Lovers are the most beautiful people in the world.
I mean all Lovers. Those magnificent beings whose spirits reach out and touch everyone around them, because they can’t help it. I know many and each one is uniquely perfect in my opinion.
They are the embodiment of everything I hold close to my heart, that world I wish I could bring into fruition for everyone all the time. A perfect world, I suppose.
Now imagine young lovers, so innocent and sweet that their love is still able to come into actual being. The blessed ones who turn their love into another human being and spend the rest of their lives making his world as good as they can possibly make it!
We are doubly blessed if they touch our lives and bound by Love to do everything we can to help them out.
This night is different from all other nights, from last evening’s dusk until tomorrow morning’s full sunrise you have the opportunity to add your thoughts, or love, or prayers, or whatever you have that is special and sweet and good in you to the universe. And feel free to continue on long after that!
Welcoming a new little being and saying, "You are most certainly loved."
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Façades
I am trying to age gracefully, but it sure isn’t easy. It would be so much easier to just retreat into my little house and write myself into oblivion. Here, I am the same woman I’ve always been, except that no one has to see the extra weight and the extra lines that seem to come no matter what I do.
Of course that is only vanity, or should I say, that is vanity!
Vanity, that terrible ogre who builds fences around me to keep out both the sight seers and my own fears of growing not just older, but less lovable as gravity claims this body.
It’s not that I am so terrible looking. People who never knew me “when” don’t drop dead from shock, or fright when they see me and my family still seems to look past this unfashionable façade I now wear, with loving eyes and kind words.
Only I seem to be having trouble with it. I am ashamed of this body. I am not ashamed of this soul, nor this intellect, nor this personality. In fact, I think she is growing finer and more interesting as she ages. Not that she is perfect in any way, just kinder, wiser, more loving.
Perhaps this is one of the last big hurdles. Learning to accept myself exactly the way I am and learning to stop caring what other people might think about that.
Of course that is only vanity, or should I say, that is vanity!
Vanity, that terrible ogre who builds fences around me to keep out both the sight seers and my own fears of growing not just older, but less lovable as gravity claims this body.
It’s not that I am so terrible looking. People who never knew me “when” don’t drop dead from shock, or fright when they see me and my family still seems to look past this unfashionable façade I now wear, with loving eyes and kind words.
Only I seem to be having trouble with it. I am ashamed of this body. I am not ashamed of this soul, nor this intellect, nor this personality. In fact, I think she is growing finer and more interesting as she ages. Not that she is perfect in any way, just kinder, wiser, more loving.
Perhaps this is one of the last big hurdles. Learning to accept myself exactly the way I am and learning to stop caring what other people might think about that.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Home
Home is where I live, the place where I define myself, the place where I am most likely to be just me.
If I am tired, I want to go home. If I am afraid, I run for home. It is where I am loved and safe, my fortress, my haven from everything else in the world.
Walking in and discovering that the sanctity of my home has been violated by a hostile creature, someone who has ransacked it, or gone through my personal possessions, or taken away pieces of me, is shattering.
If I am not safe in my own home, where can I be safe? If I cannot leave loved ones, or cherished articles in my home and know they will be safe, is anywhere safe?
A burglary leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. There is no place that is safe, no place to let my guard down, or rest, anymore. In a sense, I am homeless for a while, at least until the bruises and scars fade from my mind.
The only thing worse is thinking that the one who did this to me is someone I love, or know, or once allowed into my life. Innocently trusting and perhaps caring for them makes me twice as vulnerable.
Until you live through what the world calls a simple break in, you have no idea how much goes out the door with that burglar…
Even if they got away with nothing.
If I am tired, I want to go home. If I am afraid, I run for home. It is where I am loved and safe, my fortress, my haven from everything else in the world.
Walking in and discovering that the sanctity of my home has been violated by a hostile creature, someone who has ransacked it, or gone through my personal possessions, or taken away pieces of me, is shattering.
If I am not safe in my own home, where can I be safe? If I cannot leave loved ones, or cherished articles in my home and know they will be safe, is anywhere safe?
A burglary leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. There is no place that is safe, no place to let my guard down, or rest, anymore. In a sense, I am homeless for a while, at least until the bruises and scars fade from my mind.
The only thing worse is thinking that the one who did this to me is someone I love, or know, or once allowed into my life. Innocently trusting and perhaps caring for them makes me twice as vulnerable.
Until you live through what the world calls a simple break in, you have no idea how much goes out the door with that burglar…
Even if they got away with nothing.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Afternoon At Three
I spent the afternoon with Lennon and he spent most of it trying to talk me into going camping with them this weekend. Of course his parents and I have already decided that I am watching the dogs and they are going camping and kayaking with Uncle Alex. No amount of debate is going to change that, but his heart is in the right place.
He told me his dogs are “very brave, they will be just fine at home all alone.” He also wanted me to know they would put hot dogs on a stick and marshmallows too. “When you put marshmallows on a stick they are roasting and toasted.”
I asked what they do on camp outs and he said they eat and they sleep in tents and he would sleep with Mommy and Daddy so I could come too. “You need something comfy for your body in the tent, so Mommy will bring you a soft blanket.” They don’t walk much and they don’t drink anything, they just eat and sleep and he is certain that I would like it!
Then he went and blew all that hard work buttering me up when we played superheroes and I had to be the Old Bat Girl because “she doesn’t run as fast and she ate too much junk food,” (which means she got fat!) Mommy is the young Bat Girl, of course.
After that we played equal to and plus, which just means I write down addition problems and he tells me the answer to write down. For some reason he loves this and at the end he writes his own name across the side of the paper. It is, after all, a very long name. Sometimes we play, “minus-ing!”
In between it all we went to the bathroom a couple of times and that is a very precise process when you are three. His tiny boxer briefs got caught up in his long shorts every time and we had a long discussion about why that might be. He takes these things very seriously.
Perspective from the shorter set -- not such a bad thing.
He told me his dogs are “very brave, they will be just fine at home all alone.” He also wanted me to know they would put hot dogs on a stick and marshmallows too. “When you put marshmallows on a stick they are roasting and toasted.”
I asked what they do on camp outs and he said they eat and they sleep in tents and he would sleep with Mommy and Daddy so I could come too. “You need something comfy for your body in the tent, so Mommy will bring you a soft blanket.” They don’t walk much and they don’t drink anything, they just eat and sleep and he is certain that I would like it!
Then he went and blew all that hard work buttering me up when we played superheroes and I had to be the Old Bat Girl because “she doesn’t run as fast and she ate too much junk food,” (which means she got fat!) Mommy is the young Bat Girl, of course.
After that we played equal to and plus, which just means I write down addition problems and he tells me the answer to write down. For some reason he loves this and at the end he writes his own name across the side of the paper. It is, after all, a very long name. Sometimes we play, “minus-ing!”
In between it all we went to the bathroom a couple of times and that is a very precise process when you are three. His tiny boxer briefs got caught up in his long shorts every time and we had a long discussion about why that might be. He takes these things very seriously.
Perspective from the shorter set -- not such a bad thing.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Love
Writing about Latif Bolat reminded me of Rumi, a thirteenth century Sufi poet, a man whose poetry, translated by Coleman Barks, speaks to my heart like it was written especially for me today.
It is the way I feel love, an ecstatic all encompassing passion that wraps around every strand of me like soulful DNA, so inextricably intertwined that no part of my life escapes the experience.
I see in you a beautiful rose lying in the sun ready to be plucked in every moment. I must fall into you, inhale the heady scent of your being from the inside out. I need to caress your silken petals and run my fingers through the lushness of you.
My Friend, your face flies before me, leading me, calling to me, hidden only by my own limitations. Every part of you is a channel into my own heart. The goodness of you sends me into reveries of delight. What other people might consider flaws become so endearing to me that I cannot imagine you without them.
I hold you up to the light and love shines through me. I see my reflection in your face and in the shadows on the wall and I am consumed.
Someone slams a door in your face and tears roll down my cheeks. Someone holds you close and tears pour from my eyes. Your pain and your joy are mine.
I am you and you are love.
It is the way I feel love, an ecstatic all encompassing passion that wraps around every strand of me like soulful DNA, so inextricably intertwined that no part of my life escapes the experience.
