Inspiration is my best friend. Sitting up with me on long dark nights and talking to me about those things I love, or am in awe of, or just find impossibly fascinating. Never judging me. Allowing me to look as deeply into my dark corners as I do my brightest moments, it pats my hand and says, “It’s okay. It’s all you and you are okay.”
Shy, and very very quiet, it comes to me most often when I am all alone, dictates whole stories as long as no one else is here and fills me to overflowing in this new reclusive place I have found. I have never known such fulfillment before.
I take those gifts the world gives to me and decorate my life with them, making it a haven for creativity, a place for music and dreams and sunlit moments. The sweetness of a smile, the beauty of young lovers innocently believing in a way most people have given up on, the “agony and the ecstasy” of a life well lived, it all comes my way, a never ending peek into the world as I never have seen it before.
And it is good. I know it is good because I see the sweetness and the innocence and the goodness in every face. There is amazing goodness in the most unlikely places and it seems I have been given the eyes to see it, the words to write about it, the gift of knowing it.
Inspiration touches me, turning me inside out, simply sifting through all my parts, looking for the very best, and bringing it to my attention.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Justice Prevails
The police ring the doorbell. They have a warrant to arrest a man who lives in the house. He answers the door, surprised to see them and offended that he is being arrested for something he did not do.
He argues with the officer who promptly calls for help and soon there are six policemen standing in his front yard. The man steps outside to talk with them and the first policeman grabs him, throws him to the ground, and places a knee on his throat, choking him while screaming at him and manhandling him in other ways too.
The other five police officers stand there watching. The man’s family think to get out a video camera and record the incident.
The man is charged with resisting arrest and goes to court with a very good public defender, who opens by reminding the jury of the Rodney King case. He tells them what they are about to see is much less violent than that was, but asks, where do we draw the line? How much force is it okay to use on a man who may be innocent, who is simply charged with possibly committing a crime? Who is defending himself from a perceived threat of strangulation, because he cannot breathe?
He calls the other police officers to the stand, the ones who stood in a circle watching, but not helping their fellow officer. He asks them if being a policeman is like being part of a family? Do they stand up for each other and support each other through thick and thin? Is there an unwritten honor code, a brotherhood that responds to whatever occurs? He shows the jury their written reports where they each have written down the barest details of the arrest.
He calls the officer whose knee was on the man’s throat. He asks him the same questions as well as one other one. Do you count on your fellow officers to support you no matter what you do? Do you expect them to stand behind you no matter what?
He shows the jury the video the family made. He wraps it up by stating that anyone who is being choked has a natural instinct to protect himself. He asks them what they might have done under these circumstances and he rests his case.
He has done the unthinkable. A very new public defender has gone up against a very powerful police force and won a case! His office is awed, his fellow defenders are eager to give him the high five and justice rides again.
He argues with the officer who promptly calls for help and soon there are six policemen standing in his front yard. The man steps outside to talk with them and the first policeman grabs him, throws him to the ground, and places a knee on his throat, choking him while screaming at him and manhandling him in other ways too.
The other five police officers stand there watching. The man’s family think to get out a video camera and record the incident.
The man is charged with resisting arrest and goes to court with a very good public defender, who opens by reminding the jury of the Rodney King case. He tells them what they are about to see is much less violent than that was, but asks, where do we draw the line? How much force is it okay to use on a man who may be innocent, who is simply charged with possibly committing a crime? Who is defending himself from a perceived threat of strangulation, because he cannot breathe?
He calls the other police officers to the stand, the ones who stood in a circle watching, but not helping their fellow officer. He asks them if being a policeman is like being part of a family? Do they stand up for each other and support each other through thick and thin? Is there an unwritten honor code, a brotherhood that responds to whatever occurs? He shows the jury their written reports where they each have written down the barest details of the arrest.
He calls the officer whose knee was on the man’s throat. He asks him the same questions as well as one other one. Do you count on your fellow officers to support you no matter what you do? Do you expect them to stand behind you no matter what?
He shows the jury the video the family made. He wraps it up by stating that anyone who is being choked has a natural instinct to protect himself. He asks them what they might have done under these circumstances and he rests his case.
He has done the unthinkable. A very new public defender has gone up against a very powerful police force and won a case! His office is awed, his fellow defenders are eager to give him the high five and justice rides again.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Shopping For Mangos
Tragedies are the mile posts most of us would rather avoid. No one in their right mind says, “Please god, send me a devastating experience so I can grow.”
Coming out of nowhere, it falls like a ton of bricks, shattering my faith in myself and my world, and breaking a heart I thought was so resilient it could withstand anything. My body goes into shock and cushions me just enough to keep me from diving over the edge.
Then comes the hard part. Thinking I cannot survive when I already have, experiencing the anger that follows and eventually realizing I am going to go forward whether I like it, or not.
Some people jump right back up and into the middle of things. My body has a time line all its own, a year seems short, but in retrospect it was forever.
One day I find myself out here shopping for spinach leaves and yogurt and mangos instead of macaroni and cheese and garlic bread. Days start a little earlier and end a little later. I laugh a little easier and I’m no longer so afraid to cry, because I know I will be able to stop.
Creativity raises its newborn head and looks around at the deep rich colors of late afternoon, listens to the glorious sounds of a spring thunder storm, and my imagination yawns once before stepping up to bat.
Suddenly I am back in the game and I’m not even sure how it happened. Perhaps, like a friend said, I am learning to respond instead of react.
Coming out of nowhere, it falls like a ton of bricks, shattering my faith in myself and my world, and breaking a heart I thought was so resilient it could withstand anything. My body goes into shock and cushions me just enough to keep me from diving over the edge.
Then comes the hard part. Thinking I cannot survive when I already have, experiencing the anger that follows and eventually realizing I am going to go forward whether I like it, or not.
Some people jump right back up and into the middle of things. My body has a time line all its own, a year seems short, but in retrospect it was forever.
One day I find myself out here shopping for spinach leaves and yogurt and mangos instead of macaroni and cheese and garlic bread. Days start a little earlier and end a little later. I laugh a little easier and I’m no longer so afraid to cry, because I know I will be able to stop.
Creativity raises its newborn head and looks around at the deep rich colors of late afternoon, listens to the glorious sounds of a spring thunder storm, and my imagination yawns once before stepping up to bat.
Suddenly I am back in the game and I’m not even sure how it happened. Perhaps, like a friend said, I am learning to respond instead of react.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Artistic Expression
Remember being little and begging for stories? I never had enough. Even when I learned to read, there weren’t enough books around to keep me entertained to my satisfaction. It’s one of the reasons I discovered I loved writing. If the world can’t keep me entertained, I can do it myself.
I really do tell myself stories. You might call it day dreaming, but sometimes I even write them down and print them out so I can take them with me and read them at breakfast, or just before I go to sleep, or sitting outside in the backyard swing.
I still ask people for stories sometimes, too, when I think I can get away with it and wheedle one of out them. Imagine my excitement then, when I discover that one of my friends thinks so much like me, he can actually make up stories that I find even better than my own. (Isn’t that a sort of narcissistic statement!)
Better yet is the fact that he turns his into little videos complete with dialogue, music and realistic sets! I wait for these like some people wait for Harry Potter. Always good, they are becoming artistic expressions whose quality rivals that of some mainstream films.
Taste in subject matter is very personal, but exquisitely detailed films can be appreciated universally. It is what differentiates simple entertainment from archival quality artistic creations.
I really do tell myself stories. You might call it day dreaming, but sometimes I even write them down and print them out so I can take them with me and read them at breakfast, or just before I go to sleep, or sitting outside in the backyard swing.
I still ask people for stories sometimes, too, when I think I can get away with it and wheedle one of out them. Imagine my excitement then, when I discover that one of my friends thinks so much like me, he can actually make up stories that I find even better than my own. (Isn’t that a sort of narcissistic statement!)
Better yet is the fact that he turns his into little videos complete with dialogue, music and realistic sets! I wait for these like some people wait for Harry Potter. Always good, they are becoming artistic expressions whose quality rivals that of some mainstream films.
