Death is a difficult subject in our society. We have sanitized it so much that we lose sight of the fact that both birth and death are a natural part of living. It has become something doctors and “others” step in and take over for so many people.
I had the opportunity to care for someone who was dying and even after she died, we washed her body and dressed her and sat with her and her family and our friends for a while before the undertakers came to take her away. Somehow that death felt like the transition it was. It was peaceful and sweet. Sad, but comprehensible.
My mother’s death was terrible. She was whisked away on an airplane to another city. I arrived and was only allowed to see her for five minutes twice during the night before she went into surgery. Then they came and said she was dead. I never saw her again until she was embalmed and so different that I barely recognized her. It was very hard to understand that the woman who gave me birth and was later one of my best friends, was gone at the age of 58. It was now you see her. Now you don’t.
I know I don’t want to suffer and linger in pain my last days. No extraordinary means should be used, except pain medicine. I’d like to die as naturally as possible for everyone’s sake.
Still I know that if someone I loved was dying, it would be very hard for me not to want them to try everything they could to stay alive. It is one thing to die, but to let go is something that requires an extraordinary amount of love.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Power And The Pain
Funny how I always think of Lennon. I think of those hands, those wonderful hands and all the possibilities they hold within them. I think of his eyes, gentle and curious, still so innocent and so sweet, his exuberance, his simple way of accepting everything. My world is infinitely better because of him.
I am so lucky. My life is like the ocean. I am carried along on one wave after another and just when I think I might drown, it lifts me up into the light and dazzles me with something totally unexpected. Of course there are the times I have found myself up against the jagged rocks and painful pinnacles of a dark, or dangerous obstacle, but those times eventually pass and when I can look back on them, they generally have something to teach me.
If I am honest, most of the changes in my life have been the result of something I did, or did not, do. There is power and pain in that knowledge. Power knowing that I can change things. Pain knowing that the options are not always good ones and that sometimes I might make better choices.
Either way it encourages me to get out there and do something when the going gets rough. The slightest movement on my part has been known to carry me a very long way. It’s always worth a try.
Some of my worst times have laid the way for some of the best. Lennon came at the end of a dark and painful period. Truly the light at the end of the tunnel, always in the light, always full of light, always there just being himself.
Talk about lessons!
I am so lucky. My life is like the ocean. I am carried along on one wave after another and just when I think I might drown, it lifts me up into the light and dazzles me with something totally unexpected. Of course there are the times I have found myself up against the jagged rocks and painful pinnacles of a dark, or dangerous obstacle, but those times eventually pass and when I can look back on them, they generally have something to teach me.
If I am honest, most of the changes in my life have been the result of something I did, or did not, do. There is power and pain in that knowledge. Power knowing that I can change things. Pain knowing that the options are not always good ones and that sometimes I might make better choices.
Either way it encourages me to get out there and do something when the going gets rough. The slightest movement on my part has been known to carry me a very long way. It’s always worth a try.
Some of my worst times have laid the way for some of the best. Lennon came at the end of a dark and painful period. Truly the light at the end of the tunnel, always in the light, always full of light, always there just being himself.
Talk about lessons!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Time To Let The Dogs Out!
The kids are on vacation, this time for two weeks and that means I am on dog duty.
I live in a separate house below the big house. To go upstairs means going outside, through my yard and up the hill to the deck. That is where the big dogs live. Three large tail wagging, mongrels who guard the kingdom when everyone else is gone.
First came Eben, an Australian Shepherd who arrived as a tiny puppy nearly six years ago. She is Einstein in a dog suit. Eben could carry on a conversation with me if her teeth and lips were only designed to do so. She is fickle and a bit spoiled.
Next came Duke, an English Springer spaniel mix with thick bones and eyes that could melt the hardest heart. Except for his former owner who mistreated him terribly, breaking his legs and starving him until my son and his wife rescued all ninety pounds of him. An alpha male, he is an awesome dog who Lennon fell on and over as an infant without any problems at all, he sleeps whenever and wherever he chooses, oblivious of bouncing beach balls, or flying super heroes.
Last came Joplin, a large pit bull, pointer mix who was dumped on the highway and brought home by two very soft hearted new owners. Terrified of men in the beginning, she won her place when a rat got into the house and she pounced on it snapping its neck and laying it at my son’s feet. She is big and strong and still a little fearful, so that makes her a slight risk. Sometimes she has to wear a soft muzzle to remind her not to snap at the other dogs, or us, but she is always very apologetic and heartbroken when she forgets.
All three are trained to follow certain commands and to never defy Lennon. Before he was three he could order them to the bedroom and close the door, but they are dogs and they are excitable and right now they get lonely for their people. That’s where I come in.
Duke is getting senile and tends to piddle on the kitchen floor if I wait too long to go upstairs. Then it takes piles of paper towels to soak up that river--not fun. Joplin and Eben become very competitive for attention and tend to play games about whether or not they want to go out. I use random reinforcement with some liver treats to keep them on their toes.
Still when I first open the door of the laundry room and step in, all three tear towards me leaping and barking like giant puppies, sometimes nearly killing me with kindness and joy. I’m getting smarter, now I walk in with one knee out, shouting, “Down!”
The only real problem is me. Schedules are not my thing and this requires some regularity if I don’t like floor mopping.
I live in a separate house below the big house. To go upstairs means going outside, through my yard and up the hill to the deck. That is where the big dogs live. Three large tail wagging, mongrels who guard the kingdom when everyone else is gone.
First came Eben, an Australian Shepherd who arrived as a tiny puppy nearly six years ago. She is Einstein in a dog suit. Eben could carry on a conversation with me if her teeth and lips were only designed to do so. She is fickle and a bit spoiled.
Next came Duke, an English Springer spaniel mix with thick bones and eyes that could melt the hardest heart. Except for his former owner who mistreated him terribly, breaking his legs and starving him until my son and his wife rescued all ninety pounds of him. An alpha male, he is an awesome dog who Lennon fell on and over as an infant without any problems at all, he sleeps whenever and wherever he chooses, oblivious of bouncing beach balls, or flying super heroes.
Last came Joplin, a large pit bull, pointer mix who was dumped on the highway and brought home by two very soft hearted new owners. Terrified of men in the beginning, she won her place when a rat got into the house and she pounced on it snapping its neck and laying it at my son’s feet. She is big and strong and still a little fearful, so that makes her a slight risk. Sometimes she has to wear a soft muzzle to remind her not to snap at the other dogs, or us, but she is always very apologetic and heartbroken when she forgets.
All three are trained to follow certain commands and to never defy Lennon. Before he was three he could order them to the bedroom and close the door, but they are dogs and they are excitable and right now they get lonely for their people. That’s where I come in.
Duke is getting senile and tends to piddle on the kitchen floor if I wait too long to go upstairs. Then it takes piles of paper towels to soak up that river--not fun. Joplin and Eben become very competitive for attention and tend to play games about whether or not they want to go out. I use random reinforcement with some liver treats to keep them on their toes.
Still when I first open the door of the laundry room and step in, all three tear towards me leaping and barking like giant puppies, sometimes nearly killing me with kindness and joy. I’m getting smarter, now I walk in with one knee out, shouting, “Down!”
The only real problem is me. Schedules are not my thing and this requires some regularity if I don’t like floor mopping.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Game
Closing my eyes, breathing deeply, I merge into this moment. Listening, allowing the sounds and scents to fill me, flow through me, carry me away into another time, another place.
The rain patters gently against the open window. Soft rain, cozy, a million tiny reasons to gather closely, to avoid this wetness that we love! The fall breeze carries it inside and I feel the earthy coolness against my skin, smell the familiar dampness as it permeates every memory, wait for the sweet anticipation of what is to come.
Leaning back I feel the air gently flowing through me. In my nose and out my mouth, leaving an after taste that cannot be here, but I want to be here. That mysterious knowledge of another human being sharing the same breath, the same taste, the same space.
Straining to hear, I know the next sound will be sock-soft steps shuffling gently across the carpet. Floating towards me on the soap scented mists of a sacred shower still dripping drops. That place my feet stand every day with gratitude. A place where tears and water become one sweet shower of thoughts and memories.
The savoring game, how it reaches out, pulling me in, leaving me addicted to my own thoughts, my own memories, never more than a breath away. Called up by the magical mixing of wind and weather, rain and water in a world still living and loving all around me. A game that leaves me smiling and content except for tonight when a distant radio is turned up and that song tears me apart like it has never done before.
Too vulnerable, too open, to play these games tonight. Balance relies on the music being silent, its weight not tipping the scales. The music pierces my heart, too rich to be simply savored, but the rest? It is always the same.