I see in you a beautiful rose lying in the sun ready to be plucked in every moment. I must fall into you, inhale the heady scent of your being from the inside out. I need to caress your silken petals and run my fingers through the lushness of you.
My Friend, your face flies before me, leading me, calling to me, hidden only by my own limitations. Every part of you is a channel into my own heart. The goodness of you sends me into reveries of delight. What other people might consider flaws become so endearing to me that I cannot imagine you without them.
I hold you up to the light and love shines through me. I see my reflection in your face and in the shadows on the wall and I am consumed.
Someone slams a door in your face and tears roll down my cheeks. Someone holds you close and tears pour from my eyes. Your pain and your joy are mine.
I am you and you are love.
Old Dreams
All my life, I have dreamed of being lost in a city at night, walking along unfamiliar streets, through unfamiliar territory with the possibility of dogs, or wolves lurking in the alleys between me and home.
A couple of years ago, I was in Berkley, California going to a Latif Bolat concert. I got off the BART and onto the wrong bus, ending up in the wrong part of town, finding myself surrounded by people who wouldn’t speak to me, not even the bus driver. Eventually the bus driver did answer my question and point to another bus heading the other way and I arrived at the concert a little late, but none the worse for wear. After the concert I had to walk back through a dark park alone and catch a bus on a lonely street corner very late at night. I must have missed the prior bus by just a few minutes, because it was a very long wait and I began to fear that the buses had stopped running and my nightmares were about to come true. Totally unfounded fear. I stopped having the dreams after that. For a while.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. The knowledge I picked up as a very young child that things can turn on a dime is buried deeply within my unconscious. I dealt with it by focusing on giving my children as secure a life as possible until they grew up. Now I combat it by looking at life as an adventure, but the old fears are still here, dreaming that people will disappear out of my life for unknown reasons, or that dogs are still waiting to chase me on my way to piano lessons. Old experiences and dreams die hard.
And so do old ways of dealing with these fears. My first reaction is always to run, to leave first before the hard part comes, but I know this now, so I try to avoid that. Life changes, no amount of running away can change that. The constancy must come from me.
A couple of years ago, I was in Berkley, California going to a Latif Bolat concert. I got off the BART and onto the wrong bus, ending up in the wrong part of town, finding myself surrounded by people who wouldn’t speak to me, not even the bus driver. Eventually the bus driver did answer my question and point to another bus heading the other way and I arrived at the concert a little late, but none the worse for wear. After the concert I had to walk back through a dark park alone and catch a bus on a lonely street corner very late at night. I must have missed the prior bus by just a few minutes, because it was a very long wait and I began to fear that the buses had stopped running and my nightmares were about to come true. Totally unfounded fear. I stopped having the dreams after that. For a while.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of change. The knowledge I picked up as a very young child that things can turn on a dime is buried deeply within my unconscious. I dealt with it by focusing on giving my children as secure a life as possible until they grew up. Now I combat it by looking at life as an adventure, but the old fears are still here, dreaming that people will disappear out of my life for unknown reasons, or that dogs are still waiting to chase me on my way to piano lessons. Old experiences and dreams die hard.
And so do old ways of dealing with these fears. My first reaction is always to run, to leave first before the hard part comes, but I know this now, so I try to avoid that. Life changes, no amount of running away can change that. The constancy must come from me.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
He Walks With Me
The long awaited night finally arrived and this evening Dan arrived at my house with all his equipment. I finished up the dinner while he set up microphones and ran wires around my living room.
What a fascinating man he is and what a mystery! He just came from cutting and baling hay on the farm he shares with his parents and sister when he is in town. They use it for the cattle they still keep. His other home is right on the lake in Chicago, the exact opposite of this bucolic place here in the mountains. He answers my questions, always in a back handed way that leaves me feeling satisfied, but does not really answer much at all.
Who is this man who travels all over the world with a knife on one hip, a weapon on the other and religious material from all cultures in his backpack? I know what he’s been, a journalist for a major New York newspaper, a peacekeeper, a man who lays the dead to rest in any language, or religion. A man who has baptized people in moccasin infested ponds in between the moving feet of a choir whose job is to keep the snakes way and he buys his green tea when he’s in Asia. A man who walks as easily with dignitaries as he does with me.
Tonight he recorded the stories of my life. Soon we will go to his home and finish this project among his Victorian gardens and cows munching home grown hay.
What a great life I have!
What a fascinating man he is and what a mystery! He just came from cutting and baling hay on the farm he shares with his parents and sister when he is in town. They use it for the cattle they still keep. His other home is right on the lake in Chicago, the exact opposite of this bucolic place here in the mountains. He answers my questions, always in a back handed way that leaves me feeling satisfied, but does not really answer much at all.
Who is this man who travels all over the world with a knife on one hip, a weapon on the other and religious material from all cultures in his backpack? I know what he’s been, a journalist for a major New York newspaper, a peacekeeper, a man who lays the dead to rest in any language, or religion. A man who has baptized people in moccasin infested ponds in between the moving feet of a choir whose job is to keep the snakes way and he buys his green tea when he’s in Asia. A man who walks as easily with dignitaries as he does with me.
Tonight he recorded the stories of my life. Soon we will go to his home and finish this project among his Victorian gardens and cows munching home grown hay.
What a great life I have!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Once upon a time
Walking towards Pier 39 in San Francisco I see a young man who I happen to know and whose entire body is painted gold. He is very handsome and well built. He is also very sweet and kind and good hearted. I know the paint causes him a fair amount of discomfort. I also know he is paid a great deal to wear it and perform and he desperately needs the money.
Because I know him and care very much about him, I never miss a chance to see his show, even knowing the discomfort it causes. I do make sure he gets a little extra when I can, just because I know he needs this money.
It appears we all come out ahead, but I am also conflicted.
Am I enjoying his suffering? Do I encourage him to continue suffering by paying to see him like this? What kind of person am I who can care for and love this person and still do this?
I honestly don’t know. He knows I watch. He is the one who told me about his show and I cannot even come close to giving him the kind of money he makes doing it. The man he works for is very kind, but he pays him for doing the job and unless he does it, he does not get the money.
I know as long as he does the show, I will watch. I also know that watching him still gives me great pleasure in spite of anything else. Whatever this makes me -- I am.
Because I know him and care very much about him, I never miss a chance to see his show, even knowing the discomfort it causes. I do make sure he gets a little extra when I can, just because I know he needs this money.
It appears we all come out ahead, but I am also conflicted.
Am I enjoying his suffering? Do I encourage him to continue suffering by paying to see him like this? What kind of person am I who can care for and love this person and still do this?
I honestly don’t know. He knows I watch. He is the one who told me about his show and I cannot even come close to giving him the kind of money he makes doing it. The man he works for is very kind, but he pays him for doing the job and unless he does it, he does not get the money.
I know as long as he does the show, I will watch. I also know that watching him still gives me great pleasure in spite of anything else. Whatever this makes me -- I am.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Family
I told some friends I would write My Thots about my grandmother today, the one who used to stand behind me and sing the old hymns while I played piano.
She and I were almost exactly fifty years apart in age. Grandma grew up the youngest of eight children sixteen years apart, rode a pony to school and had the dubious honor of the first divorce in Christian County. It seems her dashing young husband made a habit of coming home drunk on pay day with no money left in his pockets. She might have lived with that, but when he took off his clothes and lay out in the front yard, he tipped the scales in the wrong direction. Evidently he wasn’t that good looking!
After the divorce she tucked her hair up under a cap and drove a milk truck to care for her infant son until she married my grandfather, who was ten years older.
Grandma was widowed the year I was born and left with two more sons to raise. She put them through university, turned our old family home into a very successful nursing home with a waiting list that often exceeded forty people, watched the first man walk on the moon, sang at weddings and funerals in a sweet clear soprano voice, went to the same Sunday School class for nearly sixty years and always seemed to think she was the most adorable woman in the room.
I alternately worshipped the ground she walked on and hated her. She was a perfectionist with little patience for anything less than that from anyone else, but she loved me. I knew that. Everyone seemed to love her too, her town actually had a Ruth Smith Day to celebrate her.
