I thought I was becoming a sweet little old lady, filled only with smiles, kind words, and a quiet little life, but that is not to be. I discover that I am filled with the same old thoughts, needs and ways that I have had most of my life. Might be that coming off the celexa cracked the shell of the little old lady and, like a big black bug with black and dirty feet, I am coming to get me. Not to eat me up, but to rescue me from dying while I am still alive. If anything all these parts of me are honed to a sharper edge.
I am noticing that I can smell lies, even little white ones, at five hundred paces and they still infuriate me. Why? I am not sure. Perhaps it is because someone considers me stupid enough to believe such drivel, or perhaps it is because I hate seeing someone lie to themselves when the truth would be so liberating. Painful maybe, but not as unbearably painful as one might think. We human beings are resilient creatures. As a whole we have survived much worse things than most of us ever have to deal with.
Forced kindness masquerading as love is only passive aggressive meanness. It is says, " I am letting you suffer the consequences of a situation I have set you up for, not the consequences of your own actions, but I am going to try and make you (and me) and everyone else believe it is the consequences of YOUR actions, not mine. I am a good person." I grew up with some of this kind of "love" and I chose to try not to pass it on. Most of the people I know who live this way do not even see who they are, but that does not negate the injury it causes to those who trust and love them. It is the ultimate lie, embraced by millions as self sacrificing love.
And that brings me to something I really abhor, self sacrificing love. Don't throw yourself on the alter of misguided intentions for me, or anyone else's sake. It only brings out the blood lust in us. I'm not talking about the real kind of self sacrifice which says, I will do what I believe is truly best for you no matter how hard it is, but the kind that says, "look at poor me, see what I have suffered for you?" Boy does that lay a guilt trip on the already suffering love object! The behavior born of this is frustration and anger and disrespect, and confusion too.
One of the things I love about living here is the lack of most of this. It allows me to be me. I am a very loving person, a very caring person, but I am also a very intelligent person. I cannot lie to myself and believe it and I have learned to live with that. It really works for me and I wish I could show others how it could work for them. Our children, our family, our real friends, do not want us to be paragons of purity. They only want to live in rational reality where the rules don't change from day to day and the love is real.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Too poor to stand in line
Just when I am trying to stay in a loving, peaceful place Christmas comes along. In the name of (Christ?) 2000 people trampled a Walmart worker to death to buy what? What exactly is worth killing another human being for? Toys? Sheets? Groceries? In my opinion they should have closed the doors behind them and hauled them all in for manslaughter at the very least. Not a very kind thought? Well, obviously these are not very kind people.
These are not starving Haitians whose five year old children weigh less than thirty pounds because they are sharing a handful of corn kernels between a grandmother and her grandchildren. These are people so psyched up by the media and their own ideas of what the holidays are about that they are willing to do whatever it takes to get what they deem necessary.
I, along with many others, get misty eyed over stories like The Gift of the Magi. I loved it when my children's elementary teachers refused to have a gift exchange. Instead they collected money and bought gifts to put under the tree at the mall for underprivileged children. Even this brings to mind how many so called underprivileged children's parents are the first in line for the free toys and bikes and games given out by churches and charities, and add them to the haul they get from everyone else. Then the real underprivileged children, whose parents cannot afford to get off work to stand in line still go without. I have a friend who remembers lining up in a holey sweater on Christmas Eve to get a free used coat from the Jesus Saves Mission when she was eight years old. That leaves me misty eyed.
This is not something new to me. I remember one year when my own children were still very young and willingly gave up some of their gifts so another family could have a Christmas. Other years we gave our kindly used toys away just before Christmas to make room for the new. Not exactly a heart wrenching thing to do when there was so much to go around. I doubt if my children even remember it. We were fortunate. We never lacked for anything, but we lived in a neighborhood where not having everything was unusual. Once one of my preteen children even asked why we were so poor one summer!
It is time to teach our children the value of true love while they are still ours to teach. No need to be mean or miserly, but it is just plain wrong to be greedy. Where the lines between these things are drawn is a personal decision, but I hope it falls far away from killing people for Christmas bargains.
These are not starving Haitians whose five year old children weigh less than thirty pounds because they are sharing a handful of corn kernels between a grandmother and her grandchildren. These are people so psyched up by the media and their own ideas of what the holidays are about that they are willing to do whatever it takes to get what they deem necessary.
I, along with many others, get misty eyed over stories like The Gift of the Magi. I loved it when my children's elementary teachers refused to have a gift exchange. Instead they collected money and bought gifts to put under the tree at the mall for underprivileged children. Even this brings to mind how many so called underprivileged children's parents are the first in line for the free toys and bikes and games given out by churches and charities, and add them to the haul they get from everyone else. Then the real underprivileged children, whose parents cannot afford to get off work to stand in line still go without. I have a friend who remembers lining up in a holey sweater on Christmas Eve to get a free used coat from the Jesus Saves Mission when she was eight years old. That leaves me misty eyed.
This is not something new to me. I remember one year when my own children were still very young and willingly gave up some of their gifts so another family could have a Christmas. Other years we gave our kindly used toys away just before Christmas to make room for the new. Not exactly a heart wrenching thing to do when there was so much to go around. I doubt if my children even remember it. We were fortunate. We never lacked for anything, but we lived in a neighborhood where not having everything was unusual. Once one of my preteen children even asked why we were so poor one summer!
It is time to teach our children the value of true love while they are still ours to teach. No need to be mean or miserly, but it is just plain wrong to be greedy. Where the lines between these things are drawn is a personal decision, but I hope it falls far away from killing people for Christmas bargains.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Those spaces between the words
I look at this white page before me and realize how much I look forward to it. For me the blank page is like the second before taking my first tiny bite of creme brulee, or the time just before my favorite author's newest book comes out. It is filled with anticipation, excitement, and joy. It is the harbinger of immense possibilities lying before me just waiting for first word to fall, the start of a new life born out of my mind to step into the world and take its first breath. Before I could write I still had the stories, but now they are in black and white they seem to take on more substance.
I cannot quote myself accurately and that used to bother me until I went to a reading given by a poet I admire and it was exactly that -- a reading! Watching her I first understood why I cannot memorize my own work. The words are too important. Not to you most likely, but to me. I sometimes spend an incredible amount of time picking just the right word, the difference being similar to that of adding a quarter teaspoon of salt, or a eighth of a teaspoon of chili powder. One is just salty soup, tasty maybe, but not what I wanted. The other is chili, exactly what I wanted.
Likewise I realize that it is what I do not say that is sometimes the most important thing of all. Those spaces between the words, those unseen comments floating above and beyond the sentences are the flesh lying upon the bones of my writing. If they aren't there I am not really touching my reader's consciousness. It is the difference between Dick and Jane's mindless escapades and finally getting to read Hot as Summer Cold as Winter in third grade. I still remember the day I read it.
It is these spaces that can cause me so much anguish in my life, because I read them in other people's writing too and the problem with reading between the lines can be misinterpretation due to translation difficulties. Think of smiles. Now think of that Cheshire cat who still haunts my nightmares, and Bozo the clown and Stephen King's clowns and throw in a baby's genuine whole body smile. There's a whole lot of interpretation going on in that word smile.
Now I try to let all my feelings simmer a while before I act upon them, allow the stew to develop its own full bodied flavor so to speak. (Maybe because it is the day after Thanksgiving and I am still stuffed that all my analogies seem to be coming back to food?) I often discover that either the writer did not mean what I inferred, or he changed his mind before he wrote again. Either way I am happy to have waited.
As you can see I have managed to create a whole life around writing (and reading). I cannot imagine it any other way.
I cannot quote myself accurately and that used to bother me until I went to a reading given by a poet I admire and it was exactly that -- a reading! Watching her I first understood why I cannot memorize my own work. The words are too important. Not to you most likely, but to me. I sometimes spend an incredible amount of time picking just the right word, the difference being similar to that of adding a quarter teaspoon of salt, or a eighth of a teaspoon of chili powder. One is just salty soup, tasty maybe, but not what I wanted. The other is chili, exactly what I wanted.
Likewise I realize that it is what I do not say that is sometimes the most important thing of all. Those spaces between the words, those unseen comments floating above and beyond the sentences are the flesh lying upon the bones of my writing. If they aren't there I am not really touching my reader's consciousness. It is the difference between Dick and Jane's mindless escapades and finally getting to read Hot as Summer Cold as Winter in third grade. I still remember the day I read it.
It is these spaces that can cause me so much anguish in my life, because I read them in other people's writing too and the problem with reading between the lines can be misinterpretation due to translation difficulties. Think of smiles. Now think of that Cheshire cat who still haunts my nightmares, and Bozo the clown and Stephen King's clowns and throw in a baby's genuine whole body smile. There's a whole lot of interpretation going on in that word smile.
