. Perhaps I will take a step for every year I've lived and one for every dream I still have. I will make this phase even better than the last and let my shoes propel me forward to the next leg of the race.

Carry me home

By Lisa Eramo

Let the waves wash over
my soul, let the sun ripen
my thoughts, let the salt surround
my scent, let the things of the ocean move
round me, let the wind sing me
to sleep, let the blues and greens
color me, let me dance to the sounds
of Earth twirling, let me be born
into the waters from which I came,
let me think of this moment
when the fleet of hope will find me
and carry me home.

Change, do not spare us

By Lisa A. Eramo

I am intrigued by a woman
who walks the streets each sunrise,
burdened by bags, begging for bottles,
looking for ways to break even.

I watch her pass by,
turning plastic to nickles,
searching for treasures--
an old pot or pan,
some worn, weathered shoes,
a dog-eared book to settle her fears.

I imagine she hopes
that no one will see, that no one
will judge, and leave her
alone to roam on her own.

I hold her close in my mind, saying:
Change begins with a thought,
a light in the dark.
It sounds like a drone,
steady and deep.
It tastes like mint,
fresh and alive.

I imagine she dreams
that one day she'll find
an open palm of opportunity,
a new path to walk down,
a new song to sing.

Until then, we both wander
like two lonely clouds drifting change,
do not spare us.

The Journey

This poem has always touched me, and every time I read it, I am reminded of the tenacity of one's voice. May we all have the strength to listen.

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

-Mary Oliver

Ten reasons you should hire a journalist

I just finished reading a great article by Jill Geisler, of The Poynter Institute, about what makes journalists so valuable to an employer. We really do bring a lot to the table, and we should never lose sight of that or underestimate our own worth!

Check out the article at:

http://www.poynter.org/column.asp?id=34&aid=160112

I, too, have a place

By Lisa Eramo

There is no easy way of telling
what lies inside a geode
until it breaks or is
cut open.

Each one starts the same, life forming
in the shelter of sedimentary rock,
rounded cavities fed slowly
by groundwater minerals, heat, water, and stress.

On the outside, hardened limestone weathers its storms,
protects the insides that took years to form--
crystals of quartz, amythest, and jasper or
minerals of calcite, dolomite, celestite.

As decades pass and seasons come and go,
each one turns its own way,
colors varying in shades of warmth
that languages cannot describe.

I remember the day I found one on the ground,
a stunning cathedral of light
cracked open by forces
beyond its own control.

I remember the way I cried
for the years its masterful artwork went unnoticed,
for the talents it never used,
for the way it lived in hiding, doubting its own
naked beauty.

Its stunning vulnerability made me pause.

I couldn't stop myself from staring
as it lay open, crying out
for purpose, crying out
as if to say
I, too, have a place in this world.