I grew up with a house full of “grandmothers” to tell me stories, nurses aides who regaled me with tales about the grittier side of life, and nurses who took me under their wing when I needed a grown-up friend outside the family. Grandma took a personal interest in everyone of her “guests” and everyone of her employees. I can remember running to the hospital with her to visit them, or going to their apartments to take them food, or sometimes riding with her to pick them up for work.
Grandma was not the romantic I am, but she cared very much in her own solid way. In the course of her ninety six years she provided the lifeline that kept many people afloat when they might not have made it otherwise. As a child, I saw them all as part of our family.
Family to me is still all those people I love and want to care for, probably due to Grandma.
She and I were almost exactly fifty years apart in age. Grandma grew up the youngest of eight children sixteen years apart, rode a pony to school and had the dubious honor of the first divorce in Christian County. It seems her dashing young husband made a habit of coming home drunk on pay day with no money left in his pockets. She might have lived with that, but when he took off his clothes and lay out in the front yard, he tipped the scales in the wrong direction. Evidently he wasn’t that good looking!
After the divorce she tucked her hair up under a cap and drove a milk truck to care for her infant son until she married my grandfather, who was ten years older.
Grandma was widowed the year I was born and left with two more sons to raise. She put them through university, turned our old family home into a very successful nursing home with a waiting list that often exceeded forty people, watched the first man walk on the moon, sang at weddings and funerals in a sweet clear soprano voice, went to the same Sunday School class for nearly sixty years and always seemed to think she was the most adorable woman in the room.
I alternately worshipped the ground she walked on and hated her. She was a perfectionist with little patience for anything less than that from anyone else, but she loved me. I knew that. Everyone seemed to love her too, her town actually had a Ruth Smith Day to celebrate her.
I grew up with a house full of “grandmothers” to tell me stories, nurses aides who regaled me with tales about the grittier side of life, and nurses who took me under their wing when I needed a grown-up friend outside the family. Grandma took a personal interest in everyone of her “guests” and everyone of her employees. I can remember running to the hospital with her to visit them, or going to their apartments to take them food, or sometimes riding with her to pick them up for work.
Grandma was not the romantic I am, but she cared very much in her own solid way. In the course of her ninety six years she provided the lifeline that kept many people afloat when they might not have made it otherwise. As a child, I saw them all as part of our family.
Family to me is still all those people I love and want to care for, probably due to Grandma.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Dream Work
In dreams, I am the writer, director, producer, and all the characters. It can be no other way. It comes through my head and is carried by my brain waves to my consciousness. I am a very vivid dreamer.
Last night’s nightmare left its marks on me and I have been uncomfortable enough all day long to keep thinking about it. Finally coming to the conclusion that my “Great Mother”(sometimes the nurturer, sometimes an inner critic,) grabbed up both my “Divine Child,”(my real or innocent self,) and my “Shadow self,” (the part of me I don’t want the world to see,) like babies, which seems to indicate she does care for them. Then she proceeded to drop the Divine Child out the window into the moonlit yard and the Shadow self downstairs, out of sight. The fact that they died was not necessarily her intention, only the result of her intense frustration.
How can something I day dreamed about at three, four and five feel so terrible that it grows into my Shadow self? It can and it did. Children are who they are. Most people don’t talk to young children about what they are thinking. At least no one did with me. They are simply forced to conform to the standards of the world they live in. How and what this is can depend a lot on who the parent is and what that parent believes.
So what do I do? There are no easy answers. I am trying to accept myself for who I am, but right now, my unconscious motives and my conscious intentions are evidently warring with each other, wreaking havoc with my dream life and spilling over into the rest of my life.
Last night’s nightmare left its marks on me and I have been uncomfortable enough all day long to keep thinking about it. Finally coming to the conclusion that my “Great Mother”(sometimes the nurturer, sometimes an inner critic,) grabbed up both my “Divine Child,”(my real or innocent self,) and my “Shadow self,” (the part of me I don’t want the world to see,) like babies, which seems to indicate she does care for them. Then she proceeded to drop the Divine Child out the window into the moonlit yard and the Shadow self downstairs, out of sight. The fact that they died was not necessarily her intention, only the result of her intense frustration.
How can something I day dreamed about at three, four and five feel so terrible that it grows into my Shadow self? It can and it did. Children are who they are. Most people don’t talk to young children about what they are thinking. At least no one did with me. They are simply forced to conform to the standards of the world they live in. How and what this is can depend a lot on who the parent is and what that parent believes.
So what do I do? There are no easy answers. I am trying to accept myself for who I am, but right now, my unconscious motives and my conscious intentions are evidently warring with each other, wreaking havoc with my dream life and spilling over into the rest of my life.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Bad Dreams
Nightmares again! I was awakened sweating and terrified by the most violent of nightmares, a dream occurring in my childhood home where an unreasonable woman came into the bedroom my sister and I shared and threw one grown woman out the window onto the roof ledge where she plummeted to her death in the peaceful moonlit scene below and the other over the banister of the staircase to the same end. This woman then went across the hall to my brothers’ room, but in the dream it might have been my parents’ room. Either way I woke up and have not been able to get back to sleep.
I have no idea where such a dream came from, but I absolutely do not want to go back to bed right now. I had written a glitzy little thot about bubble blowing that feels all wrong now and am left trying to figure out what I should write.
At this point I will do almost anything, except go back to bed. Although I have memories of much frustration, such extreme violence has no place in my life. I cannot figure out where this came from. I tried the old roll over and go back to sleep thing, but the violence just followed me into an old barn where the animals in the stalls were witnesses to more violence, more terror, so here I am writing in the wee early hours of the morning.
A grown woman sitting in the light like a child, afraid of her own dreams. Imagine that!
I have no idea where such a dream came from, but I absolutely do not want to go back to bed right now. I had written a glitzy little thot about bubble blowing that feels all wrong now and am left trying to figure out what I should write.
At this point I will do almost anything, except go back to bed. Although I have memories of much frustration, such extreme violence has no place in my life. I cannot figure out where this came from. I tried the old roll over and go back to sleep thing, but the violence just followed me into an old barn where the animals in the stalls were witnesses to more violence, more terror, so here I am writing in the wee early hours of the morning.
A grown woman sitting in the light like a child, afraid of her own dreams. Imagine that!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Indulgences
“If I were a rich man…” er... make that a rich woman, I would do so many things I can’t do now.
I would help out those people I know who are already working their tails off to make ends meet and try to make their lives easier. Not forever, just long enough for them to get their heads above water and learn a few new skills so they could get a better job.
I would indulge myself by giving them a few luxuries too. There are really good people in this world who don’t ask for much at all, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a few things.
As a young person I was very lucky. My parents were willing and able to put me through college, and my husband, who I married when I was still pretty young, was able to take pretty good care of me too, right from the start. I did have a few of those “firsts” when it came to jobs, but even those paid pretty good. I was blessed with a decent face and body and a lot of social skills as well as the intelligence to put them all to work. That sounds shallow, but it is a fact that nice looking people often have an easier time in this world.
It’s not always true, though. I know some very beautiful people who are struggling to put food on the table even as I write this. Life is not necessarily consistent, nor is it fair.
But if I were a rich “woman,” I would still sit in the silence and I would still do all the other things I do right now. I would just add a few little pleasures to my life by indulging my fantasies of helping those I love.
I would help out those people I know who are already working their tails off to make ends meet and try to make their lives easier. Not forever, just long enough for them to get their heads above water and learn a few new skills so they could get a better job.
I would indulge myself by giving them a few luxuries too. There are really good people in this world who don’t ask for much at all, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a few things.
As a young person I was very lucky. My parents were willing and able to put me through college, and my husband, who I married when I was still pretty young, was able to take pretty good care of me too, right from the start. I did have a few of those “firsts” when it came to jobs, but even those paid pretty good. I was blessed with a decent face and body and a lot of social skills as well as the intelligence to put them all to work. That sounds shallow, but it is a fact that nice looking people often have an easier time in this world.
It’s not always true, though. I know some very beautiful people who are struggling to put food on the table even as I write this. Life is not necessarily consistent, nor is it fair.
