Praise is usually given out for a job well done right? I recently told my husband he did a good job ob a piece of furniture we restored. I joked with him telling him he would get a bonus. I praised a one of my assistants at work that he did a great job reseting the sales floor. I believe he appreciated hearing. Its easy to praise others for work they do. "Good job, I appreciate it." See simple. I think of praise as a compliment. I try to praise myself often. It doesn't come as easy as praising others does.
Last spring, I enrolled Cato puppy in training classes at the place where both our dogs had been fostered. After we adopted Mac in late February, Cato exhibited some “I’m the ferocious alpha dog” behavior, so he and I needed to go back to basics. Every Saturday morning for six weeks, we learned skills. I gave him treats and lots of “good boy” praise when he, I mean we got them right. Session One: “Look at me.” “Sit.” “Wait.” “Stand.” “Off,” when he jumped. Session Two: “Up.” “Back up.” “Leave it.” “Enough.” “Settle.” Session Three: Commands with leash walking without and with distractions. Session Four: “Go to your bed.” “Sit. Down. Stay.” “Come.” Session Five: Practice for the Canine Good Citizen Test. Session Six: The Test. Cato did well when greeting friendly strangers, sitting for petting and grooming, walking through a crowd, reacting to other dogs and distractions. But without his training collar, he pulled on leash and did not stay and wait to be called. We also failed supervised separation. After reviewing test results with the evaluator, I said, “Good boy, Cato,” gave him a treat, and accepted our certificate of completion. This fall, Mac and I have been in training. More “good boy” praise—when he, I mean we get it right.
At 35, I finally realized how much I needed praise and how that need was a bottomless well (how much is enough? Apparently, there was no enough for me). I had to re-think my ideas of success. So much of the kind of praise that indicates success comes from outside us: a good grade, a personal-best time in a swim meet, compliments on a new outfit. My self-esteem, dependent on these outward measures, had no anchor within me. Thank goodness for a perceptive and compassionate counselor who helped me to see that my sense of self-worth must come from inside. I believe I'll always have to remind myself not to rely on outward praise, but at least I no longer depend upon it.
It’s funny, the associations we have with words. While I won’t reject praise should it come my way, it’s not what I seek. Why is this word so much less appealing to me than validate, or celebrate, or compliment?
“Praise the Lord!” My non-religious friends and I would use this, if not exactly ironically, at least in jest. We were thrilled with an outcome but would never dream of attributing it to a deity. It was a funny thing to say, it was a joke. In a tv preacher’s mouth it reeked of insincerity.
“That’s high praise, coming from her.” Why did praise so often seem to be unexpected, as though the she in this sentence was surprised I’d done a thing worthy of mention, let alone celebration.
“Damning with faint praise.” I love this phrase. It calls out hypocrisy. It’s elegant and winking; we know that was just a ruse.
For some reason praise feels like the most transactional endorsement. Give me accolades, applaud me, give me credit and make a toast in my honor. I only want praise if it is heaped upon me. Smother me with it so I know it’s real.
I’m well on my way to writing 52 short compositions in a single year, thanks to this forum. Praise be to “That Place You Love”, to putting it out there. Telling true stories takes guts and determination. A tiny ripple in the pond.
I have always loved to write. Throughout high school, I was a “reporter” for the school section of the local paper, The Lamoni Chronicle. After graduation, I was accepted to the University of Iowa to become a journalist. In lieu of Iowa City, I chose to take a year off and backpack throughout Europe. The world suddenly opened wide. I was never to return. I kept up writing until the habit gave way. Slowly, the desire to compose story was lost. Until this year.
You are giving us an invaluable service. A true sharing. Praise to everyone who reads, writes, and shares at That Place You Love.
“It’s amazing how patient and calm you are,” a former employer said to me years ago. Then came the caveat: “It must be because of your Vietnamese blood.” He went on to paraphrase Malcom Gladwell’s thesis in “Outliers” that because (east) Asians worked for millennia painstakingly growing rice in wet paddies, the required discipline needed to do so had become ingrained in the culture as an ethos of hard work and persistence. My boss also pointed out that, in contrast, he stemmed from impatient European wheat growers. I understood his association with the wheat farmers as a backhanded way of explaining his choleric outbursts as being at least partially out of his control. By extension however, what he praised in me was out of my control, too. Every now and then something I did would impress him and he would repeat this praise – always in conjunction with the rice paddies. My response was always the same: an empty smile and a forced laugh. Back then, microagressions weren’t a thing. Which is worse: Giving a compliment that unwittingly comes across as an insult, or not calling it out and explaining why it feels that way?
When I sought counsel a couple months after a traumatic car accident, I was immensely grateful for the professional providing my bi-weekly, pro bono sessions. Mother was clinically dead when the car stopped spinning and Joshua was unresponsive and upside down in the back seat. We all survived, a little worse for wear, but for a few moments I had accepted that they were gone and started a strange process of psuedo-grief, complete with hallucinations. I needed some help. In our sessions, I was more nervous than upset and we spoke more about detecting my son's possibility of developing bi-polar disorder from his father than we did about my anger toward the man who was so careless behind the wheel that he nearly killed us all. My hands would shake and I would fidget. My voice would waver but I seldom cried. The time when I really broke down surprised us both because it was in reaction to her saying a string of very complimentary things about me. I have never been at ease with praise and wish we'd have talked more about what that means.