The rain patters gently against the open window. Soft rain, cozy, a million tiny reasons to gather closely, to avoid this wetness that we love! The fall breeze carries it inside and I feel the earthy coolness against my skin, smell the familiar dampness as it permeates every memory, wait for the sweet anticipation of what is to come.
Leaning back I feel the air gently flowing through me. In my nose and out my mouth, leaving an after taste that cannot be here, but I want to be here. That mysterious knowledge of another human being sharing the same breath, the same taste, the same space.
Straining to hear, I know the next sound will be sock-soft steps shuffling gently across the carpet. Floating towards me on the soap scented mists of a sacred shower still dripping drops. That place my feet stand every day with gratitude. A place where tears and water become one sweet shower of thoughts and memories.
The savoring game, how it reaches out, pulling me in, leaving me addicted to my own thoughts, my own memories, never more than a breath away. Called up by the magical mixing of wind and weather, rain and water in a world still living and loving all around me. A game that leaves me smiling and content except for tonight when a distant radio is turned up and that song tears me apart like it has never done before.
Too vulnerable, too open, to play these games tonight. Balance relies on the music being silent, its weight not tipping the scales. The music pierces my heart, too rich to be simply savored, but the rest? It is always the same.
Chauncey
My Shih-Tzu is a hand full. I named him after Chauncey Olcott, the Irish Tenor who wrote, sang, or collaborated on many of my favorite Irish ballads, because he’s a charming little rogue. His parents were show dogs with long lineages, which means he’s a real Shih-Tzu. All that means is that he doesn’t shed and is cute, really cute, but also a real pain in the butt. He wasn’t show quality, whatever that means, but he has all the traits of his ancestors. It takes forever times to teach him anything and then he only performs if he feels like it and I’m nice!
What I don’t tell many people is that I am so much easier to train than he is that I have to be careful.
Having grown up with a cat, he can leap four feet across the room horizontally, or easily up onto the couch, or any chair in the house. Yet he cannot jump up on anything to get himself into my bed. For a while he had me reaching down three and four times a night to retrieve him, but now, if he gets out of bed, he’s out of luck unless I get up too, which he has been known to provoke. Otherwise he is forced to sleep in his own cushy, well padded and warm little bed in the corner.
He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t have to. He just sits beside me with those owl-like eyes and sweet flat furry little face, looking like an Ewok who stepped off of Spielberg’s screen. If I ignore him, he will cock his head to one side and gaze up at me with those big sad eyes until I put a bit of food into his mouth. I try not to look at him, but he’s also been known to sob!
He’s almost four years old now, so unless we are playing, he sleeps a lot. Then he looks a lot like a large tribble. Like I said, he’s cute, really cute. He has to be.
What I don’t tell many people is that I am so much easier to train than he is that I have to be careful.
Having grown up with a cat, he can leap four feet across the room horizontally, or easily up onto the couch, or any chair in the house. Yet he cannot jump up on anything to get himself into my bed. For a while he had me reaching down three and four times a night to retrieve him, but now, if he gets out of bed, he’s out of luck unless I get up too, which he has been known to provoke. Otherwise he is forced to sleep in his own cushy, well padded and warm little bed in the corner.
He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t have to. He just sits beside me with those owl-like eyes and sweet flat furry little face, looking like an Ewok who stepped off of Spielberg’s screen. If I ignore him, he will cock his head to one side and gaze up at me with those big sad eyes until I put a bit of food into his mouth. I try not to look at him, but he’s also been known to sob!
He’s almost four years old now, so unless we are playing, he sleeps a lot. Then he looks a lot like a large tribble. Like I said, he’s cute, really cute. He has to be.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Hmmmm.....
Two Thots I sent out to subscribers, but did not put on the blog. Then I received this email from a subscriber friend, so here they are.
To: Linda Angell ..
Sent: Friday, September 25, 2009 3:36:19 PM
Subject: Re: My Thots (at last)
A great thought that we remember, " There but for the grace of God go I. Now show how grateful you are and share!"
From: Linda Angell ..
To: angellthot@yahoo.com
Sent: Thursday, September 24, 2009 2:00:36 AM
Subject: My Thots
Old-School Honesty
No Thots tonight?
No Thots.
How can that be?
It’s new and I have just decided to admit I have been writing for over four hours, have actually written numerous Thots and not one is being sent out.
From: Linda Angell ..
To: angellthot@yahoo.com
Sent: Thursday, September 24, 2009 4:50:42 AM
Subject: My Thots (at last)
Born Unacceptable
I was driving my car to the grocery store today, thinking about how much money I had and what I should buy to get the most out of that money. I say that I am not embarrassed by the lack of money I am experiencing in this moment, but I did not want anyone to see me take my wallet out of my purse and count it. There is no sin in being poor, but there is certainly a contradiction somewhere in there.
I sat there in my car, in the parking lot, surreptitiously counting out the crumpled dollars I had stuffed into the small zippered side of my wallet when thoughts began pouring through my head.
Imagine being born to a nationality that is considered less, or in a skin considered too dark. Imagine being born poor and having to walk through areas where people spend more on a cup of coffee than you do on food for a day.
Imagine what it feels like to walk through this world knowing that you are being judged for these things simply because you are alive.
Now add those things that we appear to have control over, but really do not.
Imagine what it is like to have people think you are dangerous and detestable because of who you love, because they are the wrong color, or nationality, or sex. Imagine having your every move observed with fear and loathing simply because you have crossed some line other people say exist?
There are so many invisible ceilings and walls and prisons and they spare no one.
I remember a girl in my sixth grade class who had to wear cut down men’s trousers for P.E. and was not allowed to have one of the books from our class book club because she did not have the three cents to pay her dues that month. I don’t remember why it was three cents, but I remember how thin she was, how lank her hair, how fragile and frightened she looked all the time and she stood before me in my mind today as if it was yesterday. I remember her being teased because of the way she gobbled down her food and how she had to go to detention because she forgot her tennis shoes when it was her sister’s day to have them. I was the new kid in school and she was my friend for a while, but it was hard being her friend. I am ashamed to say it didn’t last. For one thing she wasn’t used to having friends and felt she had nothing to share, but for another, it kept the other kids away from me too. And I was so young too back then. I only knew her a few months, then I moved again and never saw her again.
Part of me wanted to sit there in my car in the parking lot of a grocery store forty odd years later and cry, but I was afraid it might be out of some sort of self pity that I now considered myself one of these people, when I am so far from it that it shames me I even thought about it. I am fortunate that all my obvious shortcomings, the ones I cannot hide in this world, are acceptable ones.
Imagine being born unacceptable.
To: Linda Angell ..
Sent: Friday, September 25, 2009 3:36:19 PM
Subject: Re: My Thots (at last)
A great thought that we remember, " There but for the grace of God go I. Now show how grateful you are and share!"
From: Linda Angell ..
To: angellthot@yahoo.com
Sent: Thursday, September 24, 2009 2:00:36 AM
Subject: My Thots
Old-School Honesty
No Thots tonight?
No Thots.
How can that be?
It’s new and I have just decided to admit I have been writing for over four hours, have actually written numerous Thots and not one is being sent out.
From: Linda Angell ..
To: angellthot@yahoo.com
Sent: Thursday, September 24, 2009 4:50:42 AM
Subject: My Thots (at last)
Born Unacceptable
I was driving my car to the grocery store today, thinking about how much money I had and what I should buy to get the most out of that money. I say that I am not embarrassed by the lack of money I am experiencing in this moment, but I did not want anyone to see me take my wallet out of my purse and count it. There is no sin in being poor, but there is certainly a contradiction somewhere in there.
I sat there in my car, in the parking lot, surreptitiously counting out the crumpled dollars I had stuffed into the small zippered side of my wallet when thoughts began pouring through my head.
Imagine being born to a nationality that is considered less, or in a skin considered too dark. Imagine being born poor and having to walk through areas where people spend more on a cup of coffee than you do on food for a day.
Imagine what it feels like to walk through this world knowing that you are being judged for these things simply because you are alive.
Now add those things that we appear to have control over, but really do not.
Imagine what it is like to have people think you are dangerous and detestable because of who you love, because they are the wrong color, or nationality, or sex. Imagine having your every move observed with fear and loathing simply because you have crossed some line other people say exist?
There are so many invisible ceilings and walls and prisons and they spare no one.