But if I were a rich “woman,” I would still sit in the silence and I would still do all the other things I do right now. I would just add a few little pleasures to my life by indulging my fantasies of helping those I love.
Monday, July 20, 2009
It Feels So Good
I sometimes have a few hours, or days, when I am forced to remember that time passes. I am no longer twenty years old and my body remembers this even when I forget.
I don’t know if there are really any tricks for dealing with this. Mostly it is just accepting life for what it is and going on. Some times are harder than others.
Today I was so tired I could barely breathe. Days like this usually test my patience, but today even my patience was too exhausted to care. I forced myself to go to the grocery store which was a mistake, but it is done now.
Right now I am at a place where nothing hurts if I don’t move too much, so I am sitting in my little corner playing with the computer, emailing friends, editing pictures of Lennon’s party and writing My Thots.
It occurs to me that this is actually a blessing of sorts. Remember being small and having the mumps, or getting a shot and crying because it hurt so much, then it stopped hurting and there was almost a jump in energy and joy? Same way when you have the flu and finally stop throwing up? It just feels so good not to feel bad.
That is how I feel right now!
I don’t know if there are really any tricks for dealing with this. Mostly it is just accepting life for what it is and going on. Some times are harder than others.
Today I was so tired I could barely breathe. Days like this usually test my patience, but today even my patience was too exhausted to care. I forced myself to go to the grocery store which was a mistake, but it is done now.
Right now I am at a place where nothing hurts if I don’t move too much, so I am sitting in my little corner playing with the computer, emailing friends, editing pictures of Lennon’s party and writing My Thots.
It occurs to me that this is actually a blessing of sorts. Remember being small and having the mumps, or getting a shot and crying because it hurt so much, then it stopped hurting and there was almost a jump in energy and joy? Same way when you have the flu and finally stop throwing up? It just feels so good not to feel bad.
That is how I feel right now!
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The First Ever Annual Lennon’s Day
I just got home from the first ever annual Lennon’s Day: Unbirthday, Easter, Christmas, Halloween, Fourth of July and Appreciate your friends Day! Maybe the best party I have ever been too.
The grown-ups were awesome, the conversation varied, sophisticated and interesting. The kids were so well behaved the grown-ups had time for all that kibitzing along with a some good wine, a little beer, outstanding New York Pizza and a Calzone to die for made by a guy from the Bronx, accent and all. He makes the best food I have ever eaten from a pizza place and he donated it all for Lennon Day!
The kids brought Halloween costumes, dyed eggs, blew bubbles, made chalk pictures and played at our make-shift beach. We had an Unbirthday Cake with the boy’s whole name on it since he can now both spell and write that very loooong name himself. We sang, “A very merry unbirthday” and Lennon Sebastian Angell blew out the candles.
After the cake we all crossed the street where Daddy and the neighbor set off some stupendous fireworks that Grandma Carole brought from Indiana. We sat on serapes and lawn chairs under the Big Dipper and the fireworks exploded over our heads like giant chrysanthemums in every color you can imagine.
When the last firework faded from the sky there was a huge conga line back across the street and into the house where the little ones played in Lennon’s Hobbit House (Great cardboard box house his parents made when he was one,) threw bean bags at Wally the robot and played Power Rangers with the big boys, (all the Dads and Uncles John and Ian, both of whom painted their faces to look like orange jack-o-lanterns in honor of Lennon’s special day.) Then every child got to open a present picked just for them and wrapped in Christmas paper!
It was nearly midnight before everyone left and I came down the hill to my house. We all had such a good time I think we’re going to do it again next year.
The grown-ups were awesome, the conversation varied, sophisticated and interesting. The kids were so well behaved the grown-ups had time for all that kibitzing along with a some good wine, a little beer, outstanding New York Pizza and a Calzone to die for made by a guy from the Bronx, accent and all. He makes the best food I have ever eaten from a pizza place and he donated it all for Lennon Day!
The kids brought Halloween costumes, dyed eggs, blew bubbles, made chalk pictures and played at our make-shift beach. We had an Unbirthday Cake with the boy’s whole name on it since he can now both spell and write that very loooong name himself. We sang, “A very merry unbirthday” and Lennon Sebastian Angell blew out the candles.
After the cake we all crossed the street where Daddy and the neighbor set off some stupendous fireworks that Grandma Carole brought from Indiana. We sat on serapes and lawn chairs under the Big Dipper and the fireworks exploded over our heads like giant chrysanthemums in every color you can imagine.
When the last firework faded from the sky there was a huge conga line back across the street and into the house where the little ones played in Lennon’s Hobbit House (Great cardboard box house his parents made when he was one,) threw bean bags at Wally the robot and played Power Rangers with the big boys, (all the Dads and Uncles John and Ian, both of whom painted their faces to look like orange jack-o-lanterns in honor of Lennon’s special day.) Then every child got to open a present picked just for them and wrapped in Christmas paper!
It was nearly midnight before everyone left and I came down the hill to my house. We all had such a good time I think we’re going to do it again next year.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Why?
Synchronicity. There are those that say it is no accident, but it is hard to believe that in a rational world.
My father wrote articles about different people in the science departments of Illinois schools. People were eager to be his next topic until three of them, in a row, died shortly after their article was published. Whatever the reason for it, he stopped writing the articles.
My sister and I used to drive around to different post offices mailing letters so they would have different post marks on them. I had just learned to drive and the freedom was intoxicating. Three of those post offices burned down within days of us going there. Why three again? I have no idea.
I write a story one hot summer night and the next day hear that a very similar situation actually occurred.
Are all these simple coincidences? Almost definitely and yet there is that nagging little doubt. What draws people to do what they do, go where they go, write what they write?
I only know that last night I couldn’t get a picture out of my head and so I began to write a story about it. Not something too unusual for me. At least not until today.
My father wrote articles about different people in the science departments of Illinois schools. People were eager to be his next topic until three of them, in a row, died shortly after their article was published. Whatever the reason for it, he stopped writing the articles.
My sister and I used to drive around to different post offices mailing letters so they would have different post marks on them. I had just learned to drive and the freedom was intoxicating. Three of those post offices burned down within days of us going there. Why three again? I have no idea.
I write a story one hot summer night and the next day hear that a very similar situation actually occurred.
Are all these simple coincidences? Almost definitely and yet there is that nagging little doubt. What draws people to do what they do, go where they go, write what they write?
I only know that last night I couldn’t get a picture out of my head and so I began to write a story about it. Not something too unusual for me. At least not until today.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Ineffable
Love is not just some sweet, soft, sappy, imaginary thing that gives and gives and gives. Real love has a foundation as solid as the earth. It is the bedrock upon which lives are fashioned and launched in spite of all the imperfections surrounding them.
I don’t think there is a word for time in the language of love. Time is however long it takes to do what needs to be done.
I don’t there is really a word for money either, because money can’t buy love. It can buy companionship and yes men and even a schmoozer, or two, but it can’t buy legitimate love. Not the kind that will stand by you through thick and thin with honesty and straight forwardness. Still, it's worth whatever it needs.
Love can say yes and no and even be demanding. The words are less important than the reasons behind them, because being loving means wanting the best for someone in spite of everything.
It can even mean letting go when that is the most loving thing to do. Letting go is not losing hold, it is choosing to do the hard thing, because it is right. The love is still there. It has just changed states.
Sometimes love manifests as tears -- of joy, or pain, or hope, or desire -- and sometimes it manifests as a reason to get up, or reach out, or even pray.
Love is ineffable, but it is real.
I don’t think there is a word for time in the language of love. Time is however long it takes to do what needs to be done.
I don’t there is really a word for money either, because money can’t buy love. It can buy companionship and yes men and even a schmoozer, or two, but it can’t buy legitimate love. Not the kind that will stand by you through thick and thin with honesty and straight forwardness. Still, it's worth whatever it needs.
Love can say yes and no and even be demanding. The words are less important than the reasons behind them, because being loving means wanting the best for someone in spite of everything.
It can even mean letting go when that is the most loving thing to do. Letting go is not losing hold, it is choosing to do the hard thing, because it is right. The love is still there. It has just changed states.