Taste in subject matter is very personal, but exquisitely detailed films can be appreciated universally. It is what differentiates simple entertainment from archival quality artistic creations.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Your Audience
Dreamer, wake up!
You lie here mooning over a life of labor, a dreary monotonous world of protocol, and endless repetition, thinking, “ if only.”
If only what?
If only you could be a movie star, or great artisan? Or perhaps you wistfully see yourself as the next Poet Laureate, or even another Tolstoy?
You already are all those things, because if you are not, you never will be.
Do you think that one day these people just got out of bed and found themselves famous? Do you honestly believe that theirs is a god given gift that descended from the heavens and fell with a fanfare of trumpets upon their sleeping brows?
The iconoclastic truth is that no matter where the seeds come from, the flower show is won by persistence and sweat and courage.
Creativity is not for the faint hearted. It requires standing up, naked and alone, allowing the world to look at your most vulnerable parts and listening to the jabbering of that maddening crowd who is your audience. A group where some are loyal and others envious and some are using you to further their own careers. It means standing tall when you want to give up and crawl sobbing back under those warm covers where the world is safe and comfortable.
Sometimes it even means listening to those mad ravings because they are the truth and must be dealt with before you can move on. This is the scariest part of all, because how do you know?
You don’t. Not really. You just keep doing what you do and eventually you learn that you are doing it for yourself.
The joy and the honor, the glory and the satisfaction is in the doing. Everything else is a carrot on a stick, but, I admit, sometimes I get a powerful yearning for carrots.
You lie here mooning over a life of labor, a dreary monotonous world of protocol, and endless repetition, thinking, “ if only.”
If only what?
If only you could be a movie star, or great artisan? Or perhaps you wistfully see yourself as the next Poet Laureate, or even another Tolstoy?
You already are all those things, because if you are not, you never will be.
Do you think that one day these people just got out of bed and found themselves famous? Do you honestly believe that theirs is a god given gift that descended from the heavens and fell with a fanfare of trumpets upon their sleeping brows?
The iconoclastic truth is that no matter where the seeds come from, the flower show is won by persistence and sweat and courage.
Creativity is not for the faint hearted. It requires standing up, naked and alone, allowing the world to look at your most vulnerable parts and listening to the jabbering of that maddening crowd who is your audience. A group where some are loyal and others envious and some are using you to further their own careers. It means standing tall when you want to give up and crawl sobbing back under those warm covers where the world is safe and comfortable.
Sometimes it even means listening to those mad ravings because they are the truth and must be dealt with before you can move on. This is the scariest part of all, because how do you know?
You don’t. Not really. You just keep doing what you do and eventually you learn that you are doing it for yourself.
The joy and the honor, the glory and the satisfaction is in the doing. Everything else is a carrot on a stick, but, I admit, sometimes I get a powerful yearning for carrots.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Insatiable
I see an ever flickering production of lights, bursting forth in brilliant color, dimming into almost oblivion. Lithesome figures pirouetting around each other in graceful moves much to liquid to be heard, too powerful to be ignored.
Moving between mother and child in delicate clouds of lavender, between hulking teenagers and nubile idols in pulsing bursts. Flowing in great arcs between lovers and friends all over the world as they remember and project and imagine.
And it is real. Just as real as water flowing from the pitcher to the glass, only this pitcher has no bottom and this glass is never full.
Thirsty vessels who can never get enough, we are a race of vampires ardently reaching out in thought, word and deed to satisfy and satiate our need for this deeply personal and intrinsic necessity we so blandly call love.
It signals our creation, ameliorates our fear of death, splits families and drives countries to war. It becomes the call word for every charlatan who needs a cause behind a ruse and the building blocks for true charity.
It is a cosmic ballet of extraordinary proportions that falls from the stage and engages us all.
Moving between mother and child in delicate clouds of lavender, between hulking teenagers and nubile idols in pulsing bursts. Flowing in great arcs between lovers and friends all over the world as they remember and project and imagine.
And it is real. Just as real as water flowing from the pitcher to the glass, only this pitcher has no bottom and this glass is never full.
Thirsty vessels who can never get enough, we are a race of vampires ardently reaching out in thought, word and deed to satisfy and satiate our need for this deeply personal and intrinsic necessity we so blandly call love.
It signals our creation, ameliorates our fear of death, splits families and drives countries to war. It becomes the call word for every charlatan who needs a cause behind a ruse and the building blocks for true charity.
It is a cosmic ballet of extraordinary proportions that falls from the stage and engages us all.
Anticipation
My husband loved to play Clue and another game called Electronic Detective. At least he did until I learned how to play. I discovered I love those games and I am very good at them.
I have a knack for taking the facts from many different questions and, by keeping track of who asks them and where, I can figure the most incredible things out no matter whose turn it is. I can also read faces, so if you can’t keep yours straight, it is my game! Of course it’s fun to win, but more than that, I just love the challenge of solving a mystery.
There’s a part of me that is very child-like. I still love surprises and birthdays and other holidays. I am afraid of being disappointed, that is a real weakness and fear of mine, but if I can get by that -- anticipation becomes a joyful pursuit that I have never out grown.
Let a situation occur where I can happily anticipate something while trying to figure out just exactly what it will be, and I am like an eight year old on Christmas Eve. I peek into corners and peer around doors, sift through facts looking for similarities and search for things that change just slightly, looking for any inconsistencies, trying to see what I can find out and delighting in anything I think I might have discovered.
Sometimes the journey is almost more fun than the actual event itself, but then isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?
I have a knack for taking the facts from many different questions and, by keeping track of who asks them and where, I can figure the most incredible things out no matter whose turn it is. I can also read faces, so if you can’t keep yours straight, it is my game! Of course it’s fun to win, but more than that, I just love the challenge of solving a mystery.
There’s a part of me that is very child-like. I still love surprises and birthdays and other holidays. I am afraid of being disappointed, that is a real weakness and fear of mine, but if I can get by that -- anticipation becomes a joyful pursuit that I have never out grown.
Let a situation occur where I can happily anticipate something while trying to figure out just exactly what it will be, and I am like an eight year old on Christmas Eve. I peek into corners and peer around doors, sift through facts looking for similarities and search for things that change just slightly, looking for any inconsistencies, trying to see what I can find out and delighting in anything I think I might have discovered.
Sometimes the journey is almost more fun than the actual event itself, but then isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
First Person
Write in first person. I always write in first person if I can. It is a much stronger voice than all the others, but when I do, I take the risk that someone may think I am unhappy, or upset, or suffering, when in truth -- I am writing.
Now there is always a grain of truth in everything, and the truth is that I sometimes write in first person even when I am thinking about someone else. Like I said, it is stronger and it also preserves anonymity for those people who don’t want their lives all over my thots.
I am a pretty strong character. I can carry a whole lot more weight than you might imagine and although I am not rolling in money at the present, I am okay. For me it is usually more a matter of priorities than anything else. Do I buy that book, or go to the library? Do I rent a video this weekend, or watch cable, or even read a book, or, perhaps, write one!
I do not have to support anyone but me and I’m relatively simple to care for. Good music, good books, beautiful scenery, loving family -- life is good.
Now there is always a grain of truth in everything, and the truth is that I sometimes write in first person even when I am thinking about someone else. Like I said, it is stronger and it also preserves anonymity for those people who don’t want their lives all over my thots.
I am a pretty strong character. I can carry a whole lot more weight than you might imagine and although I am not rolling in money at the present, I am okay. For me it is usually more a matter of priorities than anything else. Do I buy that book, or go to the library? Do I rent a video this weekend, or watch cable, or even read a book, or, perhaps, write one!
I do not have to support anyone but me and I’m relatively simple to care for. Good music, good books, beautiful scenery, loving family -- life is good.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Swallowed Whole
It is difficult to swallow pride. No matter what it is coated in, it just never goes down easily.
All the sweet little sayings that tell me how noble it is; feel more like inconsequential lumps that stick to my tonsils and cause my natural gag reflex to work overtime.
