"Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt."
- Special Olympic Motto
Why is it that Olympic athletes teach us so much about life? I could write a book titled "All I really need to know I learned from watching the Olympic Games."
No matter which event is being televised, Olympic athletes offer so many pearls of wisdom, such golden advice that only many years of intense training, sacrifice, victory or failure could produce.
When 25-year-old Minnesota native Lindsay Vonn struck gold in the women's downhill, she noted with confident resolve, "I'm just going to attack every day with no regrets and no fear."
This was after flying down the mountain at 65 mph on two thin long boards called skis. Wow!
From kindergarten on, we are told to believe in ourselves, an adage we strive to internalize. Prior to the Quarter Finals in the 1,000-meter race, Apolo Ohno, with a razor-sharp gleam in his eyes and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile, said, "I'm very confident in my preparations. I know what I have inside of me."
And the other night, I heard one athlete bolt, "No matter how insecure you are, go for it!"
These Olympians have the corner on conquering any fears or doubts that stand between them and the gold, silver or bronze medals they are pursuing.
Perhaps the most profound lesson this year came from the U.S. men's figure-skating gold-medal champion, Evan Lysacek. He had his chance to put down rival Evgeni Plushenko, who offered a valuable lesson on what not to do when you lose.
Admittedly disappointed in the silver medalist's behavior, Lysacek responded by pointing out that we all want to win and that we sometimes get emotional when we lose.
Even with all the mudslinging from the Russian skater, Lysacek said he likes and admires the guy.
The lesson here is that, although Plushenko was questioning Lysacek's gold-medal standing because he did not have a quad in his program, Lysacek did not go there, but rather took the high road.
All of this made me wonder how many parents have required their youngsters to watch the Olympic Games for more than the sport.
Just think how much kids would learn in one Olympic broadcast compared to all other sports broadcasts combined. Valuable lessons on how to win, how to lose, how not to give up, how to be strong and how to practice, practice and practice some more.
Most Olympians battle adversity of one kind or another. Whether they win or lose, they are champions because they faced their fears, they believed in themselves and they did not give up.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
The making of St. Joseph's Day Bread - a liturgy
Growing up, there was only one day every year my mother allowed me to indulge in eating bread and that was Fat Tuesday. This wasn’t any old bread; it was Saint Joseph’s Day Bread - fried, not baked.
Looking back, my mother may have had her holidays mixed up, since Saint Joseph’s Day is celebrated annually on March 19, and she made her bread on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday.
My mother usually prepared Saint Joseph’s Day Bread in the late afternoon hours, after my three brothers, two sisters and I arrived home from school.
When Mother baked, I detected sunshine in the way she moved about the kitchen. Her eyes were no longer overcast and she wore an unrecognizable cheer that I wanted to wrap my arms around and bury my face in forever.
If only this mother would have stayed with that sparkle in her eyes. The one who playfully patted and prodded the dough until it was smooth and round. The mother who hummed Moon River while patiently waiting for the dough to rise.
This mother, her chin held high, pinched small clumps of dough to form a roll between soft palms; she then dropped it into hot grease and turned the roll bronze.
I would stand beside her as she lifted the fried bread and plopped it into a mountain of confectionery sugar, turning it until it was completely white, forming a mouthwatering new skin.
Saint Joseph’s Day Bread called us together in that kitchen of long ago as a sweet incense filled our childhood home. The making and eating of Saint Joseph’s Day Bread was a liturgy - a holy practice of collaboration, companionship and a mother's high spirits.
When Fat Tuesday rolled around this past week, I cheerfully went to that place in the kitchen of my childhood, near my mother and once again took in the aroma of Saint Joseph's Day Bread.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Looking back, my mother may have had her holidays mixed up, since Saint Joseph’s Day is celebrated annually on March 19, and she made her bread on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday.
My mother usually prepared Saint Joseph’s Day Bread in the late afternoon hours, after my three brothers, two sisters and I arrived home from school.
When Mother baked, I detected sunshine in the way she moved about the kitchen. Her eyes were no longer overcast and she wore an unrecognizable cheer that I wanted to wrap my arms around and bury my face in forever.
If only this mother would have stayed with that sparkle in her eyes. The one who playfully patted and prodded the dough until it was smooth and round. The mother who hummed Moon River while patiently waiting for the dough to rise.
This mother, her chin held high, pinched small clumps of dough to form a roll between soft palms; she then dropped it into hot grease and turned the roll bronze.
I would stand beside her as she lifted the fried bread and plopped it into a mountain of confectionery sugar, turning it until it was completely white, forming a mouthwatering new skin.