Now I try to let all my feelings simmer a while before I act upon them, allow the stew to develop its own full bodied flavor so to speak. (Maybe because it is the day after Thanksgiving and I am still stuffed that all my analogies seem to be coming back to food?) I often discover that either the writer did not mean what I inferred, or he changed his mind before he wrote again. Either way I am happy to have waited.
As you can see I have managed to create a whole life around writing (and reading). I cannot imagine it any other way.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Greed is in the corner
Happy Thanksgiving, aah...at last, a holiday based less on buying something and more on a concept we need to pay more attention to. (Which may be why it is going almost unnoticed in much of this year's going ons.)
Yes, most people will buy a turkey, but it is not an absolute necessity. I know people who will not eat turkey on this Thanksgiving day. I know people who will choose to eat at nursing homes and hospitals and soup kitchens. And I know people who will have big traditional Thanksgiving dinners filled with the stress of super cleaning because Aunt Mabel is coming and extra cooking so everyone will have the dish they love most and so many people in one home that a conflict negotiator might explode trying to keep the peace, but in the end, the idea is right. We have much to be thankful for and they are all things that cannot be bought.
We are here. If only for this one reason, thanksgiving is definitely required. It doesn't matter who we are and where here is, because we is all of us and here is here!
Greed has been duly acknowledged and sent to the corner to mull over her offenses to society and the world. Who knows what will come of it, but at least the way has been opened for our country. At these crossroads other countries have sometimes taken the other way and all hope of democracy and justice have been set aside. The United States Of America still stands tall with her head high and her chest out, saying, these are all my people and not one among them is worth more than the other because of color, or ethnicity, or religion, and definitely not because of some crass thing like gold. You may not believe this and you have the right to that belief, but you cannot deny justice to another without denying yourself.
Ideals are not reality, but we have passed the first test. We are one step closer to that beautiful story of the Pilgrims sitting down to a table laden with the fruit of their toiling and sharing it with all those around them.
Last year I was afraid we had lost sight of who and what we are. This year I give thanks with all my heart for the joy of knowing opportunities still abound.
Yes, most people will buy a turkey, but it is not an absolute necessity. I know people who will not eat turkey on this Thanksgiving day. I know people who will choose to eat at nursing homes and hospitals and soup kitchens. And I know people who will have big traditional Thanksgiving dinners filled with the stress of super cleaning because Aunt Mabel is coming and extra cooking so everyone will have the dish they love most and so many people in one home that a conflict negotiator might explode trying to keep the peace, but in the end, the idea is right. We have much to be thankful for and they are all things that cannot be bought.
We are here. If only for this one reason, thanksgiving is definitely required. It doesn't matter who we are and where here is, because we is all of us and here is here!
Greed has been duly acknowledged and sent to the corner to mull over her offenses to society and the world. Who knows what will come of it, but at least the way has been opened for our country. At these crossroads other countries have sometimes taken the other way and all hope of democracy and justice have been set aside. The United States Of America still stands tall with her head high and her chest out, saying, these are all my people and not one among them is worth more than the other because of color, or ethnicity, or religion, and definitely not because of some crass thing like gold. You may not believe this and you have the right to that belief, but you cannot deny justice to another without denying yourself.
Ideals are not reality, but we have passed the first test. We are one step closer to that beautiful story of the Pilgrims sitting down to a table laden with the fruit of their toiling and sharing it with all those around them.
Last year I was afraid we had lost sight of who and what we are. This year I give thanks with all my heart for the joy of knowing opportunities still abound.
Never Out Of Style
Long, long ago, a woman gave her grand daughter a set of small porcelain dishes, a tea set. Tiny dinnerware so fine and elegant the light would shine through its edges like a milky stain glass window. It was more than that, though. It was a dinner set with tiny covered casserole, gravy boat and serving platter. There were small knives, forks and spoons. It was a taste of old Charleston elegance, a sip of time past when little girls wore long curls, long dresses and played on real stoves made small. It was a reminder of the grandmother's childhood when that first embroidered handkerchief appeared before she was five. A time when children were miniature adults and treasured beings whose time on earth was filled with being useful, or cut mercilessly short by a lack of antibiotics and simple necessities. It was a gift of love meant to be used and savored for a very long time.
The little girl's mother did not understand. She took the beautiful gift, placed it high on a shelf and never allowed the little girl to play with it. Once in a while the mother took it down, dusted off the top of the box, pulled the straw gently away from the tiny plates and allowed her to look at it, but if the child reached out even one chubby little finger she was quickly admonished not to touch and the box was put back on the shelf for another day. What that day was supposed to be no one will ever know because eventually the little girl grew up and forgot about her tiny box of beautiful cups and saucers.
One day the little girl fell in love and married. The grandmother made her a beautiful red table cloth and a set of napkins to match as a wedding gift, not something most people received in the sixties when life was all ironstone and avocado and harvest gold. It was a small linen cloth, made to fit a bridge table, or tea table and given to a generation even less likely to play bridge than the one before it. Still, it was a lovely gift, made with a craftsmanship and style forgotten by most women who were more likely to sew gingham mini dresses and wear love beads than drink tea from porcelain cups. The girl used it when she made chocolate fondues and then put it away and forgot it.
Many years later, when that little girl had children of her own, she remembered her tea set and the small red table cloth that was tucked away on another shelf way back high in the closet. She remembered what her mother had said and did not give the tiny dishes to her own daughter to play with, but she did get them out a few times and served tea on the small red table cloth to very appreciative little girls. And boys too, because her sons also invited friends over for luncheon and ate cookie cutter peanut butter and jelly sandwiches off of the plates while drinking apple juice from the little cups. Time passed and her little girl grew up and had little girls of her own.
She didn't see these little girls very often, but one day, while they were still small she got out the tea set and the little red table cloth and they ate their lunch on the little table at the end of her kitchen counter and it was such a sweet moment she never forgot it. It made her think of her own grandmother, a. little girl who grew up far away in the Carolinas and learned to sew when today's children were still watching Sesame Street. These little girls grew up too.
Now the little girl who received a beautiful porcelain set of dishes from her grandmother when she was very small, is a grandmother one more time. Today was her birthday, so she got out her lovely little dishes and wiped them clean of the dust that has accumulated while they waited for the newest little diner. He is two years old, about the same age the little girl's grandmother was when she drank her first Cambridge tea. The little red table cloth covered his small table and it was set for a party. There was a tiny cake shaped like a dog, ice cream carved into tiny white balls, small hot dogs stuffed with cheese and baked in biscuits and chocolate poured from a porcelain tea pot. He used the small red napkin by the side of his plate, sang happy birthday in his high baby voice and it was a perfect day.
It was an old fashioned birthday, once more in the Carolinas. A birthday filled not with expensive store bought gifts no one can afford, but the gifts of love and good cheer and good manners surrounding the singing of songs and instruments played by those attending. It was a birthday filled with sweet smiles and sweet hugs and sweet food just like it might have been when his great great grandmother was growing up in the long aftermath of the civil war. It was a gift passed down through the ages from another grandmother who loved a little girl as much as I love Brooke and Tiffany and Lennon.
Love's legacy never goes out of style.
The little girl's mother did not understand. She took the beautiful gift, placed it high on a shelf and never allowed the little girl to play with it. Once in a while the mother took it down, dusted off the top of the box, pulled the straw gently away from the tiny plates and allowed her to look at it, but if the child reached out even one chubby little finger she was quickly admonished not to touch and the box was put back on the shelf for another day. What that day was supposed to be no one will ever know because eventually the little girl grew up and forgot about her tiny box of beautiful cups and saucers.
One day the little girl fell in love and married. The grandmother made her a beautiful red table cloth and a set of napkins to match as a wedding gift, not something most people received in the sixties when life was all ironstone and avocado and harvest gold. It was a small linen cloth, made to fit a bridge table, or tea table and given to a generation even less likely to play bridge than the one before it. Still, it was a lovely gift, made with a craftsmanship and style forgotten by most women who were more likely to sew gingham mini dresses and wear love beads than drink tea from porcelain cups. The girl used it when she made chocolate fondues and then put it away and forgot it.
Many years later, when that little girl had children of her own, she remembered her tea set and the small red table cloth that was tucked away on another shelf way back high in the closet. She remembered what her mother had said and did not give the tiny dishes to her own daughter to play with, but she did get them out a few times and served tea on the small red table cloth to very appreciative little girls. And boys too, because her sons also invited friends over for luncheon and ate cookie cutter peanut butter and jelly sandwiches off of the plates while drinking apple juice from the little cups. Time passed and her little girl grew up and had little girls of her own.