It is one thing if I am a natural sand bagger. One of those people always trying to get by without pulling my share of the load. Then, pride swallowing becomes just another part of the theorem I use to propagate the idea that I am worthy of so much more. It isn’t real. It’s an act.
It is something altogether different if I am doing my best to make things work and finding myself thwarted at every turn. The situation is already frustrating. And if it is actually work that is causing the problem, meaning not enough of it, or not enough money made doing it, then I begin to suffer from the stress and problems that stem from that too.
Not enough money, not enough food, or the right kinds of food. Not enough money, no medicine, or medical treatment for problems until they become painful and huge. So now I am working, feeling bad, worn down and in a rut that starts to look impossible to get out of in this frame of mind.
For me to have to ask for help, to go to someone I respect and ask for money, maybe let the whole world see that I am not making it, even knowing that they will understand, is so hard.
Yet, I’ve seen people who love someone so much they will put themselves in this position. People who wrap all that love around their pride and swallow it whole in order to care for loved ones.
They have no idea how much I love and respect them. They are my heroes.
All the sweet little sayings that tell me how noble it is; feel more like inconsequential lumps that stick to my tonsils and cause my natural gag reflex to work overtime.
It is one thing if I am a natural sand bagger. One of those people always trying to get by without pulling my share of the load. Then, pride swallowing becomes just another part of the theorem I use to propagate the idea that I am worthy of so much more. It isn’t real. It’s an act.
It is something altogether different if I am doing my best to make things work and finding myself thwarted at every turn. The situation is already frustrating. And if it is actually work that is causing the problem, meaning not enough of it, or not enough money made doing it, then I begin to suffer from the stress and problems that stem from that too.
Not enough money, not enough food, or the right kinds of food. Not enough money, no medicine, or medical treatment for problems until they become painful and huge. So now I am working, feeling bad, worn down and in a rut that starts to look impossible to get out of in this frame of mind.
For me to have to ask for help, to go to someone I respect and ask for money, maybe let the whole world see that I am not making it, even knowing that they will understand, is so hard.
Yet, I’ve seen people who love someone so much they will put themselves in this position. People who wrap all that love around their pride and swallow it whole in order to care for loved ones.
They have no idea how much I love and respect them. They are my heroes.
Ten Years
I’ve been writing My Thots almost every single day since February 25, 1999. That’s over 3700 thoughts! Some of you have been with me since the beginning and to you I am so grateful.
Others came on after I began my online blogs a few years ago and to you I am also grateful. A writer writes because she must, but to have readers keeps her honest and dedicated. Thank you!
I could not do this without all the amazing people in my life. It is remarkable how each of you has taken me by the hand and led me into experiences many people are lucky to have one of in a life time. You gave me the courage to jump in there and do all those things many people just talk about and I have survived! I have crossed a few boundaries here and there, done some rather questionable things, a few really good things, and at least one awesome thing.
There have been hard times and good times, sad times and ecstatic times and through it all, my soul mate, who although we are no longer physically together, is always here for me in the Great Silence urging me on. Below is the first thought I ever wrote and the response that has kept me writing them for the past ten years.
To:
Date: Thu, 25 Feb 1999 00:20:34 -0600
Subject: Re: My Thought for the Day
Expectations are unusual creatures. Coming in times of sorrow they can be the breath of spirit that carries us through, or the anchor that weighs us down. The rest of the time they carry our hopes and dreams from sunrise to sunrise, a never ending stream of beliefs that define us as the beings we both are and hope to be.
When our expectations are not met, we have options. Options can make the difference between swimming upstream and drowning when the current is running against us. Sometimes the options are clinging onto a moldy old life preserver or wallowing in the murky mud that waits in the depths.
But sometimes... if we keep practicing.... our options can be as wonder-full as walking barefoot on the soft tickles of the new spring grass and smelling the sweet mustiness of the earth...or........allowing our mind to soar among the clouds on a warm sunny day filled with the promises of things to come.
To: lcangell@juno.com
Date: Thu, 25 Feb 1999 21:53:33 EST
Subject: Re: My Thought for the Day
I really like your thoughts. Thank you. Send all you want.
Love,
John
Others came on after I began my online blogs a few years ago and to you I am also grateful. A writer writes because she must, but to have readers keeps her honest and dedicated. Thank you!
I could not do this without all the amazing people in my life. It is remarkable how each of you has taken me by the hand and led me into experiences many people are lucky to have one of in a life time. You gave me the courage to jump in there and do all those things many people just talk about and I have survived! I have crossed a few boundaries here and there, done some rather questionable things, a few really good things, and at least one awesome thing.
There have been hard times and good times, sad times and ecstatic times and through it all, my soul mate, who although we are no longer physically together, is always here for me in the Great Silence urging me on. Below is the first thought I ever wrote and the response that has kept me writing them for the past ten years.
To:
Date: Thu, 25 Feb 1999 00:20:34 -0600
Subject: Re: My Thought for the Day
Expectations are unusual creatures. Coming in times of sorrow they can be the breath of spirit that carries us through, or the anchor that weighs us down. The rest of the time they carry our hopes and dreams from sunrise to sunrise, a never ending stream of beliefs that define us as the beings we both are and hope to be.
When our expectations are not met, we have options. Options can make the difference between swimming upstream and drowning when the current is running against us. Sometimes the options are clinging onto a moldy old life preserver or wallowing in the murky mud that waits in the depths.
But sometimes... if we keep practicing.... our options can be as wonder-full as walking barefoot on the soft tickles of the new spring grass and smelling the sweet mustiness of the earth...or........allowing our mind to soar among the clouds on a warm sunny day filled with the promises of things to come.
To: lcangell@juno.com
Date: Thu, 25 Feb 1999 21:53:33 EST
Subject: Re: My Thought for the Day
I really like your thoughts. Thank you. Send all you want.
Love,
John
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Sublime
Music touches me in ways nothing else ever can.
No matter what I say to you, or you to me, there is always a bit that is lost in translation. It is impossible to put it all into words, or a look, or even a touch, but music goes straight to my soul and floods through me in waves that approach the sublime.
Play me your song and I have a sense of you that goes beyond understanding. If you play my song for me, I feel my immersion in you. It is as if an angel is picking me up in his hand and holding me up to the light. The warmth and the understanding flow through me and I become like a sun catcher, glowing in the light of something brighter than joy.
No matter what I say to you, or you to me, there is always a bit that is lost in translation. It is impossible to put it all into words, or a look, or even a touch, but music goes straight to my soul and floods through me in waves that approach the sublime.
Play me your song and I have a sense of you that goes beyond understanding. If you play my song for me, I feel my immersion in you. It is as if an angel is picking me up in his hand and holding me up to the light. The warmth and the understanding flow through me and I become like a sun catcher, glowing in the light of something brighter than joy.
Friday, June 19, 2009
It's A Learning Experience
Spending a day with a three year old boy can put perspective into life. We went to the courthouse today. My son had something he needed to take care of and Lennon wanted to see where Daddy worked, but more than that he wanted to see some bad guys. (Which he equates with people that Spiderman and Power Rangers fight.)
Everything was exciting, the parking garage, the revolving door, the security guard with a gun who looked in my purse, the elevators. I doubt he could have been more in awe if we’d taken him to Disney world.
We were disappointed that the Grand Jury Room was locked, but we held him up so he could look through the window at an in-progress trial and he was thrilled that he got to see a real life prisoner! I worried that he would feel bad when he discovered prisoners wore orange jumpsuits, his favorite color, but somehow, in his three year old mind, that was even better!
Oh yes, I forgot to mention that he is on “probation” for having a world class temper tantrum yesterday. His room is devoid of all super hero toys right now and many of his activities severely restricted until he demonstrates he can show a little self control. Because of this, we did not go to the MacDonald’s Play Land. Instead we stopped at Pizza Hut across the street and the waitress made him a little plate of just cooked sausage. He was so cute sitting there, delicately eating the sausage with his fingers and drinking juice out of his John Lennon Baby Love sport sipper.