I remember a girl in my sixth grade class who had to wear cut down men’s trousers for P.E. and was not allowed to have one of the books from our class book club because she did not have the three cents to pay her dues that month. I don’t remember why it was three cents, but I remember how thin she was, how lank her hair, how fragile and frightened she looked all the time and she stood before me in my mind today as if it was yesterday. I remember her being teased because of the way she gobbled down her food and how she had to go to detention because she forgot her tennis shoes when it was her sister’s day to have them. I was the new kid in school and she was my friend for a while, but it was hard being her friend. I am ashamed to say it didn’t last. For one thing she wasn’t used to having friends and felt she had nothing to share, but for another, it kept the other kids away from me too. And I was so young too back then. I only knew her a few months, then I moved again and never saw her again.
Part of me wanted to sit there in my car in the parking lot of a grocery store forty odd years later and cry, but I was afraid it might be out of some sort of self pity that I now considered myself one of these people, when I am so far from it that it shames me I even thought about it. I am fortunate that all my obvious shortcomings, the ones I cannot hide in this world, are acceptable ones.
Imagine being born unacceptable.
The Defier
I have a brother people say marches to a different drummer. They’re trying to be nice of course, because he is a charmer, one of those rogues you have to love, but whose neck you would often love to wring.
He doesn’t march for anyone, or anything. He never has and I doubt if he ever will. It’s just not in his make-up. Born with a disease that was supposed to kill him before he turned three years old, he has managed to live to a ripe old age. His first grade teacher told my parents he was retarded. Heartbroken they took him to be tested and while he played chess with the psychiatrist, he explained why he did what he did. It turned out he was on the other end of the spectrum -- just a bit strong willed.
He’s big, strong as an ox and probably a throw back to some Viking Berserker who invaded Scotland and made love to one of our ancestors in a fit of maniacal love. Or perhaps he is closer to the Welsh pirate who married an Ojibwa chief’s daughter. Where ever his personality evolved from, it has kept him jumping in and out of every frying pan between here and kingdom come.
People adore him. He can walk up to wild animals and pet them, or pick them up in some strange way no one understands. He is loyal to those he loves, but he never lets that get in the way of the moment. When he believes in something, or likes it, no one can out do him. When he could care less, he makes no bones about the fact that he’ll have nothing to do with it. My parents tried their best and to their credit, they never killed him, but they never really changed him either.
Tom, The Defier, was told he would die if he didn’t quit drinking and smoking and living like he was a young man. That was over thirty years ago. He’s had three heart by passes and I don’t know how many other operations, but he’s still around. A bit the worse for wear, but he helped me move out to North Carolina last year just like he has helped me whenever I needed him all my life. He and his second wife, from his third of five marriages, moved me lock, stock and barrel with his oldest and youngest son.
It is not uncommon to see him at family weddings and funerals sitting with his current wife and all his exes and children in one place, chatting amicably. He gives the rest of us something to talk about.
He doesn’t march for anyone, or anything. He never has and I doubt if he ever will. It’s just not in his make-up. Born with a disease that was supposed to kill him before he turned three years old, he has managed to live to a ripe old age. His first grade teacher told my parents he was retarded. Heartbroken they took him to be tested and while he played chess with the psychiatrist, he explained why he did what he did. It turned out he was on the other end of the spectrum -- just a bit strong willed.
He’s big, strong as an ox and probably a throw back to some Viking Berserker who invaded Scotland and made love to one of our ancestors in a fit of maniacal love. Or perhaps he is closer to the Welsh pirate who married an Ojibwa chief’s daughter. Where ever his personality evolved from, it has kept him jumping in and out of every frying pan between here and kingdom come.
People adore him. He can walk up to wild animals and pet them, or pick them up in some strange way no one understands. He is loyal to those he loves, but he never lets that get in the way of the moment. When he believes in something, or likes it, no one can out do him. When he could care less, he makes no bones about the fact that he’ll have nothing to do with it. My parents tried their best and to their credit, they never killed him, but they never really changed him either.
Tom, The Defier, was told he would die if he didn’t quit drinking and smoking and living like he was a young man. That was over thirty years ago. He’s had three heart by passes and I don’t know how many other operations, but he’s still around. A bit the worse for wear, but he helped me move out to North Carolina last year just like he has helped me whenever I needed him all my life. He and his second wife, from his third of five marriages, moved me lock, stock and barrel with his oldest and youngest son.
It is not uncommon to see him at family weddings and funerals sitting with his current wife and all his exes and children in one place, chatting amicably. He gives the rest of us something to talk about.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Muses
A good muse is like a brilliant flashlight. His very existence brightens up the world. His words seem to bring life to the dullest things and his fingers are always pointing to things much more interesting than the moon. Moons are for female muses, those creatures that everyone has talked about for centuries on end.
My muse is very much a male muse, that rare creature no one ever seemed to write about. Like unicorns and other mythical beasts, he exists, but is very difficult to discern.
For one thing I have discovered that he is a bit like Janus. Instead of looking forward and backward, he looks at life from youth and age, innocence and wisdom. Almost as if he is two separate people in one tidy muse. Both of them incredible creatures with high ideals, definite work ethics, exquisite breeding and a sense of honor that raises them above mere mortals on any level.
They speak to me by living and working, by taking life by the horns and wrestling it into something that moves me by its very existence. Courageous and proud, my muse refuses to be bound by the customs and laws of a world that can condemn for the most inane things and reward the ridiculous. They have both feet on the ground and their heads high above it, creating plenty of room for new ideas and light. My muse is generous to a fault and practical beyond belief.
He inspires me to write and think and be without doing anything other than being himself. He simply does what he does and the light around him brightens up my world in a never ending display of love.
My muse is very much a male muse, that rare creature no one ever seemed to write about. Like unicorns and other mythical beasts, he exists, but is very difficult to discern.
For one thing I have discovered that he is a bit like Janus. Instead of looking forward and backward, he looks at life from youth and age, innocence and wisdom. Almost as if he is two separate people in one tidy muse. Both of them incredible creatures with high ideals, definite work ethics, exquisite breeding and a sense of honor that raises them above mere mortals on any level.
They speak to me by living and working, by taking life by the horns and wrestling it into something that moves me by its very existence. Courageous and proud, my muse refuses to be bound by the customs and laws of a world that can condemn for the most inane things and reward the ridiculous. They have both feet on the ground and their heads high above it, creating plenty of room for new ideas and light. My muse is generous to a fault and practical beyond belief.
He inspires me to write and think and be without doing anything other than being himself. He simply does what he does and the light around him brightens up my world in a never ending display of love.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Exquisite Intensity
I had an art professor who said you can recognize good art because it has an effect on you, it influences you in some deeply primal way.
Great art does more than that for me. It permeates my being at the exact moment I am immersed in it. I don’t have to think about how I feel, or what I am thinking. In fact, it would never even occur to me to think about these things in my initial exposure to it.
Like the time I turned from a Monet to find myself face to face with a Van Gogh, it completely overtakes me, often leaving me in tears because I am so overwhelmed. When I am in awe of a piece of music, or painting, or movie, or anything that touches me profoundly, I am lost in it.
For that moment in time I am it. I am so vulnerable, I feel it in every one of my senses. When I am finally able to turn away, I am depleted, worn out, so pleasantly sated that I just want to lie back, or go sit some where and contemplate the experience.
Then, like a child, I want to experience it again and again. Looking, listening, reaching back into it for those very first impressions until it becomes so ingrained that I know it like I know my own face.
Obviously this doesn’t happen very often, but when it does? It is one of those moments that leaves me hanging in mid-air, quivering with an exquisite intensity I never forget.
Great art does more than that for me. It permeates my being at the exact moment I am immersed in it. I don’t have to think about how I feel, or what I am thinking. In fact, it would never even occur to me to think about these things in my initial exposure to it.
Like the time I turned from a Monet to find myself face to face with a Van Gogh, it completely overtakes me, often leaving me in tears because I am so overwhelmed. When I am in awe of a piece of music, or painting, or movie, or anything that touches me profoundly, I am lost in it.
For that moment in time I am it. I am so vulnerable, I feel it in every one of my senses. When I am finally able to turn away, I am depleted, worn out, so pleasantly sated that I just want to lie back, or go sit some where and contemplate the experience.
Then, like a child, I want to experience it again and again. Looking, listening, reaching back into it for those very first impressions until it becomes so ingrained that I know it like I know my own face.
Obviously this doesn’t happen very often, but when it does? It is one of those moments that leaves me hanging in mid-air, quivering with an exquisite intensity I never forget.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Who I Am
There is a part of me that always has doubts. Do you like me because of who I am, or for some other reason. I don’t know where that comes from.
Possibly because as a young child I already knew that people were not always who they appeared to be.
Possibly because I have been surrounded by cynical people so much of my adult life.