Sometimes love manifests as tears -- of joy, or pain, or hope, or desire -- and sometimes it manifests as a reason to get up, or reach out, or even pray.
Love is ineffable, but it is real.
"My Lennon"
Today we are playing ball, beach ball that is. I throw it, or roll it, or kick it and he catches it and throws it, or punches it, or drop kicks it back! It is a game that requires a certain amount of energy, but he is so good at it and he never seems to get tired.
Today he asks me a question. “Do you like playing ball better than you do with my little guys, or my video games?”
Of course I ask why he wants to know and he says, “Because you always smile when we play ball.” Then I have to ask if he likes that and he responds. “I love it when you smile, your eyes are so beautiful.”
Ah, Lennon! You always make me smile. Just the name makes me smile, but add that last line and it makes me cry.
You are such a big part of my life, so sweet and innocent, so good, and that last line seems to be a Lennon trademark.
“I love it when you smile, your eyes are so beautiful.”
Today he asks me a question. “Do you like playing ball better than you do with my little guys, or my video games?”
Of course I ask why he wants to know and he says, “Because you always smile when we play ball.” Then I have to ask if he likes that and he responds. “I love it when you smile, your eyes are so beautiful.”
Ah, Lennon! You always make me smile. Just the name makes me smile, but add that last line and it makes me cry.
You are such a big part of my life, so sweet and innocent, so good, and that last line seems to be a Lennon trademark.
“I love it when you smile, your eyes are so beautiful.”
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Hugs And Kisses
Lennon is a trooper. He takes falls and tumbles without much fuss, but occasionally he is really hurt and those big eyes fill with tears. I know exactly what to do. I scoop him up and kiss whatever hurts and -- like magic-- all is well.
I wish I could do that for my friends. Scoop them up and with just a hug and a kiss make everything better. My heart is in the right place and so are my arms, but we just aren’t close enough for that to happen.
The truth is, even if we were in the same room, I probably wouldn’t dare to do it anyway. Grown-ups believe they have out grown kisses and hugs when they are hurt. Why? I don’t know. I suppose they believe it is only a distraction, not really a cure, but if it works, what difference does that make?
I know I really can’t cure anything. I can’t make a bump disappear, or a cut heal up quickly. I can’t take away the sting of ugly words, or feelings of loss. All I can really do is offer comfort, but if someone can comfort me when I am feeling lost and sad, I want it. Whatever offers relief from that moment is at the top of my list.
I am a big fan of hugs and kisses.
I wish I could do that for my friends. Scoop them up and with just a hug and a kiss make everything better. My heart is in the right place and so are my arms, but we just aren’t close enough for that to happen.
The truth is, even if we were in the same room, I probably wouldn’t dare to do it anyway. Grown-ups believe they have out grown kisses and hugs when they are hurt. Why? I don’t know. I suppose they believe it is only a distraction, not really a cure, but if it works, what difference does that make?
I know I really can’t cure anything. I can’t make a bump disappear, or a cut heal up quickly. I can’t take away the sting of ugly words, or feelings of loss. All I can really do is offer comfort, but if someone can comfort me when I am feeling lost and sad, I want it. Whatever offers relief from that moment is at the top of my list.
I am a big fan of hugs and kisses.
The Gift
My eyes look at the staff on the page, deciphering the notes and clefts and time signatures as naturally as some people read a book. I’ve had a lot of lessons.
My great aunt was not so lucky. Her Victorian grandparents took a whip to her if she frittered away time trying to pick out a song. It didn’t matter. You can’t beat the music out of a soul very easily and by the time I knew her, she played so beautifully I was enchanted. She couldn’t read music, but she could play that piano!
She was my inspiration. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and the most talented too. Looking back I realize that she was also the most loving person I’ve ever known.
A tiny woman, her mother died giving birth to her and they kept her in a cigar box, wrapped in cotton inside an old cook stove; she was never able to have children of her own, so she mothered the world. I don’t think I ever heard a cross word come out of her mouth and I know I must have tried her patience more than a few times.
She was still here when my son was born and she was still the same sweet soul I’m sure she was when my mother was born. The first time he ever slept more than two hours, was in her arms when she came to visit us one day.
So, tonight, as I sat playing Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” on my old piano, I began by feeling kind of quiet and maybe a little sad, but slowly found myself drifting back to those days long ago. Days when I could not read music, but I could sit on the little footstool in my Grandma’s house listening to my Great Aunt Lela playing the old upright piano in ways that stirred a three year old’s heart.
I wonder if she knew what a gift she was giving me?
My great aunt was not so lucky. Her Victorian grandparents took a whip to her if she frittered away time trying to pick out a song. It didn’t matter. You can’t beat the music out of a soul very easily and by the time I knew her, she played so beautifully I was enchanted. She couldn’t read music, but she could play that piano!
She was my inspiration. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and the most talented too. Looking back I realize that she was also the most loving person I’ve ever known.
A tiny woman, her mother died giving birth to her and they kept her in a cigar box, wrapped in cotton inside an old cook stove; she was never able to have children of her own, so she mothered the world. I don’t think I ever heard a cross word come out of her mouth and I know I must have tried her patience more than a few times.
She was still here when my son was born and she was still the same sweet soul I’m sure she was when my mother was born. The first time he ever slept more than two hours, was in her arms when she came to visit us one day.
So, tonight, as I sat playing Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” on my old piano, I began by feeling kind of quiet and maybe a little sad, but slowly found myself drifting back to those days long ago. Days when I could not read music, but I could sit on the little footstool in my Grandma’s house listening to my Great Aunt Lela playing the old upright piano in ways that stirred a three year old’s heart.
I wonder if she knew what a gift she was giving me?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Insecurity
Every morning of my life, for the past umpteen million years, I have dressed myself.
During that time I have varied whether or not I will wear make-up and what style of hair I want. I have floated through the fashions of the fifties, sixties and seventies. Now I prefer whatever is comfortable.
I like to wear smiles and bright eyes and usually earrings, but not much else in the jewelry line, just because I don’t like the constriction of anything on my body. Given a more innocent and tolerant world, I would probably wear nothing at all unless I was cold!
The one lesson I would pass on to those younger than me is simply this: Do not wear your insecurity where it shows! There is nothing less attractive than an insecure person. It makes others nervous. Instead of paying attention to you, they will be trying to figure out what is wrong, or if it is your fault, or theirs. Most people cannot conceive of it being no one’s fault at all.
Banishing insecurity is worth whatever it takes. My first suggestion would be educate yourself! The more you know, the less you will worry about what you do not know. My second is to let go of all the rest, because once you’ve done your homework and stepped out, it’s too late to change the past. My last suggestion is pay attention! Not to yourself and how you look, or what others are thinking about you, but to them!
In my experience, most people are thinking about themselves and if they think you are too, the rest is all gravy! Besides you can learn a lot in this world by paying attention.
Insecurity only gets in the way. Leave it at home in your diary and if you must agonize over it, do it in private, or only with your very best friend.
During that time I have varied whether or not I will wear make-up and what style of hair I want. I have floated through the fashions of the fifties, sixties and seventies. Now I prefer whatever is comfortable.
I like to wear smiles and bright eyes and usually earrings, but not much else in the jewelry line, just because I don’t like the constriction of anything on my body. Given a more innocent and tolerant world, I would probably wear nothing at all unless I was cold!
The one lesson I would pass on to those younger than me is simply this: Do not wear your insecurity where it shows! There is nothing less attractive than an insecure person. It makes others nervous. Instead of paying attention to you, they will be trying to figure out what is wrong, or if it is your fault, or theirs. Most people cannot conceive of it being no one’s fault at all.
Banishing insecurity is worth whatever it takes. My first suggestion would be educate yourself! The more you know, the less you will worry about what you do not know. My second is to let go of all the rest, because once you’ve done your homework and stepped out, it’s too late to change the past. My last suggestion is pay attention! Not to yourself and how you look, or what others are thinking about you, but to them!
In my experience, most people are thinking about themselves and if they think you are too, the rest is all gravy! Besides you can learn a lot in this world by paying attention.
Insecurity only gets in the way. Leave it at home in your diary and if you must agonize over it, do it in private, or only with your very best friend.