She didn't see these little girls very often, but one day, while they were still small she got out the tea set and the little red table cloth and they ate their lunch on the little table at the end of her kitchen counter and it was such a sweet moment she never forgot it. It made her think of her own grandmother, a. little girl who grew up far away in the Carolinas and learned to sew when today's children were still watching Sesame Street. These little girls grew up too.
Now the little girl who received a beautiful porcelain set of dishes from her grandmother when she was very small, is a grandmother one more time. Today was her birthday, so she got out her lovely little dishes and wiped them clean of the dust that has accumulated while they waited for the newest little diner. He is two years old, about the same age the little girl's grandmother was when she drank her first Cambridge tea. The little red table cloth covered his small table and it was set for a party. There was a tiny cake shaped like a dog, ice cream carved into tiny white balls, small hot dogs stuffed with cheese and baked in biscuits and chocolate poured from a porcelain tea pot. He used the small red napkin by the side of his plate, sang happy birthday in his high baby voice and it was a perfect day.
It was an old fashioned birthday, once more in the Carolinas. A birthday filled not with expensive store bought gifts no one can afford, but the gifts of love and good cheer and good manners surrounding the singing of songs and instruments played by those attending. It was a birthday filled with sweet smiles and sweet hugs and sweet food just like it might have been when his great great grandmother was growing up in the long aftermath of the civil war. It was a gift passed down through the ages from another grandmother who loved a little girl as much as I love Brooke and Tiffany and Lennon.
Love's legacy never goes out of style.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
"Friendship is something that raised us almost above humanity...It is the sort of love one can imagine between angels." --C.S. Lewis
Today is my birthday. It is not a milestone, except that I made it this far, but I am celebrating by re-connecting. My life has been very segmented. I have moved often and I have changed directions several times.
Some of my friends, I was going to write past friends, but I don't want to think that way anymore, would be surprised by the others. Others are not easily surprised by anything. In the past I have tended to yield whatever it is I am changing from to the past where we slowly drift apart. I don't want to do that anymore.
I figure if I can reconnect with someone I met in kindergarten and he remembers me then everything in between here and there cannot be too scary. You see that is what I think has kept me from doing this sooner. Fear. Fear of rejection, or scorn, or not being good enough. Maybe that is the milestone for this year. I am more accepting of who I am and less afraid it will not be enough.
I have room for lots of friends and if I am still interested, perhaps they are too. We, all of us, have done a lot of living and growing during the years and it is fun to share these things. Tonight I heard from a friend who is now living in Fiji and about to be married!
The idea of friendship has been complicated for me in the past. I have heard so many people I trust and respect voice their ideas on it. I have heard that friends can be lovers, but lovers can never be friends again. I have heard lots of things I don't believe anymore. I received the above quote in an email from a dear friend today and it made me really stop and think. First of all I really like C.S. Lewis' writing and secondly, he experienced a love that was romantic and sweet and terribly tragic. He knew what he was talking about.
So now my gift to me is to search out these ultimate experiences in my own life, to be as connected and loving as I want to be and am allowed to be.
Some of my friends, I was going to write past friends, but I don't want to think that way anymore, would be surprised by the others. Others are not easily surprised by anything. In the past I have tended to yield whatever it is I am changing from to the past where we slowly drift apart. I don't want to do that anymore.
I figure if I can reconnect with someone I met in kindergarten and he remembers me then everything in between here and there cannot be too scary. You see that is what I think has kept me from doing this sooner. Fear. Fear of rejection, or scorn, or not being good enough. Maybe that is the milestone for this year. I am more accepting of who I am and less afraid it will not be enough.
I have room for lots of friends and if I am still interested, perhaps they are too. We, all of us, have done a lot of living and growing during the years and it is fun to share these things. Tonight I heard from a friend who is now living in Fiji and about to be married!
The idea of friendship has been complicated for me in the past. I have heard so many people I trust and respect voice their ideas on it. I have heard that friends can be lovers, but lovers can never be friends again. I have heard lots of things I don't believe anymore. I received the above quote in an email from a dear friend today and it made me really stop and think. First of all I really like C.S. Lewis' writing and secondly, he experienced a love that was romantic and sweet and terribly tragic. He knew what he was talking about.
So now my gift to me is to search out these ultimate experiences in my own life, to be as connected and loving as I want to be and am allowed to be.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
"What goes up, must come down."
Things that are top heavy, topple over. The heaviest end lands first. Hot air rises to the top where it is easier to see through. If something is up in the air, eventually it will come back down. Don't be surprised if it hits you in the head. You have more time to move your feet. If something is down, don't think it will eventually rise up - unless you set it on fire. Heat rises.
Cold slows things down, makes them slower. Ice is very slow, so are rocks and trees. Some people are cold too. Mirages make things look warm.
Regard mirages and cold things and heavy things with great care.
Cold slows things down, makes them slower. Ice is very slow, so are rocks and trees. Some people are cold too. Mirages make things look warm.
Regard mirages and cold things and heavy things with great care.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Now Never Ends
It is true. Everything they say; it is true. What goes around comes around. What comes around goes around. You reap what you sow. Today is tomorrow yesterday, all those old sayings are true, but they are not THE Truth, the sort with a capital T. They are just the beginning of the story. They are the teasers, not the bitter end and that is what most of us need to figure out.
Because the sowing and the reaping just keep right on happening. The reaping brings forth new seeds, seeds that survived and so the sowing becomes one done with slightly different seeds and the next reaping reflects this. In this moment I am reaping and sowing in infinity. And the coming and going around are gathering so much momentum that it is like a carousel caught in time. I am limited only by myself, by my own perceptions, my own ability to hang on and look around.
Nothing changes. It has all happened before and will all happen again. The words pointing to it alter. The eyes perceiving it grow bright and dim. The mind understanding it is limited only by its self.
In the end there probably is no end, I still don't know. I do know that it is me in this moment that experiences what it is, and that is all I have to work with. Yes, Virginia, you can make a purse out of a sow's ear. You can turn this moment into one of ecstasy or agony. You can be whatever it is you are in all reality and you can keep on being that as long as you want to. This is the important stuff, the gist of it all. This is the light at the end of the tunnel and the tunnel and the tunnel. Didn't anyone ever tell you that it is what happens in that dark tunnel that makes the difference? Some tunnels are long and some are so short they don't exist, but they are the road here.
So buck up. Whatever happens in this moment is up to you and it will take everything you have to be it. The good news is you can't fail, because Now never ends.
Because the sowing and the reaping just keep right on happening. The reaping brings forth new seeds, seeds that survived and so the sowing becomes one done with slightly different seeds and the next reaping reflects this. In this moment I am reaping and sowing in infinity. And the coming and going around are gathering so much momentum that it is like a carousel caught in time. I am limited only by myself, by my own perceptions, my own ability to hang on and look around.
Nothing changes. It has all happened before and will all happen again. The words pointing to it alter. The eyes perceiving it grow bright and dim. The mind understanding it is limited only by its self.
In the end there probably is no end, I still don't know. I do know that it is me in this moment that experiences what it is, and that is all I have to work with. Yes, Virginia, you can make a purse out of a sow's ear. You can turn this moment into one of ecstasy or agony. You can be whatever it is you are in all reality and you can keep on being that as long as you want to. This is the important stuff, the gist of it all. This is the light at the end of the tunnel and the tunnel and the tunnel. Didn't anyone ever tell you that it is what happens in that dark tunnel that makes the difference? Some tunnels are long and some are so short they don't exist, but they are the road here.
So buck up. Whatever happens in this moment is up to you and it will take everything you have to be it. The good news is you can't fail, because Now never ends.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Not Well
Journaling, for someone who loves to write, sounds simple. but doing it honestly is harder than I anticipated. First of all I am really not feeling well today. I am coughing so hard at times that I hear something pop inside me. It is a familiar sound, but I can't for the life of me remember why. My head and neck feel so hot that I keep holding whatever cold I am drinking up to touch them. My lower back aches enough that I cannot ignore it. It helps to bend forward for a while, but I am suffering from some sort of gastrointestinal problem. Nothing horrendous. I just feel bad enough that everything is hard, so I keep pushing to do those things that I deem necessary.
On the other side, the outside, I am finding myself easily moved, weepy. I am so easily moved that the simplest things become so heart touching that I wonder at myself. A local news station does a series on pay it forward every Thursday. I saw it tonight and remembered when a dear friend gave me money and told me to just pay it forward when I could. I don't know if it counts if it is to family, but I did pay it forward and I always try to give a little something when I can.