Possibly because of a hundred reasons. I wonder, are you being nice to me because it is good for your business? Or because I have (well, actually had) money? Or because I am so and so’s mother, or wife, or friend?
It is my problem. It must stem from some lack of self esteem, a feeling that I do not measure up all on my own. That is embarrassing to even think of.
Because of this I love strangers. People who have no idea who I am. I love being anonymous. In some strange way it validates who I am.
Possibly because as a young child I already knew that people were not always who they appeared to be.
Possibly because I have been surrounded by cynical people so much of my adult life.
Possibly because of a hundred reasons. I wonder, are you being nice to me because it is good for your business? Or because I have (well, actually had) money? Or because I am so and so’s mother, or wife, or friend?
It is my problem. It must stem from some lack of self esteem, a feeling that I do not measure up all on my own. That is embarrassing to even think of.
Because of this I love strangers. People who have no idea who I am. I love being anonymous. In some strange way it validates who I am.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
A Time For Tasers
It makes for a good story when, once upon a time, the hero is set upon by highway men, or the evil king’s men, or thugs and either manages to stagger into the path of a fair maiden, or is found by her brother and taken to their home. Once there she sheds sweet tears over his suffering form and gently nurses him back to health. Of course she is always fair and always a maiden, so once he recovers they end up marrying and living happily ever after.
Truth be told, I cannot imagine it going that way at all.
All of my experiences, meager as they thankfully are, did not end up with me shedding sweet tears. Oh, I shed the tears and the feelings were most definitely there. Who cannot feel for someone who has been wronged, or hurt, by unfair and unscrupulous people.
The tears, though, often came from a feeling of impotence, a sense of frustration and fury that this happened in the first place. And instead of sitting there dreaming sweet thoughts of happy days to come and the children that would result from this tragedy, I found myself angry and plotting ways to get back at the scum who did it.
And if that truth is told once more? I was never really able to do much about it.
Is it possible that my more pacifist type behaviors came out of these sorts of experiences? Was it out of a sense of helplessness that I chose to choose more peaceful ways? I don’t think so. Those feelings don’t tend to blend quietly into turn the other cheek for me. I have to wrestle them down, find something else I can do that will eat up that hateful energy that rises as naturally within me as lava does from a volcano. I need to rant and fume and then cry real tears of my own pain before I can do anything else. I am, after all, much more human than you might believe.
Who can reason from weakness when cornered on a dark night, or alone in an alley? Peaceful ways have already failed at this point. The idea that you can joke your way out is more romantic and risky than the once upon a time story. The imminent danger to an innocent man or woman in this place is pretty clear. There is a time for Tasers and pepper spray and this is almost certainly it.
Like the Lysol spray I use, they help keep the scum under control until a better solution has time to filter down.
Truth be told, I cannot imagine it going that way at all.
All of my experiences, meager as they thankfully are, did not end up with me shedding sweet tears. Oh, I shed the tears and the feelings were most definitely there. Who cannot feel for someone who has been wronged, or hurt, by unfair and unscrupulous people.
The tears, though, often came from a feeling of impotence, a sense of frustration and fury that this happened in the first place. And instead of sitting there dreaming sweet thoughts of happy days to come and the children that would result from this tragedy, I found myself angry and plotting ways to get back at the scum who did it.
And if that truth is told once more? I was never really able to do much about it.
Is it possible that my more pacifist type behaviors came out of these sorts of experiences? Was it out of a sense of helplessness that I chose to choose more peaceful ways? I don’t think so. Those feelings don’t tend to blend quietly into turn the other cheek for me. I have to wrestle them down, find something else I can do that will eat up that hateful energy that rises as naturally within me as lava does from a volcano. I need to rant and fume and then cry real tears of my own pain before I can do anything else. I am, after all, much more human than you might believe.
Who can reason from weakness when cornered on a dark night, or alone in an alley? Peaceful ways have already failed at this point. The idea that you can joke your way out is more romantic and risky than the once upon a time story. The imminent danger to an innocent man or woman in this place is pretty clear. There is a time for Tasers and pepper spray and this is almost certainly it.
Like the Lysol spray I use, they help keep the scum under control until a better solution has time to filter down.
Life is good!
Once I believed that surprises were just disappointments waiting to happen. Based on a world where the primary caretakers had no idea who I was, that was a valid premise.
Now I am my primary caretaker that is no longer true. How delightful that is!
The world is not predictable, but that does not mean it is sad, or hopeless, or dark. It only means that I cannot be sure what will happen next.
I surround myself with kindred spirits, reliable spirits and all I need to add is faith and patience. This sort of living lends itself to eager anticipation, a reason to get up in the morning and a reason not to go to bed too early.
Life is good!
Now I am my primary caretaker that is no longer true. How delightful that is!
The world is not predictable, but that does not mean it is sad, or hopeless, or dark. It only means that I cannot be sure what will happen next.
I surround myself with kindred spirits, reliable spirits and all I need to add is faith and patience. This sort of living lends itself to eager anticipation, a reason to get up in the morning and a reason not to go to bed too early.
Life is good!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
“The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves." Oscar Wilde
My home is back in order. How long has it been since that leaky pipe warned me of all the murky mildew and mold? I don’t remember. It was trash bags ago! Bags of books and clothing, carpeting and so many other things, all gone. I thought I had narrowed my life down to the bare essentials, but once more the universe has the last word. I can live with even less and any pain that comes from that can be born. Things are not what is important in my world. Not really.
I watched the Georgia O’Keefe movie on television tonight and heard my words falling from her lips. I remember her book that you gave me our first Christmas. I lost its jacket last week, but not the book, not that beautiful reminder of us that I treasure.
I had no idea she would understand what I was about to experience. It took me a long time to understand that two people can love with all their heart and still not be compatible. Love does not have to die because it cannot survive the pain of being together. In fact, I still believe love does not die, but how much better it is if love is allowed to move out of the way before being mangled beyond recognition.
I am here now and content. Less lonely alone, but no less in love. Now the love within me is free. Reaching out, blooming again and again, thriving, growing, being. All those ideals I professed to believe in were mostly fear induced contradictions of reality, I know that now.
Living well is not the best sort of revenge. That, too, is a fear induced maxim. Living well is the only way to live. Doing less is irreverent and life is too short for that.
I watched the Georgia O’Keefe movie on television tonight and heard my words falling from her lips. I remember her book that you gave me our first Christmas. I lost its jacket last week, but not the book, not that beautiful reminder of us that I treasure.
I had no idea she would understand what I was about to experience. It took me a long time to understand that two people can love with all their heart and still not be compatible. Love does not have to die because it cannot survive the pain of being together. In fact, I still believe love does not die, but how much better it is if love is allowed to move out of the way before being mangled beyond recognition.
I am here now and content. Less lonely alone, but no less in love. Now the love within me is free. Reaching out, blooming again and again, thriving, growing, being. All those ideals I professed to believe in were mostly fear induced contradictions of reality, I know that now.
Living well is not the best sort of revenge. That, too, is a fear induced maxim. Living well is the only way to live. Doing less is irreverent and life is too short for that.
Defining Times
Dorothy Parker had her round table. Mary Shelley had her summer with Percy and Lord Byron. There are defining times in our lives. This may be mine.
Times when we encounter those people who alter, not really the course, but the flavor of our living. Rather like adding a touch of curry to the potato salad, leaving just the subtlest of after tastes that hint at something a bit unique.
Not that I consider myself a great wit, nor do I have any connection with Mary Shelley other than a fascination with Frankenstein as a youngster and a term paper I wrote about her my freshman year in college. But I am a woman and I am a writer and I am experiencing a spat of bad weather here!
Perhaps interesting people and dark wet weather go hand in hand with creativity.
Times when we encounter those people who alter, not really the course, but the flavor of our living. Rather like adding a touch of curry to the potato salad, leaving just the subtlest of after tastes that hint at something a bit unique.
Not that I consider myself a great wit, nor do I have any connection with Mary Shelley other than a fascination with Frankenstein as a youngster and a term paper I wrote about her my freshman year in college. But I am a woman and I am a writer and I am experiencing a spat of bad weather here!
Perhaps interesting people and dark wet weather go hand in hand with creativity.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Peaceful
Lennon is asleep at last. His father is still at work and his mother is hosting open mike tonight, so this was our night together. Usually we just spend our days together, but tonight I got to play with him and go through the bedtime routine of teeth brushing and picking out pajamas.
Tonight he opted for me to brush his teeth and no pajamas. Sometimes he just likes to sleep in the altogether. I understand that. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! We read a book and then I sang until he fell asleep.