God
I have a problem with emails that pick a few incidents out of the millions that occur each moment and use them to further their own narrow minded ideas of God.
I like to believe that God could never be defined by the limited understanding of human beings.
The idea that God, like some egotistical raging pontiff would point a finger at an errant child and zap him off the earth seems ridiculously ignorant to me.
Choosing to believe in God, for me, is not choosing to believe in some abusive, narcissistic, ego driven entity who sits up above me issuing commands just to see if I can be tripped up and punished.
In every large family there are always a few children who feel the need to garner their parent’s attention by finding fault in the others. In a position of power and authority, these are truly frightening creatures.
I want to believe that no rational person, having given some thought to these things, could stand by and promote intolerance and hate, because intolerance and hate are just that, no matter how they are justified and they have no place in a sentence defining the name of God.
I like to believe that God could never be defined by the limited understanding of human beings.
The idea that God, like some egotistical raging pontiff would point a finger at an errant child and zap him off the earth seems ridiculously ignorant to me.
Choosing to believe in God, for me, is not choosing to believe in some abusive, narcissistic, ego driven entity who sits up above me issuing commands just to see if I can be tripped up and punished.
In every large family there are always a few children who feel the need to garner their parent’s attention by finding fault in the others. In a position of power and authority, these are truly frightening creatures.
I want to believe that no rational person, having given some thought to these things, could stand by and promote intolerance and hate, because intolerance and hate are just that, no matter how they are justified and they have no place in a sentence defining the name of God.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
One Season Forever
“For everything there is a season…” Believe this. Live it to the fullest and life becomes one sweet miracle after another.
We talked and the words poured out of us into each other like sunbeams through a prism, revealing all the beautiful thoughts hidden inside.
We touched and our hands, our eyes, every part of us, became the hands of God admiring a creation so exquisite and perfect that only awe was possible.
We sat together in the Silence and were closer than we ever thought it was possible to be.
We turned and walked away from each other promising never to look back, and one of us kept that promise while the other could not, but I think that is okay.
Seasons are personal places and I am still reaping the benefits of that sweet innocence and inviolable beauty. I am blessed again and again by its existence, knowing that I will never step over that agreed upon line, never tarnish the sanctity of something as close to a miracle as anyone could ever imagine.
For everything there is a season and once every so often, one season will bring forth a lotus whose perfection lies in its need to rise only in the light.
We talked and the words poured out of us into each other like sunbeams through a prism, revealing all the beautiful thoughts hidden inside.
We touched and our hands, our eyes, every part of us, became the hands of God admiring a creation so exquisite and perfect that only awe was possible.
We sat together in the Silence and were closer than we ever thought it was possible to be.
We turned and walked away from each other promising never to look back, and one of us kept that promise while the other could not, but I think that is okay.
Seasons are personal places and I am still reaping the benefits of that sweet innocence and inviolable beauty. I am blessed again and again by its existence, knowing that I will never step over that agreed upon line, never tarnish the sanctity of something as close to a miracle as anyone could ever imagine.
For everything there is a season and once every so often, one season will bring forth a lotus whose perfection lies in its need to rise only in the light.
Friday, July 10, 2009
A Mind Is Not A Finite Space
Life is a journey. The Way is long. The road to heaven, or hell, is paved with good intentions. It all brings to mind some sort of straight path with a beginning and an end.
I suspect it is more like the branches of a tree. Somehow I get up the trunk, which may be childhood and whether I am lifted, boosted, chased, or driven, I don’t know. Then I have to start choosing which branch to try next and I keep on having to choose again and again. Sometimes falling off one and landing on another without any real intentions at all.
If I wanted to carry this metaphor onward, I could take it to great lengths, including leaps, of faith at the end of a branch, but that is not what I am thinking of tonight.
I am thinking of all the layers that surround each step, the thoughts and feelings that influence me, the nuances and passions that accompany each one and how it colors life with a richness that has viscosity as well as direction. It sort of brings me back to that old reacting, or responding idea my friend wrote about not so long ago.
My life sometimes seems more adventuresome to other people than theirs is. I think the difference is often only in the way I choose to look at it and sometimes that I choose to go after what I want in spite of all the admonitions and rules that stand between me and it. I am not a reckless person, nor am I thoughtless, but I find life fascinating and I find many rules only exist in the minds of people afraid to step outside the lines a bit. There is safety in finite spaces. There is safety in a rabbit cage too, but I would go insane there.
So, I tend to open myself up, lay out there in black and white, what many people don’t even want to dream of. Why not? Well, one reason is that I can be hurt, have been hurt, will be again for sure, but I’ll tell you a secret. The hurt is not half as bad as missing the entire experience. Some things are worth the pain. In fact, sometimes the pain makes things clearer, more poignant, gives definition to an otherwise uninspiring life.
How a heart can ache! Yet how could I possibly trade the experience back to avoid that ache? There are things I would do again and again, knowing ahead of time all the pain that will follow, because in the balance -- it was more than worth it.
I suspect it is more like the branches of a tree. Somehow I get up the trunk, which may be childhood and whether I am lifted, boosted, chased, or driven, I don’t know. Then I have to start choosing which branch to try next and I keep on having to choose again and again. Sometimes falling off one and landing on another without any real intentions at all.
If I wanted to carry this metaphor onward, I could take it to great lengths, including leaps, of faith at the end of a branch, but that is not what I am thinking of tonight.
I am thinking of all the layers that surround each step, the thoughts and feelings that influence me, the nuances and passions that accompany each one and how it colors life with a richness that has viscosity as well as direction. It sort of brings me back to that old reacting, or responding idea my friend wrote about not so long ago.
My life sometimes seems more adventuresome to other people than theirs is. I think the difference is often only in the way I choose to look at it and sometimes that I choose to go after what I want in spite of all the admonitions and rules that stand between me and it. I am not a reckless person, nor am I thoughtless, but I find life fascinating and I find many rules only exist in the minds of people afraid to step outside the lines a bit. There is safety in finite spaces. There is safety in a rabbit cage too, but I would go insane there.
So, I tend to open myself up, lay out there in black and white, what many people don’t even want to dream of. Why not? Well, one reason is that I can be hurt, have been hurt, will be again for sure, but I’ll tell you a secret. The hurt is not half as bad as missing the entire experience. Some things are worth the pain. In fact, sometimes the pain makes things clearer, more poignant, gives definition to an otherwise uninspiring life.
How a heart can ache! Yet how could I possibly trade the experience back to avoid that ache? There are things I would do again and again, knowing ahead of time all the pain that will follow, because in the balance -- it was more than worth it.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Love Remembers
Some nights I don’t know what to write. On this night there are so many thoughts whirling around in my head that I don’t know where to start.
Lennon and I were discussing love today. Usually I find new little people are some of the wisest philosophers around, but today I was being the wise one and Lennon, with his usual patience and good natured sense of humor was, well, humoring me!
He was expounding on how much he loved me as compared to Mommy and Daddy. Mommy being as wide as his arms could reach. Daddy and I being a little pinch he squinted at with laughing eyes! He knows exactly what he’s doing and he enjoys it so much! Of course I had to goad him a bit and then we really began to talk about how funny it is we never run out of love, no matter how much we give away.
In the middle of our talking we changed course and stopped to paint a picture and then sing some songs and life just went on from there.
Until he was leaving and he peered at me over his Mommy’s shoulder as she carried him out. Laughing, he spread his arms as wide as he could and said, “Hey, Gramma! I love you this much!”
Lennon and I were discussing love today. Usually I find new little people are some of the wisest philosophers around, but today I was being the wise one and Lennon, with his usual patience and good natured sense of humor was, well, humoring me!
He was expounding on how much he loved me as compared to Mommy and Daddy. Mommy being as wide as his arms could reach. Daddy and I being a little pinch he squinted at with laughing eyes! He knows exactly what he’s doing and he enjoys it so much! Of course I had to goad him a bit and then we really began to talk about how funny it is we never run out of love, no matter how much we give away.
In the middle of our talking we changed course and stopped to paint a picture and then sing some songs and life just went on from there.
Until he was leaving and he peered at me over his Mommy’s shoulder as she carried him out. Laughing, he spread his arms as wide as he could and said, “Hey, Gramma! I love you this much!”
