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Staying in the Game

A few days ago, I opened my iPhone calendar and discovered something had changed. An overnight update had rearranged a feature I’d been using for years. Suddenly, I couldn’t see the beginning and ending times for entering my appointments. I hadn’t asked for the change and didn’t appreciate having to figure it out. As it turned out, the solution was simple. I just needed to tap the appointment. But by then, my patience had already been tested.

I’ve been told I’m a very patient person. In most situations, particularly when dealing with people, I believe that’s true. But put me in front of technology that refuses to cooperate, or changes something I’ve finally learned how to do, and I’m face to face with a decidedly less patient version of myself.

I recognize what’s happening. I know I’m being given an opportunity to practice patience. Knowing the lesson, however, doesn’t necessarily mean I appreciate having to take the class.

I like the analogy of coaching. A tennis player hires a coach to improve her backhand. The coach keeps sending balls to her weaker side so she can practice. Forgetting that improving her backhand was the reason she hired the coach in the first place, she begins to complain. Why does the coach insist on sending every ball to her weaker side? She’s much better with her forehand.

I’ve often thought that life operates much like that tennis coach and keeps sending the ball to the side of the court where we need the most practice. We say we want to become more patient, loving, forgiving, or courageous, and then find ourselves in circumstances that require us to practice those very qualities. We want patience, but preferably without frustrating situations. We want courage without facing our fears. We want to become more forgiving but would appreciate it if people stopped giving us reasons to practice.

I’ve long believed we come into this life with lessons to learn. I can’t know whether the universe arranges every obstacle for our benefit, but I have trained myself to look for what an experience might teach me. Sometimes I recognize the lesson while it’s happening. Other times, it’s only with 20/20 hindsight that I see it.

Technology seems to be my recurring “backhand.” When I began writing my weekly Cuppa Joy more than six years ago, I wanted to share stories and ideas that might brighten someone’s day or offer something worth thinking about. Writing came naturally. Learning how to publish those words and deliver them to readers required an entirely different set of skills—and plenty of opportunities to practice patience.

Over the years, I’ve learned to manage a website, prepare and distribute a weekly newsletter, and record my essays so people can listen if they choose to. My Cuppas are now available through Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and YouTube, as well as my website. Each addition meant learning another program, another set of instructions, and buttons that seemed determined to hide or move.

Earlier this year, I learned enough WordPress to rebuild my website, only to discover technical problems now require another rebuild. Just when I think I’ve mastered something, the rules change and I’m back in the classroom.

Recently, I’ve taken on another “learning opportunity.” For years I’ve enjoyed sewing dolls, stuffed animals, and other creations, many of which I’ve given away. When people asked how much my dolls cost, I used to say they were either free or $100, depending. Sometimes people paid $150. One woman paid $200 on two occasions, designating $100 each time for a nonprofit. Each doll came with an adoption card, complete with its photograph and a loving message to its new owner. These adoption fees helped me buy materials to make more dolls and support organizations serving children at risk.

Friends encouraged me to sell my creations, so four years ago I opened an Etsy shop and managed to list one doll. Then the technology defeated me, and the shop sat vacant until now. I’ve recently begun making one-of-a-kind tote bags from discarded denim, and friends have encouraged me to sell those, too. So I’ve rebranded my Etsy shop as GrandmaRobynSews and am giving it a second chance. I have a few more dolls and stuffies I can add, plus lots of crocheted gift items. I’m hopeful a few things will sell, and I can continue sharing a portion of the proceeds with organizations helping vulnerable children.

And if learning Etsy weren’t enough, I’ve been attempting to populate a Facebook page I established about five years ago to feature my dolls but never really learned to use. I’m now going through years of photographs and creations, attempting to give the page the history I intended it to have from the beginning. Moving posts and photographs from one place to another sounds simple enough. Apparently, nobody told Facebook.

I’m fortunate. I don’t have to master Etsy or Facebook pages to put bread on my table or keep a roof over my head. I’m choosing to learn because I have something I want to accomplish. That’s different from friends’ frustrations with technology being imposed on them.

Making a doctor’s appointment, getting an answer to a question, or resolving a problem used to involve picking up the phone and speaking with another human being. Now we may be required to navigate automated menus, establish online accounts, remember passwords, retrieve verification codes, or communicate with a robot that doesn’t understand what we’re asking. I sympathize with those frustrations. I’ve been known to raise my voice and shout at a recording. Technology should make our lives easier, not turn ordinary tasks into obstacle courses.

And yet, the world continues to change, whether we’re enthusiastic participants or reluctant passengers. We don’t always get to choose the circumstances, but we usually have some choice about how we respond.

I’ll be 81 on November 3rd. Birthdays tend to make me reflective, and lately I’ve been thinking about how opportunities to learn continue throughout our lives. I know people whose worlds have become smaller as they’ve grown older. Some have experienced health challenges, losses, or circumstances that limit their opportunities. Others have simply settled into familiar routines, finding comfort in doing what they’ve always done. I understand the appeal. After decades of responsibilities, there’s something wonderful about being able to spend our days as we please.

But I also believe curiosity helps keep us engaged with life no matter our age. Our brains retain the ability to learn throughout our lives, and challenging ourselves with unfamiliar activities can help exercise that capacity. I don’t know whether mastering a Facebook page (which is way different from my personal profile page) will make me any smarter, but it certainly requires me to think, concentrate, remember, and occasionally discover a new way of doing something.

More importantly, learning something new reminds me that I’m not finished growing. I can be experienced in some areas and a complete beginner in others. I can be patient with people and thoroughly impatient with my computer. I can appreciate the advantages of technology while wishing someone would stop changing the buttons.

I suspect patience isn’t the absence of frustration, but the willingness to keep trying even when frustration shows up. Along the way, I’m discovering that adaptability, resilience, and persistence are getting a workout, too.

I don’t believe every difficulty is a gift or that every change represents progress. Sometimes a poorly designed system is simply a poorly designed system. But I do believe the way we respond to life’s challenges shapes our future selves.

I still have stories I want to tell, things I want to create, people I want to reach, and contributions I want to make. If learning another piece of technology helps me accomplish those things, I’ll give it a try. I may grumble along the way, and I reserve the right to complain when someone moves a perfectly good button.

I realize that at some point I’ll become a dinosaur, ready to be recycled. But I’m not quite there yet. I still have plenty of fabric waiting to be transformed, stories waiting to be written, and apparently a few more lessons to learn.

It’s apparent the universe thinks my backhand could still use a little work.

If this Cuppa Joy stirred something in you—a memory, a smile—I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.