He was very good today, too. It’s amazing how much a three year old understands. We came home and played a game of chess, then he sorted a deck of cards into suits before his nap and I doubt he’s even missed the toys yet, but he will, and by then he will probably have shown enough good behavior to get a few back.
It’s a learning experience.
Everything was exciting, the parking garage, the revolving door, the security guard with a gun who looked in my purse, the elevators. I doubt he could have been more in awe if we’d taken him to Disney world.
We were disappointed that the Grand Jury Room was locked, but we held him up so he could look through the window at an in-progress trial and he was thrilled that he got to see a real life prisoner! I worried that he would feel bad when he discovered prisoners wore orange jumpsuits, his favorite color, but somehow, in his three year old mind, that was even better!
Oh yes, I forgot to mention that he is on “probation” for having a world class temper tantrum yesterday. His room is devoid of all super hero toys right now and many of his activities severely restricted until he demonstrates he can show a little self control. Because of this, we did not go to the MacDonald’s Play Land. Instead we stopped at Pizza Hut across the street and the waitress made him a little plate of just cooked sausage. He was so cute sitting there, delicately eating the sausage with his fingers and drinking juice out of his John Lennon Baby Love sport sipper.
He was very good today, too. It’s amazing how much a three year old understands. We came home and played a game of chess, then he sorted a deck of cards into suits before his nap and I doubt he’s even missed the toys yet, but he will, and by then he will probably have shown enough good behavior to get a few back.
It’s a learning experience.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Echoes
Once upon a time, a girl, sitting quietly on a rock by the lake, watched as the sun came up and thought it shone only for her. She watched the moon rise over the mountain and believed the same thing. For her, the sun and the moon were hers. They were the light that carried her from day to night and night to day, and all the thoughts in between were illuminated by these orbs whose power was enormous.
On cloudy days she retreated deeply into herself, into a cave so dark and quiet that she could hear the heartbeat of the earth and the whisper of the wind as it told her stories of once upon a time. Stories of love and lust, joy and pain, determination and despair and she listened with an open heart and tears filled with eyes.
After a while she ached with a need to be part of these stories, to become a part of that which ebbed and flowed like the tide over rocky shores and so she set off in the middle of a thunderstorm so ferocious and fierce that her feet trembled upon the way and her ears were deafened to the words of warning coming from the wind, but she did not care.
Walking until her feet were sore and her clothing nothing but tattered rags, she finally returned home to sit quietly on the rock by the lake, watching the sun rise in the east and the moon as it rose over the mountain. Listening, feeling, knowing.
Knowing that all the stories were one story. All the feelings one feeling. All the love and lust, joy and pain, determination and despair, one experience flowing out of the earth’s heart and whispered on the breath of the wind over and over again. One story, echoing off a girl sitting on a rock by the lake.
On cloudy days she retreated deeply into herself, into a cave so dark and quiet that she could hear the heartbeat of the earth and the whisper of the wind as it told her stories of once upon a time. Stories of love and lust, joy and pain, determination and despair and she listened with an open heart and tears filled with eyes.
After a while she ached with a need to be part of these stories, to become a part of that which ebbed and flowed like the tide over rocky shores and so she set off in the middle of a thunderstorm so ferocious and fierce that her feet trembled upon the way and her ears were deafened to the words of warning coming from the wind, but she did not care.
Walking until her feet were sore and her clothing nothing but tattered rags, she finally returned home to sit quietly on the rock by the lake, watching the sun rise in the east and the moon as it rose over the mountain. Listening, feeling, knowing.
Knowing that all the stories were one story. All the feelings one feeling. All the love and lust, joy and pain, determination and despair, one experience flowing out of the earth’s heart and whispered on the breath of the wind over and over again. One story, echoing off a girl sitting on a rock by the lake.
The Gift
I am always touched by the kindness of people. A busy person takes time out to write me. Reassuring me and making me feel very good.
How simple and yet, I do not take one word for granted. It is a gift to me, recognized and received and I am so grateful.
How simple and yet, I do not take one word for granted. It is a gift to me, recognized and received and I am so grateful.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Wisdom
Sometimes I feel very old and wise and sometimes I feel exactly the opposite.
By second grade I knew teachers didn’t really want in depth answers to their questions. They preferred cut and dried little phrases right out of the books. I found that odd, even then.
By seventh grade I knew girls were not supposed to be smarter than boys and I dumbed down enough to quit the chess club.
By freshman year in college I was totally caught up looking for the right husband, my excitement in becoming an architect, or archeologist having been swept aside by the information that these areas were not for women who ever wanted to have families. Looking back, I suppose that if my desire had been great enough, no one could have talked me out of it. At least that is true for me now.
By the time I had been married, raised children and left a thirty year relationship I really wasn’t much wiser. I was still at the point where I thought, at a fundamental level, my life had to revolve around another person’s in order to be whole.
Once I finally realized I was unhappy and only I could really change that, the journey towards wisdom accelerated. The proof being, I was able to make some excruciatingly difficult decisions and follow through on them.
No more blaming anyone else for my feelings. Instead I slowly began to embrace this woman who is me and allow her to do things because she wanted to, not because of the way it would affect anyone else. Little by little, I am going back and allowing myself to be me, to explore all the nooks and crannies in my own life, to learn to love me as a whole and distinct person who is alive and well.
It is not always easy. There are still humiliations and mistakes, only now they are all mine to admit to and shoulder the responsibility for. But! There are also incredible adventures and joyful moments like I have never experienced before.
And this is where the wisdom shows up. Now, once upon a time begins with me. It has always been that way, I just didn't understand
By second grade I knew teachers didn’t really want in depth answers to their questions. They preferred cut and dried little phrases right out of the books. I found that odd, even then.
By seventh grade I knew girls were not supposed to be smarter than boys and I dumbed down enough to quit the chess club.
By freshman year in college I was totally caught up looking for the right husband, my excitement in becoming an architect, or archeologist having been swept aside by the information that these areas were not for women who ever wanted to have families. Looking back, I suppose that if my desire had been great enough, no one could have talked me out of it. At least that is true for me now.
By the time I had been married, raised children and left a thirty year relationship I really wasn’t much wiser. I was still at the point where I thought, at a fundamental level, my life had to revolve around another person’s in order to be whole.
Once I finally realized I was unhappy and only I could really change that, the journey towards wisdom accelerated. The proof being, I was able to make some excruciatingly difficult decisions and follow through on them.
No more blaming anyone else for my feelings. Instead I slowly began to embrace this woman who is me and allow her to do things because she wanted to, not because of the way it would affect anyone else. Little by little, I am going back and allowing myself to be me, to explore all the nooks and crannies in my own life, to learn to love me as a whole and distinct person who is alive and well.
It is not always easy. There are still humiliations and mistakes, only now they are all mine to admit to and shoulder the responsibility for. But! There are also incredible adventures and joyful moments like I have never experienced before.
And this is where the wisdom shows up. Now, once upon a time begins with me. It has always been that way, I just didn't understand
Monday, June 15, 2009
"wisdom" is directly proportional to "age"
Sparking all sorts of half thoughts, I have to admit that I cannot quite concretize this analogy for myself.
But I get the gist and when I do, I realize I am losing my knack for problem solving. It took me this long to reach back into my old foster parenting and volunteer homemaker days to offer up things like WIC and social services.
Now that “mothering“ is no longer my primary role, I seem to have temporarily lost touch with those resources and skills that once were as natural as breathing. I have been so focused on myself that others may be suffering.
Part of it is that I am no longer in the thick of things. There are no big eyes sitting across the table from me expecting answers, or help, but that doesn’t mean I can’t offer it anyway.
Maybe I need to write a brochure about, “How To Survive An Unjust World.” It would be for those youngsters who are working their fingers to the bone for just enough to keep them alive. The ones who don’t have time for creative problem solving because they need a few hours of sleep every night before they jump back on the wheel and run like mad to dull the pain and earn a few more scraps.
I just don’t know where to start.
But I get the gist and when I do, I realize I am losing my knack for problem solving. It took me this long to reach back into my old foster parenting and volunteer homemaker days to offer up things like WIC and social services.