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Works Of Art
Creative people have something deep inside of them that whispers constantly. Something impossible to ignore, a tickle in the back of the mind, butterflies in the stomach, an itch in the imagination that will not go away. A hunger to pour forth what is more felt than understood, to a world whose ears are muffled in cotton and eyes clouded by fear.
Driven by passion, defined by feelings of colors and scents and sounds, they struggle to turn this into something that others can at least get a whiff of. It is an attempt to become visible wearing only their own skin, unblemished by the tattoos of a society that has tried to cover up every square inch with heavy lines and lists of rules.
No wonder then that each new creation often drains the artist of every ounce of energy, leaving only a soft, satiated creature who must take the time to recover before beginning again.
Driven by passion, defined by feelings of colors and scents and sounds, they struggle to turn this into something that others can at least get a whiff of. It is an attempt to become visible wearing only their own skin, unblemished by the tattoos of a society that has tried to cover up every square inch with heavy lines and lists of rules.
No wonder then that each new creation often drains the artist of every ounce of energy, leaving only a soft, satiated creature who must take the time to recover before beginning again.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Birds And Bees And Bears, Oh My!
I live on the edge of a small town up in the Western Highlands of North Carolina now. I actually live on a road that was once called Marrying Road, because it was the road people took to find a preacher and get married, it changed to Newfound when the Newfound Gap opened up to make east west travel in this area easier. My house is on the top of Star Ridge, so we are an odd mix of houses, farms, and forest. Mostly pretty civilized, but with lots of room for animals.
Everything is in bloom, so between my huge purple and pink butterfly bushes, big orange trumpet flowers and fifteen foot Rose of Sharon bushes covered in big pink flowers, I have a plethora of birds and bees, butterflies and wasps everywhere. The hummingbirds just swooped in when the Rose of Sharon bloomed and they fight with bees covered in so much pollen they look like little fuzzy yellow teddy bears. Chickadees, tufted tit mice, finches, cardinals, doves and two kinds of woodpeckers, provide an ever changing show all day long.
The road is busy, so all the dogs are kept behind fences of some sort and the cat is the only domestic animal that runs loose. I was dog sitting this weekend and while upstairs putting them to bed for the night, I saw the chance to get some photos I wanted for the A-Z photo group I am part of. (My theme this time, is critters in my yard.) Grabbing my camera I was back up there snapping pictures of bugs at 3 AM when I smelled the worst sort of feral smell you can imagine. The dogs were all going nuts barking, but I thought they were just upset that I was leaving them in their house while taking pictures on the deck..
It was not skunk, or fox, or coon. I know those smells, but I didn’t give it too much thought until I left the upper deck and headed back down the hill to my yard. I turned in, crossed the rocky driveway and opened my gate. As I closed the gate I turned around and right there, not fifteen feet away, plodding down the middle of the road was a distinctly bear looking creature sort of lumbering on by. I was so scared, I didn’t even think to look twice. I slammed the gate behind me and dashed for the house where I peered quaking out the windows trying to see.
Of course I couldn’t see a thing past all the shrubbery in my yard and nothing could have made me go back out to the street, so I will never be completely certain, but I know if I ever smell that again, I will be a little more cautious about running around in the middle of the night taking pictures.
(Copy and paste the link below to see the A-Z Photo Pages I am talking about and click on page 4 at the top right to go to this session on Critters in my backyard.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=112224&id=590231787&l=b2c25866d7
If you click on a photo, it will enlarge it and give you any comments others have made. Feel free to look at any of the other pictures that strike your fancy!)
Everything is in bloom, so between my huge purple and pink butterfly bushes, big orange trumpet flowers and fifteen foot Rose of Sharon bushes covered in big pink flowers, I have a plethora of birds and bees, butterflies and wasps everywhere. The hummingbirds just swooped in when the Rose of Sharon bloomed and they fight with bees covered in so much pollen they look like little fuzzy yellow teddy bears. Chickadees, tufted tit mice, finches, cardinals, doves and two kinds of woodpeckers, provide an ever changing show all day long.
The road is busy, so all the dogs are kept behind fences of some sort and the cat is the only domestic animal that runs loose. I was dog sitting this weekend and while upstairs putting them to bed for the night, I saw the chance to get some photos I wanted for the A-Z photo group I am part of. (My theme this time, is critters in my yard.) Grabbing my camera I was back up there snapping pictures of bugs at 3 AM when I smelled the worst sort of feral smell you can imagine. The dogs were all going nuts barking, but I thought they were just upset that I was leaving them in their house while taking pictures on the deck..
It was not skunk, or fox, or coon. I know those smells, but I didn’t give it too much thought until I left the upper deck and headed back down the hill to my yard. I turned in, crossed the rocky driveway and opened my gate. As I closed the gate I turned around and right there, not fifteen feet away, plodding down the middle of the road was a distinctly bear looking creature sort of lumbering on by. I was so scared, I didn’t even think to look twice. I slammed the gate behind me and dashed for the house where I peered quaking out the windows trying to see.
Of course I couldn’t see a thing past all the shrubbery in my yard and nothing could have made me go back out to the street, so I will never be completely certain, but I know if I ever smell that again, I will be a little more cautious about running around in the middle of the night taking pictures.
(Copy and paste the link below to see the A-Z Photo Pages I am talking about and click on page 4 at the top right to go to this session on Critters in my backyard.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=112224&id=590231787&l=b2c25866d7
If you click on a photo, it will enlarge it and give you any comments others have made. Feel free to look at any of the other pictures that strike your fancy!)
The Key
She gazed through the curtain of rain and sighed deeply. For most of her life she had been drawn to the turtles. Strong, powerful legs, deep liquid eyes, independent and sovereign turtles, who carried their homes upon their backs and were incredibly old.
As a youngster, when others dreamed of horses to carry them across the plains with flying manes and swift feet, she had dreamed of elephants. Enormous elephants with mechanical legs and hollow tummies that she could fill with her family’s belongings and control with levers from high above the ground where it was safe. She would not fly single across the wild terrain of this land. She would carry her family with her wherever she went, but that had gone by the wayside along with ponytails and learning to drive.
Once endowed with wheels, she no longer needed the elephant’s big hollow body and her mind had turned to turtles. Great grandfather turtles whose benevolent wisdom smiled at the vivacious beauty and joy of a young female just setting out in the world. Infinitely steady and wise, they allowed her to leave her family upon the back of their elephant and set off on her own.
Smelling the wood smoke behind her, the sweet sage whose curling energy rose around her, the gentle spring rain that fell before her, she held out her hands. Hands that had held countless others. Hands that had been both gentle and cruel. Hands that spoke volumes of the one they belonged to. Strong hands. Good hands. Capable hands.
Now her attention turned to this tiny creature whose eyes were more beautiful than the clear waters of the Mediterranean. Whose bones were delicate and fine, and whose feathers were more golden than the sunshine whose warmth followed it everywhere. He fluttered over her fingers then sped away to build his nest and prepare a place for his family and she sighed once more.
It was his strength that drew her. Deceptively courageous and strong, he epitomized all that was innocent and good in the world.
Interesting how the path expanded when the senses fluttered upward. Who could have believed the key to her soul would come in the form of this tiny golden bird?
As a youngster, when others dreamed of horses to carry them across the plains with flying manes and swift feet, she had dreamed of elephants. Enormous elephants with mechanical legs and hollow tummies that she could fill with her family’s belongings and control with levers from high above the ground where it was safe. She would not fly single across the wild terrain of this land. She would carry her family with her wherever she went, but that had gone by the wayside along with ponytails and learning to drive.
Once endowed with wheels, she no longer needed the elephant’s big hollow body and her mind had turned to turtles. Great grandfather turtles whose benevolent wisdom smiled at the vivacious beauty and joy of a young female just setting out in the world. Infinitely steady and wise, they allowed her to leave her family upon the back of their elephant and set off on her own.
Smelling the wood smoke behind her, the sweet sage whose curling energy rose around her, the gentle spring rain that fell before her, she held out her hands. Hands that had held countless others. Hands that had been both gentle and cruel. Hands that spoke volumes of the one they belonged to. Strong hands. Good hands. Capable hands.