Saint Joseph’s Day Bread called us together in that kitchen of long ago as a sweet incense filled our childhood home. The making and eating of Saint Joseph’s Day Bread was a liturgy - a holy practice of collaboration, companionship and a mother's high spirits.
When Fat Tuesday rolled around this past week, I cheerfully went to that place in the kitchen of my childhood, near my mother and once again took in the aroma of Saint Joseph's Day Bread.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Bone to pick with a groundhog
Groundhog Day was February 2, and I've watched one too many celebrations of six more weeks of winter.
I have a bone to pick with this mythical German custom turned enterprise. An industry in and of itself, this pagan holiday is a racket for which we all seem to be suckers.
Every year, we peer into our TVs, watching and waiting for Punxsutawney Phil's weather prediction.
If he sees his shadow, we'll have the dreaded six more weeks of winter. Oh, ple-e-e-ease! This is the hoax of all hoaxes and we fall for it every time.
Why is it for the past 50 years that I've paid attention to Phil, I never once heard him say spring is on its way? It's always six more weeks of winter. I could have told you that! Who needs Punxsutawney Phil, anyway?
This holiday makes me so crazy that I find myself arguing with a darn groundhog.
I was born in Pennsylvania. My mother was born in Punxsutawney, and I'm here to tell you that the Keystone State has more than 300 cloudy or overcast days annually.
The chances of Phil seeing his shadow anywhere in the state are slim to none. Yet, every year it's the same old story. Blah, blah, blah.
Come on! Doesn't February 2 occur between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Of course, it does, which means we have SIX MORE WEEKS OF WINTER!
It doesn't take a furry over-sized rat and a bunch of smiling men standing around dressed in tuxedos and top hats to tell me that.
I don't like to admit it but those Punxsutawnians are smart. Not only is the town all about Groundhog Day, the Punxsutawney "Inner Circle" has created a year-round business with festivals, special gatherings, recipes and even lesson plans for schoolteachers!
And just when I thought Groundhog Day was a goofy Pennsylvania tradition, I found 52 Groundhog Day chapters in the U.S. and Canada with names like "5 O'clock Shadows" in Columbia, S.C; "Bug Eaters Groundhog Club" of Lincoln, Neb.; and "Can't Find Our Own Shadow" in Frankfort, Ky.
The most alliterative chapter is "Punxsy Phil's Party Pretties, Political Pundits and Pontificating Old Poops" of Annandale, Va. I want to be a member of that chapter.
My favorite, if I can call it that, is "Hollywood Beach Bums" in Hollywood, Fla. I think I could handle Groundhog Day in Florida, where the average temperature is 60 degrees. Ah-h-h...just another sunny day in paradise. Six more weeks of winter? No problem.
If all the hoopla over a whole lot of nothing isn't enough, there's even poetry written about this annual prognostication...
"If Candlemas day be sunny and bright,
Winter again will show its might,
If Candlemas Day be cloudy and gray,
Winter soon will pass away." [Author unknown]
To channel my inner frustration over Groundhog Day and the monopoly Punxsutawney has over it, I wrote a poem.
"If Punxsutawney Phil already knows,
That winter will send additional snows
Then why in the world do we celebrate
A prediction that we all really do hate."
I rest my case.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
I have a bone to pick with this mythical German custom turned enterprise. An industry in and of itself, this pagan holiday is a racket for which we all seem to be suckers.
Every year, we peer into our TVs, watching and waiting for Punxsutawney Phil's weather prediction.
If he sees his shadow, we'll have the dreaded six more weeks of winter. Oh, ple-e-e-ease! This is the hoax of all hoaxes and we fall for it every time.
Why is it for the past 50 years that I've paid attention to Phil, I never once heard him say spring is on its way? It's always six more weeks of winter. I could have told you that! Who needs Punxsutawney Phil, anyway?
This holiday makes me so crazy that I find myself arguing with a darn groundhog.
I was born in Pennsylvania. My mother was born in Punxsutawney, and I'm here to tell you that the Keystone State has more than 300 cloudy or overcast days annually.
The chances of Phil seeing his shadow anywhere in the state are slim to none. Yet, every year it's the same old story. Blah, blah, blah.
Come on! Doesn't February 2 occur between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Of course, it does, which means we have SIX MORE WEEKS OF WINTER!
It doesn't take a furry over-sized rat and a bunch of smiling men standing around dressed in tuxedos and top hats to tell me that.
I don't like to admit it but those Punxsutawnians are smart. Not only is the town all about Groundhog Day, the Punxsutawney "Inner Circle" has created a year-round business with festivals, special gatherings, recipes and even lesson plans for schoolteachers!