On the other side, the outside, I am finding myself easily moved, weepy. I am so easily moved that the simplest things become so heart touching that I wonder at myself. A local news station does a series on pay it forward every Thursday. I saw it tonight and remembered when a dear friend gave me money and told me to just pay it forward when I could. I don't know if it counts if it is to family, but I did pay it forward and I always try to give a little something when I can.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Journaling
A friend suggested I journal the changes I notice as I go through this transition. Trying to think of a way to journal one more thing, I decided that for today, at least, I will journal it in my thoughts.
I have noticed changes, not all good and not all bad. The bad ones I am hoping are only temporary inconveniences that will go away with time. Little things, you know, for example my brain feels like it is slipping around inside my skull like a large wet sponge! It brings with it all sorts of interesting little side bits. Like feeling dizzy when I least expect it, or having GI cramps now and then. One that I noticed for the first few days of last week was a shortening of my abdominal muscles. Actually they only felt like they were too short and turning to stone. Had I not found that one on the Internet one night I might have panicked and gone to a doctor. That little wonder seems to be gone now.
The good changes have been much more subtle. I noticed that I sort of felt like Rip Van Winkle, waking up and wondering why things seemed different. Not the least of which was that I "felt" something. I haven't really done much of for a while. Oh I knew I was supposed to feel and I did care, but not enough to really act on it much. It is like coming out of a cocoon. Things are gradually taking on a clarity I hadn't missed. I actually wanted to go out and straighten up the garage, move my stuff farther back into the basement so my son could get to his wood pile easier. I can no longer sit and stare off into limbo without a thought in the world for unreasonably long times. I can still meditate, but it is a choice, not just time that disappears. I have a desire to be creative, not just in thought, but actuality. And I am noticing that I am growing just more and more head over heels in awe of The Lennon! I thought it might be him, but
I think it is me noticing him more.
I am more aware. I am more here.
I have noticed changes, not all good and not all bad. The bad ones I am hoping are only temporary inconveniences that will go away with time. Little things, you know, for example my brain feels like it is slipping around inside my skull like a large wet sponge! It brings with it all sorts of interesting little side bits. Like feeling dizzy when I least expect it, or having GI cramps now and then. One that I noticed for the first few days of last week was a shortening of my abdominal muscles. Actually they only felt like they were too short and turning to stone. Had I not found that one on the Internet one night I might have panicked and gone to a doctor. That little wonder seems to be gone now.
The good changes have been much more subtle. I noticed that I sort of felt like Rip Van Winkle, waking up and wondering why things seemed different. Not the least of which was that I "felt" something. I haven't really done much of for a while. Oh I knew I was supposed to feel and I did care, but not enough to really act on it much. It is like coming out of a cocoon. Things are gradually taking on a clarity I hadn't missed. I actually wanted to go out and straighten up the garage, move my stuff farther back into the basement so my son could get to his wood pile easier. I can no longer sit and stare off into limbo without a thought in the world for unreasonably long times. I can still meditate, but it is a choice, not just time that disappears. I have a desire to be creative, not just in thought, but actuality. And I am noticing that I am growing just more and more head over heels in awe of The Lennon! I thought it might be him, but
I think it is me noticing him more.
I am more aware. I am more here.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Unchanged And Unchanging
I am Pygmalion and Galatea, Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn, the excavator and the pit.
It is my job to find the jewel within, the chalice, the seed inside the stone apple, the life that is the epitome of life.
A bit of dusting, some major hacking away and finally out with the tiny diamond chisel to refine the details until what is left is so ethereal it is hard to discern at all.
Like a Trojan horse, I am not what I appear to be at all. Bones and muscle, crinkly eyes and smile lines, character and voice, tone and tune, all are only the coat and undercoat of the real me. Peel them away, one by one until they are all gone and I am here.
Here where I always was, where I always am. Here in the present, unchanged and unchanging.
Unadorned by all these heavy trappings I find myself where I never thought to look. Past my wrinkle lines and baby teeth. Past my birth and death. Past all thought and desire....I exist alive and living. Water from ice. Lava from rock. Breath beyond breath. Beyond definition. Beyond recognition. Almost beyond discernment...
I Am the I am.
It is my job to find the jewel within, the chalice, the seed inside the stone apple, the life that is the epitome of life.
A bit of dusting, some major hacking away and finally out with the tiny diamond chisel to refine the details until what is left is so ethereal it is hard to discern at all.
Like a Trojan horse, I am not what I appear to be at all. Bones and muscle, crinkly eyes and smile lines, character and voice, tone and tune, all are only the coat and undercoat of the real me. Peel them away, one by one until they are all gone and I am here.
Here where I always was, where I always am. Here in the present, unchanged and unchanging.
Unadorned by all these heavy trappings I find myself where I never thought to look. Past my wrinkle lines and baby teeth. Past my birth and death. Past all thought and desire....I exist alive and living. Water from ice. Lava from rock. Breath beyond breath. Beyond definition. Beyond recognition. Almost beyond discernment...
I Am the I am.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Stressors
Modern medicine is marvelous in so many ways. I would not have survived my infancy without it, but much of it is still a guessing game. I give the doctor the symptoms. The doctor tries to think of what might alter these symptoms. If I am accurate and he is a good guesser, which he is educated to be, then we are part way there. Next comes deciding which pharmaceutics to use. The companies put out a lot of advertising and there is a lot of hype that is not necessarily helpful. Who wants to take something that can cause, nosebleeds, suicidal thoughts, aches, pains, nausea and an assortment of other things that may be worse than the ailment in the first place?
As my sister says, if there is something that can make her feel better, give it to her, because she finds no redeeming qualities in suffering for the sake of suffering. She does fine with most things. I do not. I once took an antibiotic that caused such violent purging from both ends that I would almost rather die than repeat the experience and I have had many others that caused less violent, but equally awful results. I cannot even take Ibuprofen.
So, when my doctor prescribed a very small dose of a drug that seemed to alleviate the dark cloud that has hovered over my head for longer than I can remember, I was very happy. Before settling on this one, I tried several others that caused very bad side effects, but not this one -- I thought. I felt lighter. Life seemed brighter, but the insidious things crept up so slowly I didn't realize they were here, or I blamed my life style and myself for them.
Who would think that something that made me feel so much better was also the culprit for the extra weight, or the skin problems, or the numbness that sometimes allowed me to sit for hours without noticing? Most feelings became distant, except when I was in a sort of euphoric overload that I attributed to my soul work. Now, after nearly three years, I am weaning off of this drug and it is harder than I thought it would be. I have been completely off of it for one week now.
The good news is that I am starting to experience feelings I thought I was too old to care about and they are nice! The not so good news is that I am also experiencing occasional sweating, and a tightening of the muscles inside my abdominal wall sometimes, that is very painful and I sometimes feel very dizzy or off balance, like my brain is loose in my head when I stand up, or bend over. Twice I have felt extraordinarily aggravated, but that may just be reality. Gabrielle does not want to potty train. Before, I just sort of thought, oh well... Supposedly all this will go away after two weeks or so. I hope so. I had no idea that a prescription drug could cause these problems and it doesn't for a majority of the people. (Or perhaps those people just haven't noticed yet, because I didn't notice a lot while I was on it.)
So, my thots are a bit discombobulated right now. Sometimes they are maudlin and other times they are ferocious. I am hoping neither will turn out to be the real me in a few weeks. My life is good. There should be no real stressors, except for money, it's time to try again.
As my sister says, if there is something that can make her feel better, give it to her, because she finds no redeeming qualities in suffering for the sake of suffering. She does fine with most things. I do not. I once took an antibiotic that caused such violent purging from both ends that I would almost rather die than repeat the experience and I have had many others that caused less violent, but equally awful results. I cannot even take Ibuprofen.
So, when my doctor prescribed a very small dose of a drug that seemed to alleviate the dark cloud that has hovered over my head for longer than I can remember, I was very happy. Before settling on this one, I tried several others that caused very bad side effects, but not this one -- I thought. I felt lighter. Life seemed brighter, but the insidious things crept up so slowly I didn't realize they were here, or I blamed my life style and myself for them.
Who would think that something that made me feel so much better was also the culprit for the extra weight, or the skin problems, or the numbness that sometimes allowed me to sit for hours without noticing? Most feelings became distant, except when I was in a sort of euphoric overload that I attributed to my soul work. Now, after nearly three years, I am weaning off of this drug and it is harder than I thought it would be. I have been completely off of it for one week now.