Last time I sang the old songs, like I did for his Daddy. Tonight he wanted songs about Spiderman. Imagine Brahms Lullaby to words like, “Spidey’s watching, Spidey’s yawning, as he’s watching Lennon sleep……. Go to sleep, little Lennon, Know the Spiderman’s close by.” And so on. I do the best I can improvising on such short notice!
It only took about ten minutes and then I had to tear myself away. There is just something angelic about watching a Lennon sleeping. Those big eyes closed so sweetly, the soft even breathing, the beauty of youth in its most peaceful moments.
Tonight he opted for me to brush his teeth and no pajamas. Sometimes he just likes to sleep in the altogether. I understand that. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! We read a book and then I sang until he fell asleep.
Last time I sang the old songs, like I did for his Daddy. Tonight he wanted songs about Spiderman. Imagine Brahms Lullaby to words like, “Spidey’s watching, Spidey’s yawning, as he’s watching Lennon sleep……. Go to sleep, little Lennon, Know the Spiderman’s close by.” And so on. I do the best I can improvising on such short notice!
It only took about ten minutes and then I had to tear myself away. There is just something angelic about watching a Lennon sleeping. Those big eyes closed so sweetly, the soft even breathing, the beauty of youth in its most peaceful moments.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
By Any Other Name
Life is complicated. That is not a bad thing. It is simply the truth. Even as a child I found that very few things were black and white for me. Can you imagine trying to explain a certain shade of pale gray with dazzling highlights to someone who has been blind since birth?
That is what it is like when I try to write about some of the most profound and moving experiences of my life. Many people would not believe me no matter what I said and the others might believe me no matter what I said, so I won’t go into great detail here, but I need to share some.
There is a power in my life. I have called it many things. Others would call it even other things. Giving it a name neither diminishes, nor enhances it. I do not control it any more than I control the sun, or the moon, or the stars. I don’t even really know if I am the recipient of it, or the creator. I cannot prove either. I only know it is.
If I were a fish, it might be the watery currents that lead into the tides, surrounding me, filling me, becoming part of me as I move through it. Most of the time I swim along, never even noticing it exists, but at other times it pulls me this way, or forces me that way and those times often leave me almost blinded by the light that flashes through me.
I am always free to seek it, but I never know if I have reached it until after the fact, which leaves it even further open for skepticism. As a young child and when I am most vulnerable, on the edge of sleep, or deep in contemplative prayer, or meditation, it has touched me in strange and wonderful ways.
Christians might call my belief Jesus, yet many of them would find my beliefs unpalatable. Mystics might call it something else. In all honesty I can no more label it than I can prove its existence, or count on what it will do with me, or for me. Atheists might call it instinct, or extraordinary powers of observation, but if that is what it is, I quake in my shoes, because I never want to be held responsible for calling upon myself and expecting these results.
By any name, I do have faith in it. It is the rock upon which I stand, the water that pushes me to do things I sometimes do not want to do, but must. Perhaps you are thinking, it is a conscience? In a way it is; a conscience that springs from mystery and a belief in absolute goodness.
It is the power that allows me to do the hardest things without feeling utterly alone. It is what connects me to you and everyone else, a sense of love the envelopes me when I see your face, hear your words, look upon your creation. In the past I have given it names you can understand, but it is more than a name. In some way I do not understand, it is everything
That is what it is like when I try to write about some of the most profound and moving experiences of my life. Many people would not believe me no matter what I said and the others might believe me no matter what I said, so I won’t go into great detail here, but I need to share some.
There is a power in my life. I have called it many things. Others would call it even other things. Giving it a name neither diminishes, nor enhances it. I do not control it any more than I control the sun, or the moon, or the stars. I don’t even really know if I am the recipient of it, or the creator. I cannot prove either. I only know it is.
If I were a fish, it might be the watery currents that lead into the tides, surrounding me, filling me, becoming part of me as I move through it. Most of the time I swim along, never even noticing it exists, but at other times it pulls me this way, or forces me that way and those times often leave me almost blinded by the light that flashes through me.
I am always free to seek it, but I never know if I have reached it until after the fact, which leaves it even further open for skepticism. As a young child and when I am most vulnerable, on the edge of sleep, or deep in contemplative prayer, or meditation, it has touched me in strange and wonderful ways.
Christians might call my belief Jesus, yet many of them would find my beliefs unpalatable. Mystics might call it something else. In all honesty I can no more label it than I can prove its existence, or count on what it will do with me, or for me. Atheists might call it instinct, or extraordinary powers of observation, but if that is what it is, I quake in my shoes, because I never want to be held responsible for calling upon myself and expecting these results.
By any name, I do have faith in it. It is the rock upon which I stand, the water that pushes me to do things I sometimes do not want to do, but must. Perhaps you are thinking, it is a conscience? In a way it is; a conscience that springs from mystery and a belief in absolute goodness.
It is the power that allows me to do the hardest things without feeling utterly alone. It is what connects me to you and everyone else, a sense of love the envelopes me when I see your face, hear your words, look upon your creation. In the past I have given it names you can understand, but it is more than a name. In some way I do not understand, it is everything
Limitations
I don’t want a smart program deciding things for me. It tends to choose from among those things most recently used, assuming these are my real interests.
My real interests are so varied and diverse that any program attempting to help me only gets in the way.
Just because I liked “The Children Of Huan Shi” does not mean I only like Chinese movies. And just because I liked Patrick Swayze in “City Of Joy” does not mean I only want to watch Swayze movies. And because I liked the two above movies, does not mean I only want to view foreign films.
The same is true across the board. My interest in books, films, food, and music is wildly diverse. I love Chow Yun-Fat, but not all of his films. I think Diana Gabaldon is a fantastic author, but she has written at least one book I didn’t care for at all. The thing is, I am willing to try out all sorts of things, even want to try them out, in order to see if my tastes have changed, or expanded, or perhaps even narrowed.
I don’t want, or need, anyone else deciding what I should, or should not enjoy either. I am fully capable of deciding these things myself.
I have found beauty in the most unlikely places and a depth of understanding that might surprise you in other unlikely places. This world is infinitely interesting and to limit it by those things I already know, or appreciate, or dislike, would be a shame.
My real interests are so varied and diverse that any program attempting to help me only gets in the way.
Just because I liked “The Children Of Huan Shi” does not mean I only like Chinese movies. And just because I liked Patrick Swayze in “City Of Joy” does not mean I only want to watch Swayze movies. And because I liked the two above movies, does not mean I only want to view foreign films.
The same is true across the board. My interest in books, films, food, and music is wildly diverse. I love Chow Yun-Fat, but not all of his films. I think Diana Gabaldon is a fantastic author, but she has written at least one book I didn’t care for at all. The thing is, I am willing to try out all sorts of things, even want to try them out, in order to see if my tastes have changed, or expanded, or perhaps even narrowed.
I don’t want, or need, anyone else deciding what I should, or should not enjoy either. I am fully capable of deciding these things myself.
I have found beauty in the most unlikely places and a depth of understanding that might surprise you in other unlikely places. This world is infinitely interesting and to limit it by those things I already know, or appreciate, or dislike, would be a shame.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I’m Just A Mom
I love today’s world. When else in all of history has a Midwestern, oops North Carolina Highlander, woman been able to sit in her house, looking out at the mountains and email someone in Bulgaria, or Prague, or New York, or California, or anywhere else in the world?
I consider myself a normal small town woman who writes a bit and is a mother and grandmother. My son laughs at that. He says he doesn’t know anyone who is less normal than me! I asked him what he meant and was a little surprised at his answer.
“Well, Mom, for one thing, you’ve never been normal. Who else had to call their mother at work to find out where their tennis shoes were and discover they were in the freezer? My feet were still condensing in third hour!
And who else wrote a syncopated melodrama for the Boy Scouts that had them wearing sunbonnets and beating drums in front of the whole school? And remember how our wrestling coach used to make the sign of the cross and scream for help whenever you appeared? Do you remember Marching Band finals when you and that guy ran all away around the track to bring us the kettle drum? I thought you were going to have a heart attack, but we got first place!
And then there were those groups you belonged to, drumming circles, dream groups, journeying. I still have the drum you birthed. People have you read your poems at their funerals! My god, who else does that?
You talk about how scared you are to make waves, but you’re always the one right up front when someone is not treated right. And your friends! Do you realize that if you gave a party and all of your friends came, how shocked some of them would be! You just don’t see people the way most people do. You give a whole new meaning to the word, eclectic. But I love who you are, you’re one of the most loving people I know!"
I cried, then I hurried and wrote it all down before I forgot it! He’s gonna kill me if he ever reads this.