And just when I thought Groundhog Day was a goofy Pennsylvania tradition, I found 52 Groundhog Day chapters in the U.S. and Canada with names like "5 O'clock Shadows" in Columbia, S.C; "Bug Eaters Groundhog Club" of Lincoln, Neb.; and "Can't Find Our Own Shadow" in Frankfort, Ky.
The most alliterative chapter is "Punxsy Phil's Party Pretties, Political Pundits and Pontificating Old Poops" of Annandale, Va. I want to be a member of that chapter.
My favorite, if I can call it that, is "Hollywood Beach Bums" in Hollywood, Fla. I think I could handle Groundhog Day in Florida, where the average temperature is 60 degrees. Ah-h-h...just another sunny day in paradise. Six more weeks of winter? No problem.
If all the hoopla over a whole lot of nothing isn't enough, there's even poetry written about this annual prognostication...
"If Candlemas day be sunny and bright,
Winter again will show its might,
If Candlemas Day be cloudy and gray,
Winter soon will pass away." [Author unknown]
To channel my inner frustration over Groundhog Day and the monopoly Punxsutawney has over it, I wrote a poem.
"If Punxsutawney Phil already knows,
That winter will send additional snows
Then why in the world do we celebrate
A prediction that we all really do hate."
I rest my case.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Pile in. We're going for a ride
While I was sitting at a stoplight on my way home from work last Thursday night, I noticed a sedan with the right of way pull through the intersection and turn into the oncoming lane.
The car was teeming with what looked like an entire family: two adults in the front seat and tall gangly looking teenagers in the back.
As they passed, I turned my head and stared. Gawking from the inside out at this family "picture," I was hit smack dab in the middle of my 2010 consciousness with a new awareness.
We really don’t have family cars anymore. Mom has her car, Dad has his, Junior and Sister have their cars and so on. Even Grandma and Gramps have their own sets of wheels.
And for better or worse, we don’t really pile into the car as a family the way families did years ago.Why don’t we travel together, all in one vehicle across town, across state or across the country?
I understand that for some families this may not be a very good idea, since all members would not get along.
Even so, when I saw this family barreling along on their way to whereever, I came to the realization that we really do live much of our lives in isolation.
Coexisting in our homes, schools, offices and stores, we travel separately – often arriving alone at the same place: a school play, the wrestling match, a basketball game, Sunday morning church, Wal-Mart, Suzie’s house, Aunt Mabel’s or Papa John’s.
It has long been a status symbol of modern families, some more than others, for each member to have his or her own vehicle. And for most teenagers, it is not even an option to have their parents drive them anywhere. Heaven forbid! They would rather walk than to be seen riding with Mom or Dad.
Seeing that family car loaded down with a real family inside all going to the same place, I was refreshed.
Watching that family car with all of its passengers sitting side-by-side, heads bobbing to the beat of the potholes beneath sagging tires, I was rejuvenated.
Noticing that family car loaded down with a real family inside, all seeing the same dull night lit by the Dairy Queen on the corner, street lights up and down the lane and headlights from oncoming cars, I was renewed.
When I look back on that family scene, I feel reborn.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
The car was teeming with what looked like an entire family: two adults in the front seat and tall gangly looking teenagers in the back.
As they passed, I turned my head and stared. Gawking from the inside out at this family "picture," I was hit smack dab in the middle of my 2010 consciousness with a new awareness.
We really don’t have family cars anymore. Mom has her car, Dad has his, Junior and Sister have their cars and so on. Even Grandma and Gramps have their own sets of wheels.
And for better or worse, we don’t really pile into the car as a family the way families did years ago.Why don’t we travel together, all in one vehicle across town, across state or across the country?
I understand that for some families this may not be a very good idea, since all members would not get along.
Even so, when I saw this family barreling along on their way to whereever, I came to the realization that we really do live much of our lives in isolation.
Coexisting in our homes, schools, offices and stores, we travel separately – often arriving alone at the same place: a school play, the wrestling match, a basketball game, Sunday morning church, Wal-Mart, Suzie’s house, Aunt Mabel’s or Papa John’s.
It has long been a status symbol of modern families, some more than others, for each member to have his or her own vehicle. And for most teenagers, it is not even an option to have their parents drive them anywhere. Heaven forbid! They would rather walk than to be seen riding with Mom or Dad.
Seeing that family car loaded down with a real family inside all going to the same place, I was refreshed.
Watching that family car with all of its passengers sitting side-by-side, heads bobbing to the beat of the potholes beneath sagging tires, I was rejuvenated.
Noticing that family car loaded down with a real family inside, all seeing the same dull night lit by the Dairy Queen on the corner, street lights up and down the lane and headlights from oncoming cars, I was renewed.
When I look back on that family scene, I feel reborn.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
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