The good news is that I am starting to experience feelings I thought I was too old to care about and they are nice! The not so good news is that I am also experiencing occasional sweating, and a tightening of the muscles inside my abdominal wall sometimes, that is very painful and I sometimes feel very dizzy or off balance, like my brain is loose in my head when I stand up, or bend over. Twice I have felt extraordinarily aggravated, but that may just be reality. Gabrielle does not want to potty train. Before, I just sort of thought, oh well... Supposedly all this will go away after two weeks or so. I hope so. I had no idea that a prescription drug could cause these problems and it doesn't for a majority of the people. (Or perhaps those people just haven't noticed yet, because I didn't notice a lot while I was on it.)
So, my thots are a bit discombobulated right now. Sometimes they are maudlin and other times they are ferocious. I am hoping neither will turn out to be the real me in a few weeks. My life is good. There should be no real stressors, except for money, it's time to try again.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Here
I went outside this morning and it was so bright I could barely stand it at first, but the warmth felt good against my face and so I sat there for a few minutes. I noticed the butterfly bush, most of its leaves gone, basically a bare bones bush now, but it had a clarity, a sharpness to it that was strange. I looked at it longer, thinking it must be my eyes adjusting to the light, but everything was extraordinarily bright.
I gazed at the bush to see if it would change, but it did not. Its sharpness even seemed to intensify some. I tried to think if this could be a sign of something wrong with my body. What was it van Gogh saw that he put in his paintings? This didn't seem distorted though, only so incredibly crisp that it reminded me of my photo shop program when I over used the sharpness button.
That was it! Only how could this be in real life? I sat there for longer than I intended to, eventually losing my train of thought about the way things looked. I lost myself in it all, became detached in a way that seem to make me more a part of everything. It was as if the me who is here crumbled into the Here until there was only Here.
I don't really know when it ended. I don't really even remember coming inside. I only remember the clarity, the sharpness, the light. I had almost forgotten it happened until a few moments ago.
I gazed at the bush to see if it would change, but it did not. Its sharpness even seemed to intensify some. I tried to think if this could be a sign of something wrong with my body. What was it van Gogh saw that he put in his paintings? This didn't seem distorted though, only so incredibly crisp that it reminded me of my photo shop program when I over used the sharpness button.
That was it! Only how could this be in real life? I sat there for longer than I intended to, eventually losing my train of thought about the way things looked. I lost myself in it all, became detached in a way that seem to make me more a part of everything. It was as if the me who is here crumbled into the Here until there was only Here.
I don't really know when it ended. I don't really even remember coming inside. I only remember the clarity, the sharpness, the light. I had almost forgotten it happened until a few moments ago.
Bless You!
I was upstairs with Lennon the other day and I sneezed. Immediately, a little voice from the other room called out, "bless you." I am so blessed to be able to be near my grandchild. I am even more blessed that he is an early talker. He has been communicating with words for a very long time now and he is still two years old.
It is incredibly fascinating to know what a two year old thinks and what his reasoning is behind his actions. I don't have to second guess him and his insight is wonderful to hear. Of course all the processes are not completely developed yet, but they are even more endearing when they are next to others that are. For example, he knows the sounds all the consonants make, so he looks brilliant when I ask what dog starts with and he says "D." But let me ask how to spell a word like car and one day he will spell it while the next he will say, "C...A......bcdefghijklmnop... and go on to sing the alphabet song. We are working on his phone number now. He can count almost to a hundred, with a few prompts. He can actually point and count easily up to ten things, like his superheros. He can take one superhero away and count the nine that are left and so on. But the phone number? So far we get to 828-648, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 ......! Even though he wants to be able to call Daddy and can identify the numbers if I tell him to push six, two, eight, etc. Rattling off the number means nothing to him yet. A mind is an awesome thing and I don't think I realized how fascinating it is, even though I once taught three year old preschool.
Being allowed to be one on one with just one child is so much fun. It doesn't seem to be any harder for him to learn to speak than to count, or read. It's all just one big happy adventure. I wonder what he will remember of any of this? I am not such a quick learner. He must have fifty superheros and I know the names of only a handful while he knows all their names and who they are in "real life." Clark Kent is Superman. That one I know, but he is patient with me and will repeat names over and over, infinitely kind, breaking them down into as small a sound as I need to finally get it.
He is learning to debate too. He will ask for a sandwich, or hear me in the kitchen and run out saying, "What cha thinking about?" He likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Blue or red jelly, depending on the day and sometimes will say, "how bout we jus forget the peanut butter?" He finds his own body interesting and mysterious. Going potty is still a big deal. He must disrobe, get his stool out and wait to see if "its" going to work. Sometimes he just looks up and shakes his head, "It's not working now."
My sister brought him a swing to hang from a rafter, or tree and not having a place to put it, I just hung it up, temporarily, in front of my yard swing then forgot about it. We were bringing in the groceries yesterday and I looked up to see him trying to sit on his swing, but of course it was too close to mine to really work. He came over and tried to explain to me that I needed to move it, there was not enough room where it was. He loves to solve problems and will bring me my glasses, or a flash light, or whatever else he thinks might be useful.
Most of all, though, I love it when he must find a way to communicate about something he does not have a word for. He will describe the shape, the color, the size, what it is for, even pointing out things that are similar in some way. It is fascinating to see what he considers similarities sometimes and once I understand, it usually makes sense. The other thing he does is when I will say to stop doing something and he will tell me, "but I want to do that!" There is no artifice here. He knows what he wants to do (and usually why.) "I like to put Ironman in the freezer." "I like the way the water looks when I pour it from here."
He is a whole thinking, problem solving, caring little creature and I wouldn't know half of it if he didn't talk to me.
It is incredibly fascinating to know what a two year old thinks and what his reasoning is behind his actions. I don't have to second guess him and his insight is wonderful to hear. Of course all the processes are not completely developed yet, but they are even more endearing when they are next to others that are. For example, he knows the sounds all the consonants make, so he looks brilliant when I ask what dog starts with and he says "D." But let me ask how to spell a word like car and one day he will spell it while the next he will say, "C...A......bcdefghijklmnop... and go on to sing the alphabet song. We are working on his phone number now. He can count almost to a hundred, with a few prompts. He can actually point and count easily up to ten things, like his superheros. He can take one superhero away and count the nine that are left and so on. But the phone number? So far we get to 828-648, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 ......! Even though he wants to be able to call Daddy and can identify the numbers if I tell him to push six, two, eight, etc. Rattling off the number means nothing to him yet. A mind is an awesome thing and I don't think I realized how fascinating it is, even though I once taught three year old preschool.
Being allowed to be one on one with just one child is so much fun. It doesn't seem to be any harder for him to learn to speak than to count, or read. It's all just one big happy adventure. I wonder what he will remember of any of this? I am not such a quick learner. He must have fifty superheros and I know the names of only a handful while he knows all their names and who they are in "real life." Clark Kent is Superman. That one I know, but he is patient with me and will repeat names over and over, infinitely kind, breaking them down into as small a sound as I need to finally get it.
He is learning to debate too. He will ask for a sandwich, or hear me in the kitchen and run out saying, "What cha thinking about?" He likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Blue or red jelly, depending on the day and sometimes will say, "how bout we jus forget the peanut butter?" He finds his own body interesting and mysterious. Going potty is still a big deal. He must disrobe, get his stool out and wait to see if "its" going to work. Sometimes he just looks up and shakes his head, "It's not working now."
My sister brought him a swing to hang from a rafter, or tree and not having a place to put it, I just hung it up, temporarily, in front of my yard swing then forgot about it. We were bringing in the groceries yesterday and I looked up to see him trying to sit on his swing, but of course it was too close to mine to really work. He came over and tried to explain to me that I needed to move it, there was not enough room where it was. He loves to solve problems and will bring me my glasses, or a flash light, or whatever else he thinks might be useful.
Most of all, though, I love it when he must find a way to communicate about something he does not have a word for. He will describe the shape, the color, the size, what it is for, even pointing out things that are similar in some way. It is fascinating to see what he considers similarities sometimes and once I understand, it usually makes sense. The other thing he does is when I will say to stop doing something and he will tell me, "but I want to do that!" There is no artifice here. He knows what he wants to do (and usually why.) "I like to put Ironman in the freezer." "I like the way the water looks when I pour it from here."
He is a whole thinking, problem solving, caring little creature and I wouldn't know half of it if he didn't talk to me.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Powerless
Not being able to breathe effects everything, so I don't know if the angst I am feeling is just this cold I have, or something else. In my dreams I am not enough. And being not enough means that everything else is jeopardized. It takes away my power, my security. It takes away the identity I have endowed myself with during the past thirty years, leaving me vulnerable to criticism no one would have dared to voice ten years ago.
My dreams are stark, but full of twists and turns where danger lurks in every yet to be seen place. I am responsible for another human being, or more, but there is always someone standing between me and the thing I am seeking. That someone misunderstands everything I say and do and no matter how hard I try to explain, they cannot seem to get it.