Now her attention turned to this tiny creature whose eyes were more beautiful than the clear waters of the Mediterranean. Whose bones were delicate and fine, and whose feathers were more golden than the sunshine whose warmth followed it everywhere. He fluttered over her fingers then sped away to build his nest and prepare a place for his family and she sighed once more.
It was his strength that drew her. Deceptively courageous and strong, he epitomized all that was innocent and good in the world.
Interesting how the path expanded when the senses fluttered upward. Who could have believed the key to her soul would come in the form of this tiny golden bird?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Doubts
I wanted to write of Pumpkin, the cat, calling me from everywhere. How I heard her voice all around me and it took me until 3AM to figure out she was in the garage and basement that surrounds one side of my house! A funny mystery, a light hearted thot.
Then I watched a movie, “Doubt.” Odd how some things are never really put to rest. Faces float before my eyes. Two different faces with smiling eyes and caring ways. Two different faces that dedicated their lives to the children in their care., one in education, the other in a church. Faces who did so much good for so long. Faces who were both colleagues and friends of mine.
I listened to the fingers pointing at them. Watched the rocks being thrown by people I knew were only joining in the frenzy of the moment, and I stood up with both of them. Determined not to turn my face away from theirs on the basis of a witch hunt.
Rules were changing. I could no longer hug one of my three year olds without another teacher present, no longer allow a child to sit in my lap without placing both hands on my knees. We were all worried. The age of innocence was sorely challenged.
One put a twenty two in his mouth and he died a few days later. The other took his family far away, and to this day the doubts remain. I knew them, but did I? I want to think I did, but the facts turned out to be pretty damning. It’s the doubts that haunt me.
Freedom. Tonight is a night celebrating independence and freedom, but life is never quite as black and white as I might want it to be.
Then I watched a movie, “Doubt.” Odd how some things are never really put to rest. Faces float before my eyes. Two different faces with smiling eyes and caring ways. Two different faces that dedicated their lives to the children in their care., one in education, the other in a church. Faces who did so much good for so long. Faces who were both colleagues and friends of mine.
I listened to the fingers pointing at them. Watched the rocks being thrown by people I knew were only joining in the frenzy of the moment, and I stood up with both of them. Determined not to turn my face away from theirs on the basis of a witch hunt.
Rules were changing. I could no longer hug one of my three year olds without another teacher present, no longer allow a child to sit in my lap without placing both hands on my knees. We were all worried. The age of innocence was sorely challenged.
One put a twenty two in his mouth and he died a few days later. The other took his family far away, and to this day the doubts remain. I knew them, but did I? I want to think I did, but the facts turned out to be pretty damning. It’s the doubts that haunt me.
Freedom. Tonight is a night celebrating independence and freedom, but life is never quite as black and white as I might want it to be.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Personas
As a child I dreamed of drama! I wanted to be a saint. Not the being crucified upside down, or burned at the stake kind of saint, just the doing miracles sort, kind of like a super hero with a heavenly persona. I might have succeeded, but it was just too much work. I opted out of sainthood rather early.
Later on I jumped into protesting with all the zeal of an eighteen year old, intent on cleaning up the political scene and stopping a war that was killing and maiming my friends, but the protesting became almost as violent as the war. The peace loving persona of many protesters turned out to be pretty thin in some places.
Following this I tried on corporate wife and then dedicated mother for the next thirty years. The machinations and personas involved here were so complicated and convoluted that I still don’t know if I was in some sort of Stepford paradise, or Freudian hell. But I do know that I loved the kids.
Finally I grew up and fell into love. I slipped into a world so amazingly infinitely finite that truth took on the persona of light and every single thing changed. Words no longer meant what they had before. People no longer seemed who they were before. Poetry became my favorite way to communicate. Understanding meant living tandem with an existence that could not distinguish itself from the thoughts in my mind and the breath in my body.
I found what I was dreaming of. It wasn’t drama. It was life.
Later on I jumped into protesting with all the zeal of an eighteen year old, intent on cleaning up the political scene and stopping a war that was killing and maiming my friends, but the protesting became almost as violent as the war. The peace loving persona of many protesters turned out to be pretty thin in some places.
Following this I tried on corporate wife and then dedicated mother for the next thirty years. The machinations and personas involved here were so complicated and convoluted that I still don’t know if I was in some sort of Stepford paradise, or Freudian hell. But I do know that I loved the kids.
Finally I grew up and fell into love. I slipped into a world so amazingly infinitely finite that truth took on the persona of light and every single thing changed. Words no longer meant what they had before. People no longer seemed who they were before. Poetry became my favorite way to communicate. Understanding meant living tandem with an existence that could not distinguish itself from the thoughts in my mind and the breath in my body.
I found what I was dreaming of. It wasn’t drama. It was life.
Release
Being grown-up is so complicated sometimes. When all is said and done, I still have a few really vulnerable little places, tiny Achilles heels that can leave me just as devastated as Lennon in certain circumstances.
Fortunately, like Lennon, I can turn around on a dime when the fog and clouds are swiped away by a kind and loving hand.
Thank God for those hands!
Fortunately, like Lennon, I can turn around on a dime when the fog and clouds are swiped away by a kind and loving hand.
Thank God for those hands!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Heart Breaking
Shunning. Who understands this word? It is perhaps the cruelest of all actions, pretending someone once well loved no longer exists.
Societies have used it for centuries, claiming it as the ultimate nonviolent reaction to misbehaving members. I’ve seen parents use a mild form of it to make a point with children and children themselves use it on school grounds and play yards to set themselves apart from other children.
I think it is one of the most damaging of actions. Effectively obliterating the existence of a living, breathing, feeling human being.
Whether done at a community level, or a personal one, it is a heart breaking punishment whose ramifications echo in reverse back into the heart and mind of the one being shunned. Growing louder and louder until it can drown out all other thoughts.
Societies have used it for centuries, claiming it as the ultimate nonviolent reaction to misbehaving members. I’ve seen parents use a mild form of it to make a point with children and children themselves use it on school grounds and play yards to set themselves apart from other children.
I think it is one of the most damaging of actions. Effectively obliterating the existence of a living, breathing, feeling human being.
Whether done at a community level, or a personal one, it is a heart breaking punishment whose ramifications echo in reverse back into the heart and mind of the one being shunned. Growing louder and louder until it can drown out all other thoughts.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Morning Doves
Morning coffee warms my hands as I sit watching the sun rise, and as it does, I witness a ritual so beautiful and odd that it raises the hair along the back of my neck, leaving me almost breathless.
Soft gray doves arrive in solemn silence, lining up one after another, filling the power lines and facing the sun. There is no cooing, or jostling for space. Not one long feathered tail moves as they sit in what appears to be total concentration.
I don’t know how long this lasts. I only know that eventually they begin to move and the enchantment is broken. I become aware that the sun is bright and the world is waking up in earnest.
It is one of those amazing little things that manifest in this world of mine where messengers flutter in and out on wings and paws, email and snail mail, telephone and internet videos, each one ready to be noticed, but willing to be swept aside.
The lessons, the kindnesses, the hands reaching out, are all here. There is nothing magical, or secret about it, but there is a sacredness to it, a gentle giving and taking that must remain balanced in order to experience the richness that lies in such abundance around me.
I reach out to give and when I pull my hands back -- they are full.
Soft gray doves arrive in solemn silence, lining up one after another, filling the power lines and facing the sun. There is no cooing, or jostling for space. Not one long feathered tail moves as they sit in what appears to be total concentration.
I don’t know how long this lasts. I only know that eventually they begin to move and the enchantment is broken. I become aware that the sun is bright and the world is waking up in earnest.
It is one of those amazing little things that manifest in this world of mine where messengers flutter in and out on wings and paws, email and snail mail, telephone and internet videos, each one ready to be noticed, but willing to be swept aside.
The lessons, the kindnesses, the hands reaching out, are all here. There is nothing magical, or secret about it, but there is a sacredness to it, a gentle giving and taking that must remain balanced in order to experience the richness that lies in such abundance around me.
I reach out to give and when I pull my hands back -- they are full.
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