Praise is usually given out for a job well done right? I recently told my husband he did a good job ob a piece of furniture we restored. I joked with him telling him he would get a bonus. I praised a one of my assistants at work that he did a great job reseting the sales floor. I believe he appreciated hearing. Its easy to praise others for work they do. "Good job, I appreciate it." See simple. I think of praise as a compliment. I try to praise myself often. It doesn't come as easy as praising others does.
Last spring, I enrolled Cato puppy in training classes at the place where both our dogs had been fostered. After we adopted Mac in late February, Cato exhibited some “I’m the ferocious alpha dog” behavior, so he and I needed to go back to basics. Every Saturday morning for six weeks, we learned skills. I gave him treats and lots of “good boy” praise when he, I mean we got them right. Session One: “Look at me.” “Sit.” “Wait.” “Stand.” “Off,” when he jumped. Session Two: “Up.” “Back up.” “Leave it.” “Enough.” “Settle.” Session Three: Commands with leash walking without and with distractions. Session Four: “Go to your bed.” “Sit. Down. Stay.” “Come.” Session Five: Practice for the Canine Good Citizen Test. Session Six: The Test. Cato did well when greeting friendly strangers, sitting for petting and grooming, walking through a crowd, reacting to other dogs and distractions. But without his training collar, he pulled on leash and did not stay and wait to be called. We also failed supervised separation. After reviewing test results with the evaluator, I said, “Good boy, Cato,” gave him a treat, and accepted our certificate of completion. This fall, Mac and I have been in training. More “good boy” praise—when he, I mean we get it right.
At 35, I finally realized how much I needed praise and how that need was a bottomless well (how much is enough? Apparently, there was no enough for me). I had to re-think my ideas of success. So much of the kind of praise that indicates success comes from outside us: a good grade, a personal-best time in a swim meet, compliments on a new outfit. My self-esteem, dependent on these outward measures, had no anchor within me. Thank goodness for a perceptive and compassionate counselor who helped me to see that my sense of self-worth must come from inside. I believe I'll always have to remind myself not to rely on outward praise, but at least I no longer depend upon it.
It’s funny, the associations we have with words. While I won’t reject praise should it come my way, it’s not what I seek. Why is this word so much less appealing to me than validate, or celebrate, or compliment?
“Praise the Lord!” My non-religious friends and I would use this, if not exactly ironically, at least in jest. We were thrilled with an outcome but would never dream of attributing it to a deity. It was a funny thing to say, it was a joke. In a tv preacher’s mouth it reeked of insincerity.
“That’s high praise, coming from her.” Why did praise so often seem to be unexpected, as though the she in this sentence was surprised I’d done a thing worthy of mention, let alone celebration.
“Damning with faint praise.” I love this phrase. It calls out hypocrisy. It’s elegant and winking; we know that was just a ruse.
For some reason praise feels like the most transactional endorsement. Give me accolades, applaud me, give me credit and make a toast in my honor. I only want praise if it is heaped upon me. Smother me with it so I know it’s real.
I’m well on my way to writing 52 short compositions in a single year, thanks to this forum. Praise be to “That Place You Love”, to putting it out there. Telling true stories takes guts and determination. A tiny ripple in the pond.
I have always loved to write. Throughout high school, I was a “reporter” for the school section of the local paper, The Lamoni Chronicle. After graduation, I was accepted to the University of Iowa to become a journalist. In lieu of Iowa City, I chose to take a year off and backpack throughout Europe. The world suddenly opened wide. I was never to return. I kept up writing until the habit gave way. Slowly, the desire to compose story was lost. Until this year.
You are giving us an invaluable service. A true sharing. Praise to everyone who reads, writes, and shares at That Place You Love.
“It’s amazing how patient and calm you are,” a former employer said to me years ago. Then came the caveat: “It must be because of your Vietnamese blood.” He went on to paraphrase Malcom Gladwell’s thesis in “Outliers” that because (east) Asians worked for millennia painstakingly growing rice in wet paddies, the required discipline needed to do so had become ingrained in the culture as an ethos of hard work and persistence. My boss also pointed out that, in contrast, he stemmed from impatient European wheat growers. I understood his association with the wheat farmers as a backhanded way of explaining his choleric outbursts as being at least partially out of his control. By extension however, what he praised in me was out of my control, too. Every now and then something I did would impress him and he would repeat this praise – always in conjunction with the rice paddies. My response was always the same: an empty smile and a forced laugh. Back then, microagressions weren’t a thing. Which is worse: Giving a compliment that unwittingly comes across as an insult, or not calling it out and explaining why it feels that way?
When I sought counsel a couple months after a traumatic car accident, I was immensely grateful for the professional providing my bi-weekly, pro bono sessions. Mother was clinically dead when the car stopped spinning and Joshua was unresponsive and upside down in the back seat. We all survived, a little worse for wear, but for a few moments I had accepted that they were gone and started a strange process of psuedo-grief, complete with hallucinations. I needed some help. In our sessions, I was more nervous than upset and we spoke more about detecting my son's possibility of developing bi-polar disorder from his father than we did about my anger toward the man who was so careless behind the wheel that he nearly killed us all. My hands would shake and I would fidget. My voice would waver but I seldom cried. The time when I really broke down surprised us both because it was in reaction to her saying a string of very complimentary things about me. I have never been at ease with praise and wish we'd have talked more about what that means.