I find myself under intense pressure to go ahead of everyone, find the right ways, find the thing we are looking for and do it before they get there so I can make it as easy as possible for them to understand. The rushing makes me afraid I will make mistakes. The people I run into along the way are so frustrating I want to scream, but I don't dare. These people, be they ever so misinformed and slow, still possess the Power. I don't know exactly what that Power is, but I know it can make my life horrible.
And that is why I am up at three thirty in the morning. I just can't bear to deal with these people anymore. They are driving me nuts, which is a little frightening since "they" are people in my dreams and therefore really just me.
My dreams are stark, but full of twists and turns where danger lurks in every yet to be seen place. I am responsible for another human being, or more, but there is always someone standing between me and the thing I am seeking. That someone misunderstands everything I say and do and no matter how hard I try to explain, they cannot seem to get it.
I find myself under intense pressure to go ahead of everyone, find the right ways, find the thing we are looking for and do it before they get there so I can make it as easy as possible for them to understand. The rushing makes me afraid I will make mistakes. The people I run into along the way are so frustrating I want to scream, but I don't dare. These people, be they ever so misinformed and slow, still possess the Power. I don't know exactly what that Power is, but I know it can make my life horrible.
And that is why I am up at three thirty in the morning. I just can't bear to deal with these people anymore. They are driving me nuts, which is a little frightening since "they" are people in my dreams and therefore really just me.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Life Seems To Be A Feast
Greed goes a long way towards explaining this world's woes, but it is really only another one of those generalizations which are generally cop outs to reality. I remember when my aunt died and we wanted to leave. The old nurse on duty said, "The surgeon needs to see you, talk to you." It had never really occurred to me that he would take her death personally and deeply. I was too wrapped up in my own grief.
Young professionals expend a lot of money, time, hours and sacrifices to get where they are. They have options that would allow them to take easier roads than many of them do. There are always chances to take the eight to five route in almost any field, but the ones who don't often give up both the easy hours and the easy money. The old jokes about professors teaching because they can't really do the job, or doctors working in ERs because they can't do anything else are no more true than any other generalization. I was not a mother because I couldn't do anything else. I felt what I was doing was the most important thing in the world, developing the next generation.
I know a young public defender who could be sitting in a prestigious office raking in the money. Instead he works night and day desperately trying to give his clients the very best advice and defense he possibly can. He cares. He knows that what he does, or does not do, may ultimately change the life of another human being and everyone connected to him.
And so what do these young people do to unwind? The ones I know do not drive around town in big trucks tossing beer cans out the window, or get stoned and sit around smiling at themselves, or seeing if they can swipe merchandise from the local stores. The ones I know tend to pursue hobbies with as much gusto and determination as they did their careers. They rock climb, or ski, or do photography, or read voraciously, or sew, or fly, or play in bands, or any of a million other things. Life seems to be a feast that they cannot get enough of.
And they treat their mothers with love and a divine sense of humor, connecting with her the way she once connected with them, like all children do.
Young professionals expend a lot of money, time, hours and sacrifices to get where they are. They have options that would allow them to take easier roads than many of them do. There are always chances to take the eight to five route in almost any field, but the ones who don't often give up both the easy hours and the easy money. The old jokes about professors teaching because they can't really do the job, or doctors working in ERs because they can't do anything else are no more true than any other generalization. I was not a mother because I couldn't do anything else. I felt what I was doing was the most important thing in the world, developing the next generation.
I know a young public defender who could be sitting in a prestigious office raking in the money. Instead he works night and day desperately trying to give his clients the very best advice and defense he possibly can. He cares. He knows that what he does, or does not do, may ultimately change the life of another human being and everyone connected to him.
And so what do these young people do to unwind? The ones I know do not drive around town in big trucks tossing beer cans out the window, or get stoned and sit around smiling at themselves, or seeing if they can swipe merchandise from the local stores. The ones I know tend to pursue hobbies with as much gusto and determination as they did their careers. They rock climb, or ski, or do photography, or read voraciously, or sew, or fly, or play in bands, or any of a million other things. Life seems to be a feast that they cannot get enough of.
And they treat their mothers with love and a divine sense of humor, connecting with her the way she once connected with them, like all children do.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
What Do You See?
I have to ask my sister. "What do you see?"
I need to know.
Not that I doubt my own eyes, my own judgment, but I want to see through her eyes.
I want to feel the image pressed against her retina, smell the odor of it within the confines of her receptors.
I want my hand to reach out and feel what she feels and he feels and they feel and you feel.
Right here, among us, the creator constantly works. Everywhere, mountains of creations, worlds of creations, simple, plain, ornate in a million different ways, surround us. Each one, only the same one, made again and again. The medium never changes. The hands work with the same level of skill and the skill never varies. Not one is any more precious than the other, not one looks different in its creator's eyes, like a cook preparing innumerable meatballs for a great feast they are all the same, only these are Faberge meatballs, their value beyond comprehension.
Each one shaped with love and exquisite care. Each one honed and fired and decorated and then, just before letting it go, a thumb presses slightly into the cradled object. One thumbprint, a small indentation for identification. A shallow shadow of a place left to hold all the differences that can be. Almost invisible, it is the only place visible to many of us and it is a shape shifter, a reflecting pond displaying our own selves, not the one before us.
How odd that we judge ourselves so harshly thinking that it is someone else. How strange the conclusions we draw from such a shallow place. How bizzare the levels of resentments and pain that pile upon us from something so immaterial, so miniscule and fleetingly fragile. How often do we crack the object during our perusal, imagining a tiny little flaw the creator deemed a signature? This ever changing flicker of uniqueness becomes the visage blocking our view and we spend our entire lives seeking what we are.
And so I ask my sister, "What do you see?" Thinking that perhaps I should stir the soup one more time, this time with my eyes closed so that I may immerse myself in us.
I need to know.
Not that I doubt my own eyes, my own judgment, but I want to see through her eyes.
I want to feel the image pressed against her retina, smell the odor of it within the confines of her receptors.
I want my hand to reach out and feel what she feels and he feels and they feel and you feel.
Right here, among us, the creator constantly works. Everywhere, mountains of creations, worlds of creations, simple, plain, ornate in a million different ways, surround us. Each one, only the same one, made again and again. The medium never changes. The hands work with the same level of skill and the skill never varies. Not one is any more precious than the other, not one looks different in its creator's eyes, like a cook preparing innumerable meatballs for a great feast they are all the same, only these are Faberge meatballs, their value beyond comprehension.
Each one shaped with love and exquisite care. Each one honed and fired and decorated and then, just before letting it go, a thumb presses slightly into the cradled object. One thumbprint, a small indentation for identification. A shallow shadow of a place left to hold all the differences that can be. Almost invisible, it is the only place visible to many of us and it is a shape shifter, a reflecting pond displaying our own selves, not the one before us.
How odd that we judge ourselves so harshly thinking that it is someone else. How strange the conclusions we draw from such a shallow place. How bizzare the levels of resentments and pain that pile upon us from something so immaterial, so miniscule and fleetingly fragile. How often do we crack the object during our perusal, imagining a tiny little flaw the creator deemed a signature? This ever changing flicker of uniqueness becomes the visage blocking our view and we spend our entire lives seeking what we are.
And so I ask my sister, "What do you see?" Thinking that perhaps I should stir the soup one more time, this time with my eyes closed so that I may immerse myself in us.
Waterfalls and mountains and bears, oh my!
It was better than a trip to Oz. There were no witches, but there were "The Grammas." On a side trip we all piled into two cars and Lennon looked around asking, "Where are the Grammas?"
For five wonderful days, he had four Grammas and the pups had four Mamas. I never knew who would make the coffee, or wash the windows, or move a ton of rocks to make a rock garden. I never knew whose arms Lennon would be in, singing and talking his little heart out in. They almost painted my living room, but we had to tour the Biltmore, visit antique stores in out of the way places, climb down into streams and take pictures of waterfalls. We went about four hours out of our way on the day they were supposed to leave, so they left after dark on Sunday, but they were hours well spent.
We drove through picturesque towns with carillons playing and trees whose names hung around their necks on placards. We saw some of the poorest of North Carolina's poor and the seeds for the newly arrived rich. We bought antiques from an old cold storage apple barn and whizzed up and down mountains better than any roller coaster could ever hope to be. Rose is one uninhibited driver! The people in the back seat got car sick, but we stopped and if we hadn't been lost, we might never have seen the black bear that was lumbering down the side of the road towards us and casually loped over the side rail when we got too close.