I consider myself a normal small town woman who writes a bit and is a mother and grandmother. My son laughs at that. He says he doesn’t know anyone who is less normal than me! I asked him what he meant and was a little surprised at his answer.
“Well, Mom, for one thing, you’ve never been normal. Who else had to call their mother at work to find out where their tennis shoes were and discover they were in the freezer? My feet were still condensing in third hour!
And who else wrote a syncopated melodrama for the Boy Scouts that had them wearing sunbonnets and beating drums in front of the whole school? And remember how our wrestling coach used to make the sign of the cross and scream for help whenever you appeared? Do you remember Marching Band finals when you and that guy ran all away around the track to bring us the kettle drum? I thought you were going to have a heart attack, but we got first place!
And then there were those groups you belonged to, drumming circles, dream groups, journeying. I still have the drum you birthed. People have you read your poems at their funerals! My god, who else does that?
You talk about how scared you are to make waves, but you’re always the one right up front when someone is not treated right. And your friends! Do you realize that if you gave a party and all of your friends came, how shocked some of them would be! You just don’t see people the way most people do. You give a whole new meaning to the word, eclectic. But I love who you are, you’re one of the most loving people I know!"
I cried, then I hurried and wrote it all down before I forgot it! He’s gonna kill me if he ever reads this.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Sweeter, Softer Side
This is usually my favorite time of the day. Writing is something I enjoy more than almost anything else I do, but it is hard tonight because I am angry. Angry enough to be pulling up moldy wet carpeting by myself and hauling it up the hill to the main road for the garbage collector tomorrow. Bag by bag, because they don’t take anything not in a bag!
I could wait for help, but I just don’t feel like it. I am feeling tired of being reasonable and nice. Right now I would prefer to find something to yell at and maybe even hit, or kick. Except I can’t think of what that would be. Everything I think of is not something I could do that too.
I had about a half a glass of wine left over from a couple of weeks ago -- I drank it right out of the bottle! How’s that for crass? Kind of a waste though, really. It didn’t taste good that way, but at least now I can throw the bottle away and it won’t keep tipping over in the refrigerator. Everything seems to be piling up and falling down at inopportune moments right now.
Nothing is going the way it should. On top of all that I don’t feel good, which I suspect makes everything else seem worse. I am so allergic to this damn stuff in my house that if it didn’t belong to my son, I would simply up and move, but that would not be fair to Lennon.
Lennon! Always it is the Lennons that remind me of life’s sweeter, softer side. I suppose when I think about it, that is such a gift that anything else should be superfluous. I need to remember this!
I could wait for help, but I just don’t feel like it. I am feeling tired of being reasonable and nice. Right now I would prefer to find something to yell at and maybe even hit, or kick. Except I can’t think of what that would be. Everything I think of is not something I could do that too.
I had about a half a glass of wine left over from a couple of weeks ago -- I drank it right out of the bottle! How’s that for crass? Kind of a waste though, really. It didn’t taste good that way, but at least now I can throw the bottle away and it won’t keep tipping over in the refrigerator. Everything seems to be piling up and falling down at inopportune moments right now.
Nothing is going the way it should. On top of all that I don’t feel good, which I suspect makes everything else seem worse. I am so allergic to this damn stuff in my house that if it didn’t belong to my son, I would simply up and move, but that would not be fair to Lennon.
Lennon! Always it is the Lennons that remind me of life’s sweeter, softer side. I suppose when I think about it, that is such a gift that anything else should be superfluous. I need to remember this!
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Make Way
Camelot is crashing. Not because the queen was unfaithful, nor Lancelot not pure enough. Not even because Arthur has failed in any way.
All the knights of the round table can not keep Guinevere from looking in her mirror and noticing the ravages of gravity, nor Lancelot from out growing his boyish idealism, or Arthur from realizing that the magic was more in his mind than his kingdom.
The inexorable pressure of time compresses the freedom of youth into the hard baked forms of adults. Strong and sure, they will keep the shape of the kingdom long after the spring floods and summer storms disappear, making way for the prosperity of Autumn and cold of winter.
Wisdom festers along side warm fires on long chilly nights and the flames no longer tell the nursery tales that once sprang to mind when the dancing lights mingled with shadows too fearsome to name. Now the shadows all have names. Realizing they could not be vanquished, they are like fearsome family pets, eating up all the scraps that were once left overs and dipping into the common pots when there is not enough, because if they aren’t cared for, they will turn on their owners and eat them alive.
Camelot is crashing, but it won’t fade away. It is simply yielding with as much grace and honor as it can possibly muster to the next generation of royalty.
All the knights of the round table can not keep Guinevere from looking in her mirror and noticing the ravages of gravity, nor Lancelot from out growing his boyish idealism, or Arthur from realizing that the magic was more in his mind than his kingdom.
The inexorable pressure of time compresses the freedom of youth into the hard baked forms of adults. Strong and sure, they will keep the shape of the kingdom long after the spring floods and summer storms disappear, making way for the prosperity of Autumn and cold of winter.
Wisdom festers along side warm fires on long chilly nights and the flames no longer tell the nursery tales that once sprang to mind when the dancing lights mingled with shadows too fearsome to name. Now the shadows all have names. Realizing they could not be vanquished, they are like fearsome family pets, eating up all the scraps that were once left overs and dipping into the common pots when there is not enough, because if they aren’t cared for, they will turn on their owners and eat them alive.
Camelot is crashing, but it won’t fade away. It is simply yielding with as much grace and honor as it can possibly muster to the next generation of royalty.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Pride
Pride plagues me like an evil twin who refuses to go away.
I tell people to just be honest, do what you need to do. Easier to write than do.
It is ridiculous for me to be ashamed of my situation. I have done everything I can to keep things running smoothly, but when I am sick, or the dog needs to go to the vet, and the car is ailing, what can I do?
Sheer will power worked better when I was younger and stronger. Now is the time for laying my cards on the table, asking for what I need and having faith.
So today I swallowed my pride, nearly choked on it, but not quite, and took some positive action. It really wasn’t so bad after all. (But it was still hard.)
If this is all some lesson, I hope I got it right this time, because I sure don’t want to do this again if I can avoid it!
Hmmmm, that last line sounds a little more defiant than humbly contrite and smarter, doesn’t it? I’ll keep working on it, I promise!
I tell people to just be honest, do what you need to do. Easier to write than do.
It is ridiculous for me to be ashamed of my situation. I have done everything I can to keep things running smoothly, but when I am sick, or the dog needs to go to the vet, and the car is ailing, what can I do?
Sheer will power worked better when I was younger and stronger. Now is the time for laying my cards on the table, asking for what I need and having faith.
So today I swallowed my pride, nearly choked on it, but not quite, and took some positive action. It really wasn’t so bad after all. (But it was still hard.)
If this is all some lesson, I hope I got it right this time, because I sure don’t want to do this again if I can avoid it!
Hmmmm, that last line sounds a little more defiant than humbly contrite and smarter, doesn’t it? I’ll keep working on it, I promise!
Which Way Do The Scales Tip?
Love is not something to settle for. If you think it is, eventually the frustration and disappointment will break through and ruin the part that is beautiful and sweet.
If both people do not treasure the other, they simply do not belong together.
The defining statement should be about love and devotion. Everything else belongs in the spaces in between and when these become too great, so that the scales tip in their direction, it is time to celebrate the space rather than allow it to taint the love.
True love means having the strength to see clearly.
If both people do not treasure the other, they simply do not belong together.
The defining statement should be about love and devotion. Everything else belongs in the spaces in between and when these become too great, so that the scales tip in their direction, it is time to celebrate the space rather than allow it to taint the love.
True love means having the strength to see clearly.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Nothing Is Set In Stone
My Thots don’t have much room to write in. I pretty much have to choose between the story and the details and since the devil is in the details, I usually just choose the story.
Bare bones teasers are fun to write. The rest of the story is saved for those brave enough to ask, or sweet enough to comment and care.
But since so many have asked, I thought I might tell you a bit more about the little prince. Of course he has a name! I call him Caden Creighton Clemson. His mother is Maura and the new king’s name is Mark. Caden, his little brothers and mother all live with the new king in a very old family estate belonging to Mark, who met Maura long before he knew she had children.
The younger boys cuddled right up to Mark. They really didn’t know any better, but not Caden! He recognized the fury and the false enthusiasm the moment he first set eyes on this man who treated his mother like the delicate and submissive princess she was. Mark, being the shrewd man he was, realized this right away too. Battle lines were drawn and Mark, being so much older and bigger and more experienced, was bound to come out ahead. It actually took several years for Mark’s true colors to come into full bloom, but when they did, his solution was bitterly painful for Caden in every respect.