Now that “mothering“ is no longer my primary role, I seem to have temporarily lost touch with those resources and skills that once were as natural as breathing. I have been so focused on myself that others may be suffering.
Part of it is that I am no longer in the thick of things. There are no big eyes sitting across the table from me expecting answers, or help, but that doesn’t mean I can’t offer it anyway.
Maybe I need to write a brochure about, “How To Survive An Unjust World.” It would be for those youngsters who are working their fingers to the bone for just enough to keep them alive. The ones who don’t have time for creative problem solving because they need a few hours of sleep every night before they jump back on the wheel and run like mad to dull the pain and earn a few more scraps.
I just don’t know where to start.
Her Name Is Brooke
I knew her name before she was born. Meditating among friends one starry night, my partner turned to me and said, “You will have a granddaughter. Her name is Brooke.” We laughed and set that thought aside.
Months later, in a car making an emergency run to the hospital, my daughter stood up exclaiming, “Mom, the baby fell out!” I picked up my teeny tiny granddaughter and watched her take her first breath, open her tiny eyes for the first time, sing her first tiny song and I was charmed beyond reason.
Her parents named her Brooke!
She is fifteen now, a beauty beyond compare and I am more in awe of her every day. Wise and funny beyond her years, she moves through this world like a spring shower. Delicately touching everything in her path, lifting it up into the light where she peruses it in depth and then adds her own signature touches.
Already tempered by life at a very young age, she is strong and steady, a woman who will leave her mark on the world no matter where she goes and I am so proud of her.
But most of all -- I just love her.
Months later, in a car making an emergency run to the hospital, my daughter stood up exclaiming, “Mom, the baby fell out!” I picked up my teeny tiny granddaughter and watched her take her first breath, open her tiny eyes for the first time, sing her first tiny song and I was charmed beyond reason.
Her parents named her Brooke!
She is fifteen now, a beauty beyond compare and I am more in awe of her every day. Wise and funny beyond her years, she moves through this world like a spring shower. Delicately touching everything in her path, lifting it up into the light where she peruses it in depth and then adds her own signature touches.
Already tempered by life at a very young age, she is strong and steady, a woman who will leave her mark on the world no matter where she goes and I am so proud of her.
But most of all -- I just love her.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Living, Working
There are so many things to be sad about, so many things to try and change, but all thoughts have a power of their own and the last thing I want to create is more darkness, more ugliness, more sadness, in this world.
I need to do what I can to alleviate the suffering, but after that I want to focus on the things that create light. The thoughts that add peace and sweetness to the world.
It is then I look for my tiny golden bird. He comes into sight and I am fascinated by him. He has the most astonishing eyes and the way he wipes his wing over them while I am watching, totally bewitches me.
I stare in wonder as he cocks his head and shrugs those brawny bird shoulders, as if to say, “Well?”
Daring me to find fault with even the tiniest aspect of his being and I cannot.
I see only an exquisite creature, perfect in every way. A charming little guy. A sweetly sensual little guy, who just goes about his business, living, working, gathering seeds and making a nest for his family to live in; and I am so grateful for his existence.
I need to do what I can to alleviate the suffering, but after that I want to focus on the things that create light. The thoughts that add peace and sweetness to the world.
It is then I look for my tiny golden bird. He comes into sight and I am fascinated by him. He has the most astonishing eyes and the way he wipes his wing over them while I am watching, totally bewitches me.
I stare in wonder as he cocks his head and shrugs those brawny bird shoulders, as if to say, “Well?”
Daring me to find fault with even the tiniest aspect of his being and I cannot.
I see only an exquisite creature, perfect in every way. A charming little guy. A sweetly sensual little guy, who just goes about his business, living, working, gathering seeds and making a nest for his family to live in; and I am so grateful for his existence.
Reality
I can hold the building blocks for so many things right in my hands. Cradle a small bird, or large puppy close to my heart and there are feathers and bones, beaks, and hair. Wet tongues and sharp claws, muscle and drool, all exist to tell me this beautiful creature is real.
So many things in life are like this that there are those who deny the existence of anything that is not. They say my heart beats because it must pump the blood to the rest of my body. My mind works because tiny bits of electricity pulse between its neurons. Everything else is imagination.
I know differently. Imagination is as real as bones and blood.
I feel the thoughts that live in this head of mine just as surely as I feel a puppy’s quivering excitement. My heart constricts with the love that flows through me just as surely as it provides the pulse that shows in my neck.
I do not have to hold someone in my arms to know that love is real and I do not have to have a machine to measure it to know that it reaches out everywhere my thoughts flow.
So many things in life are like this that there are those who deny the existence of anything that is not. They say my heart beats because it must pump the blood to the rest of my body. My mind works because tiny bits of electricity pulse between its neurons. Everything else is imagination.
I know differently. Imagination is as real as bones and blood.
I feel the thoughts that live in this head of mine just as surely as I feel a puppy’s quivering excitement. My heart constricts with the love that flows through me just as surely as it provides the pulse that shows in my neck.
I do not have to hold someone in my arms to know that love is real and I do not have to have a machine to measure it to know that it reaches out everywhere my thoughts flow.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Every Mother’s Son
You look at him and see a man.
The world could try to force him to use those muscles, that strength, that prowess, and go off to war. There he would be expected to kill and maim and mindlessly obey those who want to use his beautiful body to do their bidding. All those things I taught him not to do as he was growing up.
I helped him learn to think, to be compassionate and rational. I wanted him to decide for himself what is right and what is wrong. I wanted him to ponder all those gray areas in between too. I stood behind him when some so-called teachers were angry because of his questions. What truth is real that cannot stand up to the questions of a growing boy? Or even a man when it comes right down to it?
Now he thinks on his own, much better than I could ever have taught him and I am so proud of him. He is even stronger and more resilient than he was as a young athlete, but more than that, he is formidable because he is whole.
You see a man. I see a heart and spirit so beautiful it makes me cry with joy. I still see the noble three year old who stood there, legs apart, challenging the world with absolute faith in himself. Not fearless, not even then, I could see that lower lip tremble, but brave, brave beyond comprehension. Ready to stand up for what he believed in, no matter what. That is frightening.
You look at him and see a man. I look at him and see the baby I would die to protect, the person I love so much I helped him open doors that could take him from me forever. Yet, we cannot open doors that are not there and one must have the tools to face his own destiny. Love offers nothing less.
I guess I see the man too.
The world could try to force him to use those muscles, that strength, that prowess, and go off to war. There he would be expected to kill and maim and mindlessly obey those who want to use his beautiful body to do their bidding. All those things I taught him not to do as he was growing up.
I helped him learn to think, to be compassionate and rational. I wanted him to decide for himself what is right and what is wrong. I wanted him to ponder all those gray areas in between too. I stood behind him when some so-called teachers were angry because of his questions. What truth is real that cannot stand up to the questions of a growing boy? Or even a man when it comes right down to it?
Now he thinks on his own, much better than I could ever have taught him and I am so proud of him. He is even stronger and more resilient than he was as a young athlete, but more than that, he is formidable because he is whole.
You see a man. I see a heart and spirit so beautiful it makes me cry with joy. I still see the noble three year old who stood there, legs apart, challenging the world with absolute faith in himself. Not fearless, not even then, I could see that lower lip tremble, but brave, brave beyond comprehension. Ready to stand up for what he believed in, no matter what. That is frightening.
You look at him and see a man. I look at him and see the baby I would die to protect, the person I love so much I helped him open doors that could take him from me forever. Yet, we cannot open doors that are not there and one must have the tools to face his own destiny. Love offers nothing less.
I guess I see the man too.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
My Thots
This is one of those days when everything feels kind of pointless.
I would like to believe that the real world is all strawberries and cream, that if I just do the right things and act the right way, all will be right. Meaning it will be the way I want it to be.
Not going to happen. I can tell you this right now.
The world is a crazy, insane place where nothing lasts, or makes sense for as long as I want it to. People get hurt. People get sick. People change. People turn their heads and it turns out they have mouths on both sides. The light is filled with shadows and the shadows sometimes wear familiar faces just to gain my confidence. That makes everyone suspect and who can live with that?