There were no mistakes, only things to laugh about and new ways to do things. We managed to share one bathroom and two beds and even sleep a little. And now they are gone. Back to Illinois and Lennon misses them. He was so afraid I was going to go with them. His little face just crumpled when he saw us all get in the car, but I didn't, so he and I had breakfast with Bobby today and the world is back the way it was before.
For five wonderful days, he had four Grammas and the pups had four Mamas. I never knew who would make the coffee, or wash the windows, or move a ton of rocks to make a rock garden. I never knew whose arms Lennon would be in, singing and talking his little heart out in. They almost painted my living room, but we had to tour the Biltmore, visit antique stores in out of the way places, climb down into streams and take pictures of waterfalls. We went about four hours out of our way on the day they were supposed to leave, so they left after dark on Sunday, but they were hours well spent.
We drove through picturesque towns with carillons playing and trees whose names hung around their necks on placards. We saw some of the poorest of North Carolina's poor and the seeds for the newly arrived rich. We bought antiques from an old cold storage apple barn and whizzed up and down mountains better than any roller coaster could ever hope to be. Rose is one uninhibited driver! The people in the back seat got car sick, but we stopped and if we hadn't been lost, we might never have seen the black bear that was lumbering down the side of the road towards us and casually loped over the side rail when we got too close.
There were no mistakes, only things to laugh about and new ways to do things. We managed to share one bathroom and two beds and even sleep a little. And now they are gone. Back to Illinois and Lennon misses them. He was so afraid I was going to go with them. His little face just crumpled when he saw us all get in the car, but I didn't, so he and I had breakfast with Bobby today and the world is back the way it was before.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Earth, Wind, Fire and Water
Earth sets out on an adventure, calling the others to join her. Not one to taste the newness without some coaxing, Earth seldom leaps across the boundaries of new frontiers without great provocation. Her tastes are simple, her patterns as old as memory, but she is grounded.
Wind floats gently nearby. Whispering with a wisdom older than time, she is deceptively strong. A quiet entity, one who can delve deeply into the depths others do not even see, she is never to be under estimated.
Fire, vibrant, bright, dancing with the energy of a hundred little thoughts, is never far away. She consumes life in great gulps of brilliance that can be altered in an instant. Here, there, everywhere, Fire is the driving force behind this gathering.
Water moves inexorably along the way, catching the light in little glimpses here and there, chortling down the mountain sides, raging through the impasses, gnawing away at anything nearby, needing to taste it, touch it, chew it up and swallow it, until she is satisfied that she understands what it is.
Earth, Wind, Fire and Water meet in this maelstrom and it becomes a centrifuge, wringing every bit of life's essence out into every nano second. It is intense, invigorating, exhausting. Not one minute is wasted. They celebrate each other and the world around them. Giddy with the joy of their togetherness, the laughter is exuberant, sides ache and eyes water. The feast never ends, body and soul devour everything around them until they are so full they almost burst. There are no boundaries, no limits to what they can do together as they go to visit their children, the falling leaves and the waterfalls, the brown bears and the passion of beings born long ago and aged to perfection.
Earth, Wind, Fire and Water ....
Wind floats gently nearby. Whispering with a wisdom older than time, she is deceptively strong. A quiet entity, one who can delve deeply into the depths others do not even see, she is never to be under estimated.
Fire, vibrant, bright, dancing with the energy of a hundred little thoughts, is never far away. She consumes life in great gulps of brilliance that can be altered in an instant. Here, there, everywhere, Fire is the driving force behind this gathering.
Water moves inexorably along the way, catching the light in little glimpses here and there, chortling down the mountain sides, raging through the impasses, gnawing away at anything nearby, needing to taste it, touch it, chew it up and swallow it, until she is satisfied that she understands what it is.
Earth, Wind, Fire and Water meet in this maelstrom and it becomes a centrifuge, wringing every bit of life's essence out into every nano second. It is intense, invigorating, exhausting. Not one minute is wasted. They celebrate each other and the world around them. Giddy with the joy of their togetherness, the laughter is exuberant, sides ache and eyes water. The feast never ends, body and soul devour everything around them until they are so full they almost burst. There are no boundaries, no limits to what they can do together as they go to visit their children, the falling leaves and the waterfalls, the brown bears and the passion of beings born long ago and aged to perfection.
Earth, Wind, Fire and Water ....
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Positive Procrastination
My sister and two friends arrived tonight and we had barely unpacked the car before we began laughing. I don't even remember what about now. Somehow things just seem funnier when the four of us get together.
For one thing we are very tolerant of each others foibles, and politics, and families, and anything else that gets in the way of a long and lasting friendship. Which is not to say we don't have heated conversations over all of the above. We are passionate, just not demanding.
This time we decided we should celebrate all of our birthdays right now, or at least Rose decided that. Also Rose was the only one who forgot to shop for these birthdays, which is simply Rose. She'll shop later. She did bring me a beautiful little book mark from Ireland. She and her daughter and a young man who is a friend of both hobnobbed around Europe this summer with back packs, train tickets, and lots of shoe leather.
Since it is my house, I came up with a little pink and white cake that said, "Happy Birthday To Us." We sang happy birthday to me and me and me and me, each blew out our one gold candle and took turns taking pictures. We opened the gifts that were here then Rose carefully folded up the boxes and paper in case she finds our gifts tomorrow.
We will Not iron the paper, but we will recycle. We made up the beds, turned on heaters for those who appreciate them and watched a pretty bad movie about families and relationships while we passed the pups around. It was good just to all sit together in one room, wrapped up in throws with our feet up and visit.
I explained the quirks of my house, hot water toilet, reversed faucets, don't step on the white puppy pads, etc. Barb asked how the water pressure was fixed. I explained the beauty of positive procrastination and everyone went to sleep....
except me.
For one thing we are very tolerant of each others foibles, and politics, and families, and anything else that gets in the way of a long and lasting friendship. Which is not to say we don't have heated conversations over all of the above. We are passionate, just not demanding.
This time we decided we should celebrate all of our birthdays right now, or at least Rose decided that. Also Rose was the only one who forgot to shop for these birthdays, which is simply Rose. She'll shop later. She did bring me a beautiful little book mark from Ireland. She and her daughter and a young man who is a friend of both hobnobbed around Europe this summer with back packs, train tickets, and lots of shoe leather.
Since it is my house, I came up with a little pink and white cake that said, "Happy Birthday To Us." We sang happy birthday to me and me and me and me, each blew out our one gold candle and took turns taking pictures. We opened the gifts that were here then Rose carefully folded up the boxes and paper in case she finds our gifts tomorrow.
We will Not iron the paper, but we will recycle. We made up the beds, turned on heaters for those who appreciate them and watched a pretty bad movie about families and relationships while we passed the pups around. It was good just to all sit together in one room, wrapped up in throws with our feet up and visit.
I explained the quirks of my house, hot water toilet, reversed faucets, don't step on the white puppy pads, etc. Barb asked how the water pressure was fixed. I explained the beauty of positive procrastination and everyone went to sleep....
except me.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
No More Dark Butterflies
A little over four years ago I sat in a small room in St.Louis, Missouri watching the Democratic Convention with a friend. I heard the most impressive young man I had heard in ages, maybe ever, speak that night and I said he would make a good president. I met that same man when he was going around Illinois speaking to people on farms and in drug store parking lots. I voted for him to be my senator.
About the same time I was working very hard for the next presidential election, knocking on doors, telephoning people, leaving pamphlets, connecting in any way I could to be sure our country did not suffer the same ignominious mistakes of the previous four years. In the end I could not believe people made the same mistake twice, this time knowing exactly what they were getting. I was more disillusioned than I ever let on. How can you help people who do not see, or listen, or understand? I saw no hope for our country then and as time went on, we sank lower and lower until we were so far removed from the fundamental truth and integrity our nation was founded on that I was not sure it was redeemable. And the worst part was that the regime in office no longer even tried to hide it.
Today we elected a new president, a man who may not work miracles, but who knows? He is a man who does not come from American aristocracy. He comes from people like us and I will stake my life on the fact that he will do his very best to turn our country around. He will stand before God and his country and not speak out of the back of his head. He will look us in the eye without stuttering over lies. He will reach out with hands wanting to pick us up and carry us over the bumps in the road, but most importantly he will always walk beside us. There will be no more looking down on the poor down trodden masses and making superfluous statements that fly like dark butterflies over dying lights.
There may be pruning and toiling until it hurts, but now we have a chance and I am going to do whatever I can to help.