Eventually the solution became the problem and the Queen Mother stepped in, suggesting that Caden be sent to live with his father. Excited, as any eleven year old is when about to set off on an adventure, Caden left his home and mother and brothers with high hopes and even higher spirits. How could he know how homesick he would be? It was the first time he had experienced anything like this.
If only he had never had to, his life might have been very different, because nothing is set in stone.
Bare bones teasers are fun to write. The rest of the story is saved for those brave enough to ask, or sweet enough to comment and care.
But since so many have asked, I thought I might tell you a bit more about the little prince. Of course he has a name! I call him Caden Creighton Clemson. His mother is Maura and the new king’s name is Mark. Caden, his little brothers and mother all live with the new king in a very old family estate belonging to Mark, who met Maura long before he knew she had children.
The younger boys cuddled right up to Mark. They really didn’t know any better, but not Caden! He recognized the fury and the false enthusiasm the moment he first set eyes on this man who treated his mother like the delicate and submissive princess she was. Mark, being the shrewd man he was, realized this right away too. Battle lines were drawn and Mark, being so much older and bigger and more experienced, was bound to come out ahead. It actually took several years for Mark’s true colors to come into full bloom, but when they did, his solution was bitterly painful for Caden in every respect.
Eventually the solution became the problem and the Queen Mother stepped in, suggesting that Caden be sent to live with his father. Excited, as any eleven year old is when about to set off on an adventure, Caden left his home and mother and brothers with high hopes and even higher spirits. How could he know how homesick he would be? It was the first time he had experienced anything like this.
If only he had never had to, his life might have been very different, because nothing is set in stone.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Live Long and Well
Living in the moment means inexorably moving on. One minute yields to another and things change. Slowly, it seems, when I was young. Not so slowly anymore. Days fade into months and years so quickly that sometimes I feel I am in a time warp.
Many of the faces before me have begun to wrinkle and their hair is turning gray. I find glasses on the eyes of those once too busy to even blink and now and then someone disappears altogether.
Are they just moving too fast for me to see them? Have they taken that big step beyond the veil? Or have they simply moved on too? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. They are not here.
I am here. It is the only place I know how to be. I am not really an opportunist, but if you want to call me that, I guess I can’t say too much about it. I never take advantage of someone, but I do not miss the chances that come my way either. Why would I do that?
As long as I am alive, it seems only logical to keep on living and it doesn’t appear to me that this road I’m on is simply straight and narrow. In fact, it looks more like an avenue to me, meandering up and down, in and out, and around so many fascinating things that sometimes I have a hard time staying focused.
The scenery is beautiful, the people are fascinating and the going not too bad because now I know that whatever is not to my liking will eventually change. It always does.
I do stop and look back more than I used to, but there is so much back there! When I do, nostalgia creeps in and there can be a momentary tear, or two, but I have a solution for that now that I didn’t have in the past.
Now I know that living well is the best cure for what ails me. And I do live well!
Many of the faces before me have begun to wrinkle and their hair is turning gray. I find glasses on the eyes of those once too busy to even blink and now and then someone disappears altogether.
Are they just moving too fast for me to see them? Have they taken that big step beyond the veil? Or have they simply moved on too? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. They are not here.
I am here. It is the only place I know how to be. I am not really an opportunist, but if you want to call me that, I guess I can’t say too much about it. I never take advantage of someone, but I do not miss the chances that come my way either. Why would I do that?
As long as I am alive, it seems only logical to keep on living and it doesn’t appear to me that this road I’m on is simply straight and narrow. In fact, it looks more like an avenue to me, meandering up and down, in and out, and around so many fascinating things that sometimes I have a hard time staying focused.
The scenery is beautiful, the people are fascinating and the going not too bad because now I know that whatever is not to my liking will eventually change. It always does.
I do stop and look back more than I used to, but there is so much back there! When I do, nostalgia creeps in and there can be a momentary tear, or two, but I have a solution for that now that I didn’t have in the past.
Now I know that living well is the best cure for what ails me. And I do live well!
The Apology
Sometimes I handle things badly. I don’t mean too, but when I do it I feel terrible.
Then I am not sure how to apologize without making it complicated. Experience tells me that just letting some things go is for the best, but not always.
So, do I apologize, or not? I want to, but I’m not even sure how to word it, since I didn’t start out to make such a big deal out of a casual remark. I already know the response to my apology will be considerate and more than kind. I just don’t want to make the whole thing worse.
Arrgh! You’d think I would know how to deal with these sorts of things by now.
The bottom line is: I really am sorry.
Then I am not sure how to apologize without making it complicated. Experience tells me that just letting some things go is for the best, but not always.
So, do I apologize, or not? I want to, but I’m not even sure how to word it, since I didn’t start out to make such a big deal out of a casual remark. I already know the response to my apology will be considerate and more than kind. I just don’t want to make the whole thing worse.
Arrgh! You’d think I would know how to deal with these sorts of things by now.
The bottom line is: I really am sorry.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Today
Fairy tales never happened once upon a time. They are happening as you read this. It is just not always easy to recognize them when you are part of the story. Snow White had no idea that some prince was on his way when she bit into that apple, but you must remember this too… In the original fairy tales not everyone was rescued, nor was there always a happy ending. In fact, many had terrible endings!
That’s why I cannot allow myself to sit back and wait to be rescued. It is also why I cannot allow the witch to eat Hansel, or the Snow Queen to take over Narnia. If I don’t step in and play my part, the witch might eat Lennon next, or the Snow Queen might come in through my closet and take over my world!
Everybody’s child and everybody’s world, is my responsibility.
Now saying this, I am not supposed to be taking up arms against that proverbial sea of troubles and charging head long into a war I don’t have a clue how to fight. I am supposed to find out what I am good at and then do it!
We really are like those symbolic drops of water poets write about. Alone, some of us reflect the light beautifully. With persistence, some of us can dig out another Grand Canyon. As a force, it is possible for us to create tidal waves of action, when bonded together.
Do what you do best and keep doing it, because this is once upon a time and you are one of the heroes.
That’s why I cannot allow myself to sit back and wait to be rescued. It is also why I cannot allow the witch to eat Hansel, or the Snow Queen to take over Narnia. If I don’t step in and play my part, the witch might eat Lennon next, or the Snow Queen might come in through my closet and take over my world!
Everybody’s child and everybody’s world, is my responsibility.
Now saying this, I am not supposed to be taking up arms against that proverbial sea of troubles and charging head long into a war I don’t have a clue how to fight. I am supposed to find out what I am good at and then do it!
We really are like those symbolic drops of water poets write about. Alone, some of us reflect the light beautifully. With persistence, some of us can dig out another Grand Canyon. As a force, it is possible for us to create tidal waves of action, when bonded together.
Do what you do best and keep doing it, because this is once upon a time and you are one of the heroes.
This Night’s Tale
The little prince was cute, spirited, full of vinegar! Adorable, funny, brilliant, the queen’s little man. Old beyond his years and much loved, he believed that it was his job to take care of his little brothers and mother. He took it to heart. It was who he was.
Well, that was who he was before. Now everything had changed.
He tried to be what he did best and sometimes he thought he succeeded. His mother’s eyes would light up and look at him the way she had before. Before the new king came into their lives, but the new king would always put a hand on her arm, turn off the lights in her eyes and shake his head sadly.
The prince was a show off, mouthy, a hellion, unkempt, belligerent, and jealous. These were some of the words the new king used. Nuisance, manipulator, a problem, were the others..
The little prince tried harder, but it always seemed to turn out wrong. The new king took over and his mother tried not to interfere. Everyone tried very hard and they were all miserable.
Finally he was banished. Oh that wasn’t what they called it, it was just what it felt like to him. The little prince was sent to a kingdom far far away where his father ruled. He missed his mother and his little brothers. He was an only child in the new kingdom and he was lonely. The people spoke a different language, and everything was different, even the food, but he tried to fit in.
Except that his records said he was a problem. No one quite knew what sort of problem, but they kept their eyes open. Each one ready to nip it in the bud the moment it appeared and each one finding a different problem they felt compelled to solve. Eventually he was banished once more.
This time he found himself in a tower back in his mother’s kingdom. Here he could see his little brothers and his mother. He could even see the not so new king, but he could not eat with them, or laugh with them, or live with them, and he was lonelier than ever.
Finally he got tired of being called a problem and he moved out on his own, determined to build his own castle, make his own family, find his own life and fill it from top to bottom with all the love that was stashed deep inside of him.