On the up side. None of this is new. My earliest memories bear this out, and that either makes me the most insane, eternal optimist, or simply a fool, because I always hope it will change.
I change.
I am constantly re-thinking, trying to make sense out of senseless things, trying to find the light, or the lesson in the dark, but it doesn’t always happen. I tell myself the lesson is there, I just haven’t gotten far enough along to recognize it. I sure hope this is true.
I have even learned to forgive. That was the most difficult lesson of all, but probably the most useful. Not forgiving is just slow suicide, a long miserable way to continue suffering, and who needs that?
Anyway, everyone has a bad day now and then. Most people don’t write about them and I probably shouldn’t either, but the truth is -- these are my thots.
I would like to believe that the real world is all strawberries and cream, that if I just do the right things and act the right way, all will be right. Meaning it will be the way I want it to be.
Not going to happen. I can tell you this right now.
The world is a crazy, insane place where nothing lasts, or makes sense for as long as I want it to. People get hurt. People get sick. People change. People turn their heads and it turns out they have mouths on both sides. The light is filled with shadows and the shadows sometimes wear familiar faces just to gain my confidence. That makes everyone suspect and who can live with that?
On the up side. None of this is new. My earliest memories bear this out, and that either makes me the most insane, eternal optimist, or simply a fool, because I always hope it will change.
I change.
I am constantly re-thinking, trying to make sense out of senseless things, trying to find the light, or the lesson in the dark, but it doesn’t always happen. I tell myself the lesson is there, I just haven’t gotten far enough along to recognize it. I sure hope this is true.
I have even learned to forgive. That was the most difficult lesson of all, but probably the most useful. Not forgiving is just slow suicide, a long miserable way to continue suffering, and who needs that?
Anyway, everyone has a bad day now and then. Most people don’t write about them and I probably shouldn’t either, but the truth is -- these are my thots.
How Do You Like Them Apples?
How often do I write something that appears pertinent to someone else? More often than you might believe. This world is so interwoven and connected. We are so much more alike than different. Most of us want the same basic things, need the same basic things.
We just go about it differently. We are all active in the way that best defines who we are. Some are takers, others givers. Some are doers, others dreamers. Some are self centered, others world centered, but we are all something and in a sort of convoluted way, we compliment each other and keep the world where it is.
This is the real crux. The balance point is not just one tiny cross hair on this huge plane we live on. There is a lot of leeway, depending on what is expected, or wanted.
Is it status quo? Am I content to keep things the way they have always been? Is it okay to go along using things because I want to? Pretending ignorance of the past is hardly possible anymore. The world is much smaller than it used to be. Now I know that jungles can become vast deserts and oceans, huge places filled with inedible fish.
Do I want to change things now? Impatience is a boon for the inquisitive and creators. They leap from idea to idea, invention to invention and we have vaccines, more environmentally friendly products and innovative educational tools. Impatience is also here for the users and it is not such a good thing then. Unable to forego the pleasure of today for the security of tomorrow, they gobble up resources faster than it is possible to replace them, making way for the austere non-users to keep things balanced. Balance is here, but where the fulcrum goes is not always clear.
I write about apples and you think it is you I am talking about, because you are making apple salad, or remembering the witch in Snow White with her poison apples, or writing a book about Johnny Appleseed, or just “like them apples.”
Interesting, isn't it?
We just go about it differently. We are all active in the way that best defines who we are. Some are takers, others givers. Some are doers, others dreamers. Some are self centered, others world centered, but we are all something and in a sort of convoluted way, we compliment each other and keep the world where it is.
This is the real crux. The balance point is not just one tiny cross hair on this huge plane we live on. There is a lot of leeway, depending on what is expected, or wanted.
Is it status quo? Am I content to keep things the way they have always been? Is it okay to go along using things because I want to? Pretending ignorance of the past is hardly possible anymore. The world is much smaller than it used to be. Now I know that jungles can become vast deserts and oceans, huge places filled with inedible fish.
Do I want to change things now? Impatience is a boon for the inquisitive and creators. They leap from idea to idea, invention to invention and we have vaccines, more environmentally friendly products and innovative educational tools. Impatience is also here for the users and it is not such a good thing then. Unable to forego the pleasure of today for the security of tomorrow, they gobble up resources faster than it is possible to replace them, making way for the austere non-users to keep things balanced. Balance is here, but where the fulcrum goes is not always clear.
I write about apples and you think it is you I am talking about, because you are making apple salad, or remembering the witch in Snow White with her poison apples, or writing a book about Johnny Appleseed, or just “like them apples.”
Interesting, isn't it?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Time To Steep
I am coming down from a company high.
Spend a week cleaning and cooking, a few days running at full tilt entertaining and suddenly it is all over. Now everything is on hold for one reason, or another and I am caught in between. It is hot and humid out, so I stay in my cool little cave of a house where I don't even need air conditioning, but where I yearn for adventures.
I can't seem to jump start my imagination today, so I am forced to do the mundane in mundane ways. This is not my style. I want my little house to rise up off the mountain and carry me away like a fire breathing dragon with copper scales and beautiful emerald eyes.
I want to feel the wind in my hair as we rush through the clouds on giant leathery wings and swoop down to rescue the fair prince from his evil step mother. Just before she consigns him to the dungeons to be tortured and locked up, we snag him with my dragon's trusty back claws and carry him off to my secret place high on a mountain top far, far away.
There I nurse him back to health and we discover ........... well, if my imagination were intact, I would know what we discover, but alas, I do not.
Boil the water, revel in the bubbles, rise up with the steam, and then it is time for this tea to steep. Without the steeping, the tea is not worth drinking, I know that. I do not particularly like it, but there is no inspiration here for me today, so I have no choice.
Breathe Grasshopper. Breathe.
Spend a week cleaning and cooking, a few days running at full tilt entertaining and suddenly it is all over. Now everything is on hold for one reason, or another and I am caught in between. It is hot and humid out, so I stay in my cool little cave of a house where I don't even need air conditioning, but where I yearn for adventures.
I can't seem to jump start my imagination today, so I am forced to do the mundane in mundane ways. This is not my style. I want my little house to rise up off the mountain and carry me away like a fire breathing dragon with copper scales and beautiful emerald eyes.
I want to feel the wind in my hair as we rush through the clouds on giant leathery wings and swoop down to rescue the fair prince from his evil step mother. Just before she consigns him to the dungeons to be tortured and locked up, we snag him with my dragon's trusty back claws and carry him off to my secret place high on a mountain top far, far away.
There I nurse him back to health and we discover ........... well, if my imagination were intact, I would know what we discover, but alas, I do not.
Boil the water, revel in the bubbles, rise up with the steam, and then it is time for this tea to steep. Without the steeping, the tea is not worth drinking, I know that. I do not particularly like it, but there is no inspiration here for me today, so I have no choice.
Breathe Grasshopper. Breathe.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Alpha Males
Alpha males, unique creatures whose definitions are different depending on who is using it. I am thinking of those men who have attractive, looming physiques and personalities. The kind of guy no one can ignore.
They stand out wherever they go, are generally natural leaders and very dominant people.
They can also be pretty demanding, sometimes loud, used to getting their own way and rather intolerant of people who get in their way, which is not to say they are mean, or cruel.
They are never shy and retiring unless they decide consciously to be that way. In fact, they are most likely to be the one running any show they are at, whether it is theirs, or not. It is just not in their make up to be anything except what they are.
I think alpha males have to be born. I don't think you can manufacture one no matter how hard you might try. They seem to have an innate sense of who they are built right in and it is unalterable, no matter what happens in their lives.
Being comfortable around one requires a certain kind of woman. First and foremost she must understand who he is and then she must be able to support him while remaining very strong herself. Not necessarily an easy thing to do, because he will have no part of someone who does not respect him and yet his respect requires strength of character.
Brilliant, strong, funny, dominant -- alpha males...
They stand out wherever they go, are generally natural leaders and very dominant people.