About the same time I was working very hard for the next presidential election, knocking on doors, telephoning people, leaving pamphlets, connecting in any way I could to be sure our country did not suffer the same ignominious mistakes of the previous four years. In the end I could not believe people made the same mistake twice, this time knowing exactly what they were getting. I was more disillusioned than I ever let on. How can you help people who do not see, or listen, or understand? I saw no hope for our country then and as time went on, we sank lower and lower until we were so far removed from the fundamental truth and integrity our nation was founded on that I was not sure it was redeemable. And the worst part was that the regime in office no longer even tried to hide it.
Today we elected a new president, a man who may not work miracles, but who knows? He is a man who does not come from American aristocracy. He comes from people like us and I will stake my life on the fact that he will do his very best to turn our country around. He will stand before God and his country and not speak out of the back of his head. He will look us in the eye without stuttering over lies. He will reach out with hands wanting to pick us up and carry us over the bumps in the road, but most importantly he will always walk beside us. There will be no more looking down on the poor down trodden masses and making superfluous statements that fly like dark butterflies over dying lights.
There may be pruning and toiling until it hurts, but now we have a chance and I am going to do whatever I can to help.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
In A Moment
I do not always live in this moment, no matter how hard I try. Sometimes there is a future looming ahead that calls me into a place which does not yet exist, to a situation that is not occurring. Impossible? It should be, yet I find myself living here more often than I care to admit.
Living in a moment whose time and place cannot be touched by me is time travel in its worst form. I have nothing to gain from this moment that has yet to arrive, by coming early. The conversations are all one sided. The situations are merely ego trips built upon my supposed knowledge of everyone and everything who might, or might not, be here.
The problems leading up to it have yet to occur. The problems occurring during it may never occur. The situation carries less weight than sun dogs on a misty afternoon.
Knowing this is true, how can I allow myself to leap out of precious moments with my grandchild, into this imaginary place? How could I possibly give up these perfect moments of present reality for something that is both unpleasant and not even real?
I know, from personal experience, that if there is a need for worry and work, the future seldom denies me a chance at the real thing. Of course, there really never is a need for worry. It is only a word that means I am fooling myself into believing I am doing something, when I am not. And the work? I have never had a plate wash itself before I could get to it and the carpeting never denies me the chance to vacuum. Nothing to be concerned about there either.
And so, I spend my life jumping back and forth between what I believe and all my old habits.
Living in a moment whose time and place cannot be touched by me is time travel in its worst form. I have nothing to gain from this moment that has yet to arrive, by coming early. The conversations are all one sided. The situations are merely ego trips built upon my supposed knowledge of everyone and everything who might, or might not, be here.
The problems leading up to it have yet to occur. The problems occurring during it may never occur. The situation carries less weight than sun dogs on a misty afternoon.
Knowing this is true, how can I allow myself to leap out of precious moments with my grandchild, into this imaginary place? How could I possibly give up these perfect moments of present reality for something that is both unpleasant and not even real?
I know, from personal experience, that if there is a need for worry and work, the future seldom denies me a chance at the real thing. Of course, there really never is a need for worry. It is only a word that means I am fooling myself into believing I am doing something, when I am not. And the work? I have never had a plate wash itself before I could get to it and the carpeting never denies me the chance to vacuum. Nothing to be concerned about there either.
And so, I spend my life jumping back and forth between what I believe and all my old habits.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The Road Home
My dreams, just lately, have been sweet. I am with those I love and no longer see, so they are also poignant when I wake up and even as I experience them. I am aware that they prolong the longing and the yearning that I have tried to pack away and yet I would not give up these stolen moments. As I slowly return to this moment, this reality, I wonder at myself and my world.
My world has mostly revolved around me and very young children. I have my own memories when I was so young they are mostly picture. My other memories are filled with my children, my young students, my grandchildren. It is an odd existence of a life built around words and naming things and trying to write about things that cannot really be named.
I have a need to communicate. I wonder if it is impatience or a primal need for survival that led to this form of communication over telepathy, or some other way, but it is part of our species to name things with words. I wonder if I am allowing a child to give away some sacred connection when we go through the madly sweet years of learning to talk. Reducing experiences to words that barely touch the surface of what they are. In the beginning "mama" is warmth and satisfaction and safety and comfort, softness, and roundness, entertainment and so much more.
Later on in life it is mostly a vague warm feeling, perhaps a primal yearning in quieter moments.
It is a primal yearning that draws me back. After years of having my experience whittled away, chopped, pruned, punched, poked and shaped to fit into the tiny cubicles of word communication, one morning I wake up and feel the call to go back to some place where there is more depth and richness that this shell of a word.
And that is when I write poetry and thots and begin to meditate and pray and center in silence. It is when the day dreaming I was censured for in school becomes a long lost friend. It is when I see the face on the enemy is my own. It is when the Way curves slightly away from madness and mayhem and a little more towards the Creator.
It is the road home.
My world has mostly revolved around me and very young children. I have my own memories when I was so young they are mostly picture. My other memories are filled with my children, my young students, my grandchildren. It is an odd existence of a life built around words and naming things and trying to write about things that cannot really be named.
I have a need to communicate. I wonder if it is impatience or a primal need for survival that led to this form of communication over telepathy, or some other way, but it is part of our species to name things with words. I wonder if I am allowing a child to give away some sacred connection when we go through the madly sweet years of learning to talk. Reducing experiences to words that barely touch the surface of what they are. In the beginning "mama" is warmth and satisfaction and safety and comfort, softness, and roundness, entertainment and so much more.
Later on in life it is mostly a vague warm feeling, perhaps a primal yearning in quieter moments.
It is a primal yearning that draws me back. After years of having my experience whittled away, chopped, pruned, punched, poked and shaped to fit into the tiny cubicles of word communication, one morning I wake up and feel the call to go back to some place where there is more depth and richness that this shell of a word.
And that is when I write poetry and thots and begin to meditate and pray and center in silence. It is when the day dreaming I was censured for in school becomes a long lost friend. It is when I see the face on the enemy is my own. It is when the Way curves slightly away from madness and mayhem and a little more towards the Creator.
It is the road home.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Trick Or Treat
Halloween. I couldn't stir up much enthusiasm this year. It hasn't been much of a holiday for the past three years and I wasn't anticipating anything new this year, except the joy of seeing my grandson dress up. My home is off the beaten path. No trick or treaters will be at my door, so I bought a couple of things for Lennon's bag, got out my camera and that was it.
But this year was different. First of all I went with Lennon and Bobby to buy two pumpkins. Then I donated the paint I had left over for the costume. Barbie came home with all sorts of little tidbits, tiny lights, glow necklaces, shiny banner paper. Bobby took a paper carton and turned it into a robot costume. Barbie covered a bike helmet in paper and made antennae with puff ball tops. Elbow protectors became shiny arm decorations.
Barbie decorated a pumpkin with lights. Bobby carved one and Lennon helped everyone else then stuck the face on his. All three lined up outside on the bench, the gate and doors were thrown wide open and trick or treaters began to arrive. Lennon had so much fun handing out candy that he barely agreed to go trick or treating himself, but he finally did, accompanied by Harpo Marx and Bat Girl. Gramma stayed at his house and handed out candy.
It was an old fashioned Halloween, one like I remember as a child. Parents and children rambled up and down the street in groups, calling to each other, laughing and having a great time. I noticed two Wiccan mothers beautifully dressed with flowers in their hair and long flowing white robes, there were tiny fairies in strollers, bumble bees in arms, a snow queen, lots of super heroes, vampires, an old fashioned school boy, and people from every ethnic group you can imagine. This is what the USA is supposed to be, a melting pot of good will and acceptance.
But this year was different. First of all I went with Lennon and Bobby to buy two pumpkins. Then I donated the paint I had left over for the costume. Barbie came home with all sorts of little tidbits, tiny lights, glow necklaces, shiny banner paper. Bobby took a paper carton and turned it into a robot costume. Barbie covered a bike helmet in paper and made antennae with puff ball tops. Elbow protectors became shiny arm decorations.
Barbie decorated a pumpkin with lights. Bobby carved one and Lennon helped everyone else then stuck the face on his. All three lined up outside on the bench, the gate and doors were thrown wide open and trick or treaters began to arrive. Lennon had so much fun handing out candy that he barely agreed to go trick or treating himself, but he finally did, accompanied by Harpo Marx and Bat Girl. Gramma stayed at his house and handed out candy.
It was an old fashioned Halloween, one like I remember as a child. Parents and children rambled up and down the street in groups, calling to each other, laughing and having a great time. I noticed two Wiccan mothers beautifully dressed with flowers in their hair and long flowing white robes, there were tiny fairies in strollers, bumble bees in arms, a snow queen, lots of super heroes, vampires, an old fashioned school boy, and people from every ethnic group you can imagine. This is what the USA is supposed to be, a melting pot of good will and acceptance.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)