They can also be pretty demanding, sometimes loud, used to getting their own way and rather intolerant of people who get in their way, which is not to say they are mean, or cruel.
They are never shy and retiring unless they decide consciously to be that way. In fact, they are most likely to be the one running any show they are at, whether it is theirs, or not. It is just not in their make up to be anything except what they are.
I think alpha males have to be born. I don't think you can manufacture one no matter how hard you might try. They seem to have an innate sense of who they are built right in and it is unalterable, no matter what happens in their lives.
Being comfortable around one requires a certain kind of woman. First and foremost she must understand who he is and then she must be able to support him while remaining very strong herself. Not necessarily an easy thing to do, because he will have no part of someone who does not respect him and yet his respect requires strength of character.
Brilliant, strong, funny, dominant -- alpha males...
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Among Red Cedars
Walk along the earth on paths that have felt the feet of man for thousands of years. Stand in the spray of water that has traveled the world over and watch it tumble down boulders in a display so wild and wonderful that your heart ceases to beat in the ordinary way and tunes itself to the roar of the waterfall.
Feel the sun burn down upon your face and the wind brush tears of joy from your eyes and you have been with me for the past few days.
Picnic in the clouds among red cedars and the scent of damp red earth. Listen to the laughter of people from all over the world as they pass in groups of families and friends, here to be joined together in a world that has no agenda except to be, as fully as it can.
Nature in all its glory and all its extremes -- what more can there be in life than this? Perhaps love? Love that comes in all shapes and sizes, all ages and sexes. Mothers carrying babies in packs upon their backs. Elderly walking along with canes planted firmly on the ground. Children and teenagers, people in wheel chairs and people carrying seventy pound packs. They are all here, a tiny sample of all that is the best in this world and for a few short days I was part of it once more and I remembered why I love this world, these people, this life!
Last night we built a campfire in the back yard and gathered round to roast marshmallows and savor the joy of each other. Today everyone went back to their old lives, but they left this sacred space, this beautiful time, this succession of perfect moments with a sense of what living is really about.
Feel the sun burn down upon your face and the wind brush tears of joy from your eyes and you have been with me for the past few days.
Picnic in the clouds among red cedars and the scent of damp red earth. Listen to the laughter of people from all over the world as they pass in groups of families and friends, here to be joined together in a world that has no agenda except to be, as fully as it can.
Nature in all its glory and all its extremes -- what more can there be in life than this? Perhaps love? Love that comes in all shapes and sizes, all ages and sexes. Mothers carrying babies in packs upon their backs. Elderly walking along with canes planted firmly on the ground. Children and teenagers, people in wheel chairs and people carrying seventy pound packs. They are all here, a tiny sample of all that is the best in this world and for a few short days I was part of it once more and I remembered why I love this world, these people, this life!
Last night we built a campfire in the back yard and gathered round to roast marshmallows and savor the joy of each other. Today everyone went back to their old lives, but they left this sacred space, this beautiful time, this succession of perfect moments with a sense of what living is really about.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
The Funnel
Girls do not sit under apple trees alone. They bring with them all the people and thoughts that touch their lives in any significant way. Behind this girl, in the shadows of a gnarly old tree, are an amazing array of people.
Each one has many stories to tell, many powers to share, many foibles to overlook. They are lessons in triplicate with subtitles and hidden messages everywhere.
One by one they funnel through her, becoming the stories they are, and one by one she is awed by the reverence she feels for their creators.
It is not the bags of gold they carry on their backs that makes them special, it is the loaf after loaf of bread they buy to give to the hungry, the bottles of medicine bought one at a time to cure the sick, the endless times they reach out to pull the failing back from the edge.
The girl knows first hand how it feels to be on both sides. It is how she became the funnel.
Each one has many stories to tell, many powers to share, many foibles to overlook. They are lessons in triplicate with subtitles and hidden messages everywhere.
One by one they funnel through her, becoming the stories they are, and one by one she is awed by the reverence she feels for their creators.
It is not the bags of gold they carry on their backs that makes them special, it is the loaf after loaf of bread they buy to give to the hungry, the bottles of medicine bought one at a time to cure the sick, the endless times they reach out to pull the failing back from the edge.
The girl knows first hand how it feels to be on both sides. It is how she became the funnel.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Under The Apple Tree
Girls and apple trees are simple things, or so they seem. Yet it is never wise to under estimate the obvious. Not all things are what they seem and stories since the beginning of time will bear this out.
Whole worlds have been changed and new mythologies written by simple people in plain places doing small things. John Chapman turned apple seeds into real estate and food and dreams. William Blake turned letters into words and wisdom and poetry for the ages. A girl dreaming under an apple tree can do more things than you might imagine.
Whole worlds have been changed and new mythologies written by simple people in plain places doing small things. John Chapman turned apple seeds into real estate and food and dreams. William Blake turned letters into words and wisdom and poetry for the ages. A girl dreaming under an apple tree can do more things than you might imagine.
Between The Unthinkable and The Unbearable
A girl in the shade of an ancient apple tree, a tree with more branches than leaves, but whose life force is still tenacious and strong, stares at the computer in her lap.
Thoughts of men doing seemingly random acts of kindness fill her mind, along with scenes of ruthless and calculated violence. It is a world balanced between the brightest light and darkest night, a world that always teeters on the edge of its own destruction.
What keeps this world, supposedly created with an addendum of free will, from disintegrating and tearing itself apart?
Is there a safety valve somewhere? A clause that says the creator can step in at the last moment and send all the miscreants to separate corners to rethink their actions? Or is it simply a free for all, with the best man, or strongest man, or perhaps only the most tenacious one, coming out ahead?
Of course the world would actually continue on. It is the men themselves who will cease to be, or maybe not. Maybe there are a few among them with the power to change things in subtle yet effective ways.
Men who appear along the edges of war zones, and ghettos and dens of iniquity where “good” men do not want to be seen. Men not afraid to put themselves between the unthinkable and the unbearable. Men who alter the forces of darkness with simple goodness un-noticed and un-lauded for all eternity.
Thoughts of men doing seemingly random acts of kindness fill her mind, along with scenes of ruthless and calculated violence. It is a world balanced between the brightest light and darkest night, a world that always teeters on the edge of its own destruction.
What keeps this world, supposedly created with an addendum of free will, from disintegrating and tearing itself apart?
Is there a safety valve somewhere? A clause that says the creator can step in at the last moment and send all the miscreants to separate corners to rethink their actions? Or is it simply a free for all, with the best man, or strongest man, or perhaps only the most tenacious one, coming out ahead?
Of course the world would actually continue on. It is the men themselves who will cease to be, or maybe not. Maybe there are a few among them with the power to change things in subtle yet effective ways.
Men who appear along the edges of war zones, and ghettos and dens of iniquity where “good” men do not want to be seen. Men not afraid to put themselves between the unthinkable and the unbearable. Men who alter the forces of darkness with simple goodness un-noticed and un-lauded for all eternity.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Godly Atheist
Once upon a time a girl sat down to write a book about romance and love and all those things girls seem to write about on long afternoons. She picked up her pen and chewed on the end of it, then tossed it aside and grabbed her laptop. There in the bony shade of a two hundred year old apple tree, she watched in wonder as her fingers began to type and a story appeared before her.
Sobbing filled her ears as a child wailed in the hands of his mother's lover and darkness hovered nearby, broken only by the child's smiles. He grew up, a brilliant light in a dark garden and began to attract the most unusual adventures. He and his best friend climbed mountains and met bears, they nearly drove off a mountain when their brakes failed and in between it all he fell in love.
In his innocence and youthful exuberance he raced off into the world to seek his fortune, leaving the girl behind and getting himself kidnapped by mysterious men in the rain forests of Peru. Questioned and tortured in ways you cannot imagine, he survived because his life had never been easy and he was strong. It was only when they began to hurt his friend that he faltered and even then he could not tell them what they wanted to know, because he did not know it either.
He might have died there, but strange little men, who looked like jaguars, emerged from the jungle and carried the two boys away. Far away, to the top of a mesa, to a place so peaceful it was called the Sanctuary and there he met his destiny. A man called the Conductor, and -- and here the girl paused in surprise.
The people in this story were all playing the wrong parts! The most common place people were doing mysterious things and the most mysterious of all was the atheist, who might have been god! She held her breath to see what would happen next.
The boy left the Sanctuary and there followed births and deaths, comings and goings and nothing was ever as it seemed -- until the end, when the little boy from the dark garden returned to the Sanctuary, taking his place at last.
Smiling, the girl closed her laptop and sat back, dreaming of jaguar men and godly mortals and a beautiful golden haired man sitting quietly in the space between his breaths on the top of a Peruvian Mesa.
Sobbing filled her ears as a child wailed in the hands of his mother's lover and darkness hovered nearby, broken only by the child's smiles. He grew up, a brilliant light in a dark garden and began to attract the most unusual adventures. He and his best friend climbed mountains and met bears, they nearly drove off a mountain when their brakes failed and in between it all he fell in love.
In his innocence and youthful exuberance he raced off into the world to seek his fortune, leaving the girl behind and getting himself kidnapped by mysterious men in the rain forests of Peru. Questioned and tortured in ways you cannot imagine, he survived because his life had never been easy and he was strong. It was only when they began to hurt his friend that he faltered and even then he could not tell them what they wanted to know, because he did not know it either.
He might have died there, but strange little men, who looked like jaguars, emerged from the jungle and carried the two boys away. Far away, to the top of a mesa, to a place so peaceful it was called the Sanctuary and there he met his destiny. A man called the Conductor, and -- and here the girl paused in surprise.
The people in this story were all playing the wrong parts! The most common place people were doing mysterious things and the most mysterious of all was the atheist, who might have been god! She held her breath to see what would happen next.
The boy left the Sanctuary and there followed births and deaths, comings and goings and nothing was ever as it seemed -- until the end, when the little boy from the dark garden returned to the Sanctuary, taking his place at last.
Smiling, the girl closed her laptop and sat back, dreaming of jaguar men and godly mortals and a beautiful golden haired man sitting quietly in the space between his breaths on the top of a Peruvian Mesa.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Honeysuckle
I lie on my big pewter bed, wrapped in the scent of honeysuckle. It drifts in through the open window, winds slowly in from the living room windows and gives my world a sort of fairytale quality. I can't believe I didn't notice it last year, it is so sweet. Perhaps that is because I slept in the big back bedroom until recently.
Now I have made the music room my bedroom, it is almost magical.
The greenery growing up over one window makes a tracery of delicate leaves and vines that allows the sun to filter in through a muted misty haze. The other window's semi-sheer curtains give me tiny glimpses of the brightly colored birds who like to sit on my fence and dart across the yard.
The sun comes up on this side of the house and the rain always patters against these windows. I feel connected to all the earth here.
Now I have made the music room my bedroom, it is almost magical.
The greenery growing up over one window makes a tracery of delicate leaves and vines that allows the sun to filter in through a muted misty haze. The other window's semi-sheer curtains give me tiny glimpses of the brightly colored birds who like to sit on my fence and dart across the yard.
The sun comes up on this side of the house and the rain always patters against these windows. I feel connected to all the earth here.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Why Would You Be Any Different?
Sometimes I am reluctant to write to people I admire very much, afraid that I will appear maudlin, or foolish, or long winded. When that happens I write long letters and quickly discard them before the urge to send overwhelms me.
Other times, I wonder if that is wise, or fair. What makes me think these people do not care what I really think, or feel?
Experience.
How many times have I allowed someone to share something flip, or sarcastic with me about someone else, without correcting them? They tell me, thinking they will impress me with their sophistication, or intelligence, or knowledge; and I, by allowing this, encourage them to believe it is true. It is my own fear of not appearing all those things that is the problem. What if I called them on it, kindly, but firmly? Would I, too, be ostracized, ridiculed and critiqued?
Do I need to belong to those elite groups, where truth is less important than being cool?
Walking hand and hand with truth can be hard, but it is the only way to walk with my head up and my self respect intact. Why should I think the people I admire are any different?
Other times, I wonder if that is wise, or fair. What makes me think these people do not care what I really think, or feel?
Experience.
How many times have I allowed someone to share something flip, or sarcastic with me about someone else, without correcting them? They tell me, thinking they will impress me with their sophistication, or intelligence, or knowledge; and I, by allowing this, encourage them to believe it is true. It is my own fear of not appearing all those things that is the problem. What if I called them on it, kindly, but firmly? Would I, too, be ostracized, ridiculed and critiqued?
Do I need to belong to those elite groups, where truth is less important than being cool?
Walking hand and hand with truth can be hard, but it is the only way to walk with my head up and my self respect intact. Why should I think the people I admire are any different?
He Could Not Read Her Books
My grandmother used to tell me a story about a city mouse visiting the country. It was one of the few stories she ever told and she never told it quite the same way twice. I wonder how she would tell it now?
I think that little city mouse finally did move to the country and once she settled in, discovered that it was a pretty good place to live. The rain dripped off the trees and filled up the wild flowers so that there was always lots of water to drink. The farmer’s wife made all sorts of yummy cheeses to nibble on and the barn was always filled with lots of animals to share her stories with.
The little city mouse even fell in love with a beautiful golden fish that lived in the farmer’s pond. His scales, how they sparkled! His tail was so graceful! His eyes were bright and so beautiful that she could barely take her eyes off of him. He had a very handsome companion who always swam with him. His world seemed perfect.
When she was sad, he would perform the most outrageous antics and make her laugh until her sides ached with joy. When she was bored, he would stir the waters and entertain her for hours on end with his reflections. He was one of the most wonderful creatures she had ever seen, always giving, always caring, always so good and kind and sweet.
But alas, she could do nothing for him. He could barely hear her words through the water’s edge and he could not read her books at all. She could smile and cheer him on, but that was all and it did not seem like enough. Sometimes this made her sad.
And then one cloudy day, she could not find him. She ran around the pond seven times and no matter where she looked, neither he, nor his companion appeared at all. The little mouse kept writing stories about him, but it wasn’t the same, because even though the little golden fish had not read her books, he had cared that they existed and the mouse discovered that this was almost as important to her as having him read them. She was so sorry that she had wasted a moment feeling sorry for herself and decided that if she had the chance to do it all again, she would not waste a minute of her time doing anything but enjoying their friendship.
When the sun came out and she glimpsed his swishy little tail in among the cat tails, mooning her and making her laugh, she discovered her world was perfect too.
I think that little city mouse finally did move to the country and once she settled in, discovered that it was a pretty good place to live. The rain dripped off the trees and filled up the wild flowers so that there was always lots of water to drink. The farmer’s wife made all sorts of yummy cheeses to nibble on and the barn was always filled with lots of animals to share her stories with.
The little city mouse even fell in love with a beautiful golden fish that lived in the farmer’s pond. His scales, how they sparkled! His tail was so graceful! His eyes were bright and so beautiful that she could barely take her eyes off of him. He had a very handsome companion who always swam with him. His world seemed perfect.
When she was sad, he would perform the most outrageous antics and make her laugh until her sides ached with joy. When she was bored, he would stir the waters and entertain her for hours on end with his reflections. He was one of the most wonderful creatures she had ever seen, always giving, always caring, always so good and kind and sweet.
But alas, she could do nothing for him. He could barely hear her words through the water’s edge and he could not read her books at all. She could smile and cheer him on, but that was all and it did not seem like enough. Sometimes this made her sad.
And then one cloudy day, she could not find him. She ran around the pond seven times and no matter where she looked, neither he, nor his companion appeared at all. The little mouse kept writing stories about him, but it wasn’t the same, because even though the little golden fish had not read her books, he had cared that they existed and the mouse discovered that this was almost as important to her as having him read them. She was so sorry that she had wasted a moment feeling sorry for herself and decided that if she had the chance to do it all again, she would not waste a minute of her time doing anything but enjoying their friendship.
When the sun came out and she glimpsed his swishy little tail in among the cat tails, mooning her and making her laugh, she discovered her world was perfect too.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)