And he did.
Well, that was who he was before. Now everything had changed.
He tried to be what he did best and sometimes he thought he succeeded. His mother’s eyes would light up and look at him the way she had before. Before the new king came into their lives, but the new king would always put a hand on her arm, turn off the lights in her eyes and shake his head sadly.
The prince was a show off, mouthy, a hellion, unkempt, belligerent, and jealous. These were some of the words the new king used. Nuisance, manipulator, a problem, were the others..
The little prince tried harder, but it always seemed to turn out wrong. The new king took over and his mother tried not to interfere. Everyone tried very hard and they were all miserable.
Finally he was banished. Oh that wasn’t what they called it, it was just what it felt like to him. The little prince was sent to a kingdom far far away where his father ruled. He missed his mother and his little brothers. He was an only child in the new kingdom and he was lonely. The people spoke a different language, and everything was different, even the food, but he tried to fit in.
Except that his records said he was a problem. No one quite knew what sort of problem, but they kept their eyes open. Each one ready to nip it in the bud the moment it appeared and each one finding a different problem they felt compelled to solve. Eventually he was banished once more.
This time he found himself in a tower back in his mother’s kingdom. Here he could see his little brothers and his mother. He could even see the not so new king, but he could not eat with them, or laugh with them, or live with them, and he was lonelier than ever.
Finally he got tired of being called a problem and he moved out on his own, determined to build his own castle, make his own family, find his own life and fill it from top to bottom with all the love that was stashed deep inside of him.
And he did.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Real Little Lambs
In an attempt to simplify things for children, many entertainment venues have good guys and bad guys, but even Lennon, who is only three, will explain to me that this super hero, or that one, is not all bad, or all good. Small statures and big eyes only hide the intelligence behind them, they don’t stunt it.
Encourage children to read and listen, to learn and think, and they begin to realize that not only is good and bad subjective, but all labels are just one aspect of something. By the time you get to my age, you start to see that labels are generally placed in different places by different perspectives.
Life is neither simple, nor two dimensional. The more dimensions I find, the more fascinated I become. This is not true for some people. George Orwell illustrates one of the most common ways of controlling those who either can’t, or don’t like to think, with his sheep‘s slogan, “four legs good, two legs bad.” Eventually there are those who really do fall into these sad stereotypes, because they lack the desire, or courage, or ability to reason.
In any event, it is not a debate. To think, or not to think, that is really the question -- and then there is living with the reality of it. Personally I am not particularly fond of real sheep. If Mary took her lamb to school, she must have had a good groomer, because if you don’t dock their tails and keep them sheared they get caught up in all sorts of messes and they smell terrible!
Encourage children to read and listen, to learn and think, and they begin to realize that not only is good and bad subjective, but all labels are just one aspect of something. By the time you get to my age, you start to see that labels are generally placed in different places by different perspectives.
Life is neither simple, nor two dimensional. The more dimensions I find, the more fascinated I become. This is not true for some people. George Orwell illustrates one of the most common ways of controlling those who either can’t, or don’t like to think, with his sheep‘s slogan, “four legs good, two legs bad.” Eventually there are those who really do fall into these sad stereotypes, because they lack the desire, or courage, or ability to reason.
In any event, it is not a debate. To think, or not to think, that is really the question -- and then there is living with the reality of it. Personally I am not particularly fond of real sheep. If Mary took her lamb to school, she must have had a good groomer, because if you don’t dock their tails and keep them sheared they get caught up in all sorts of messes and they smell terrible!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Twisting The Knife
Most of you already know that I think war is not the answer, that forcing people under threat of annihilation only alters the moment. Underground and out of sight, true evil only regroups and foments sympathizers that will rise again. Rather than salting the field, it might be better to pull a few weeds and take really good care of what is left, because the more healthy, well fed and content people there are, the less room there is for hateful ones. Loyalty and love are powerful weapons.
Wars are seldom, if ever, fought for good, or obvious reasons. They are generally the tool of specific groups reaching for very specific gains at the expense of all the people in the middle.
That being said, I have a soft spot in my heart for so many of the young soldiers out there, willing to die for what they believe in. It is true that we use young people to fight wars and they are the ones most likely to garner those purple hearts and other medals of honor, because they do not really think things through. While I do not condone their killing and I have never been one to blindly follow orders, I understand where many come from.
They are young. Young! Despite the death and destruction they wreak, they often do it with a passion and a desire to be what they have been taught is great. All their lives they hear the stories of heroes who go to war and save the kingdom. Trying to get out of the ghettos and misery of a world so screwed up an honest man working sixty hours a week is often still unable to provide for his family, they sign up to work for Uncle Sam, thinking it is one of the last places they might gain a foothold honorably.
Most of us remember the face of a child who looks at us after being hurt by a doctor, or disciplinarian for their own good. The face that says, “How could you do this to me?” It is innocence. It is inexperience. It is a belief in something good that turns out to hurt more than they thought. Many of our young soldiers feel just like that and the price they pay is terrible. Not that it justifies the damage done, but it does explain why their stories and faces twist the knife in my heart just a bit more.
Wars are seldom, if ever, fought for good, or obvious reasons. They are generally the tool of specific groups reaching for very specific gains at the expense of all the people in the middle.
That being said, I have a soft spot in my heart for so many of the young soldiers out there, willing to die for what they believe in. It is true that we use young people to fight wars and they are the ones most likely to garner those purple hearts and other medals of honor, because they do not really think things through. While I do not condone their killing and I have never been one to blindly follow orders, I understand where many come from.
They are young. Young! Despite the death and destruction they wreak, they often do it with a passion and a desire to be what they have been taught is great. All their lives they hear the stories of heroes who go to war and save the kingdom. Trying to get out of the ghettos and misery of a world so screwed up an honest man working sixty hours a week is often still unable to provide for his family, they sign up to work for Uncle Sam, thinking it is one of the last places they might gain a foothold honorably.
Most of us remember the face of a child who looks at us after being hurt by a doctor, or disciplinarian for their own good. The face that says, “How could you do this to me?” It is innocence. It is inexperience. It is a belief in something good that turns out to hurt more than they thought. Many of our young soldiers feel just like that and the price they pay is terrible. Not that it justifies the damage done, but it does explain why their stories and faces twist the knife in my heart just a bit more.
The Kudzu
Opening up my eyes, still bleary, no one heard my plaintive query,
Through the green and hazy morning, as I struggled to sit upright.
While I sat there gently gasping, suddenly there came a rasping,
As if something was barely scratching, scratching at my window frame.
Just the wind I wanly whispered, scratching at my window frame-
If it’s not, I hope its tame!
Hear my story and listen well. Tis a scary tale I tell;
Of a house built stout and sure and lo, a window not shut tight.
Vainly I regretted sleeping, while outside it came close creeping.
Just like someone slyly sneaking, sneaking up my window pane,
Tis just the wind among the leaves, rustling on my window pane-
Nothing more, it has no name.
Yet my heart was beating hard, I knew what came from my own yard,
Over the fence and through the grass, until it loomed up into sight;
Great flat leaves and tendrils curling, clinging close and then unfurling,
Twisting, turning, all night swirling, climbing through my window plain-
Simple kudzu never yielding, pushing through my window plain-
Am I dreaming, or insane?
(Obviously owing Edgar Allan Poe and his poem “The Raven” much credit, I wrote this after my son spent hours hacking kudzu off of our bushes, trees, fences and clothesline poles, all of which had long disappeared under this lively predator that grows a foot a day, exponentially, as it spreads out in all directions.)
Through the green and hazy morning, as I struggled to sit upright.
While I sat there gently gasping, suddenly there came a rasping,
As if something was barely scratching, scratching at my window frame.
Just the wind I wanly whispered, scratching at my window frame-
If it’s not, I hope its tame!
Hear my story and listen well. Tis a scary tale I tell;
Of a house built stout and sure and lo, a window not shut tight.
Vainly I regretted sleeping, while outside it came close creeping.
Just like someone slyly sneaking, sneaking up my window pane,
Tis just the wind among the leaves, rustling on my window pane-
Nothing more, it has no name.
Yet my heart was beating hard, I knew what came from my own yard,
Over the fence and through the grass, until it loomed up into sight;
Great flat leaves and tendrils curling, clinging close and then unfurling,
Twisting, turning, all night swirling, climbing through my window plain-
Simple kudzu never yielding, pushing through my window plain-
Am I dreaming, or insane?
(Obviously owing Edgar Allan Poe and his poem “The Raven” much credit, I wrote this after my son spent hours hacking kudzu off of our bushes, trees, fences and clothesline poles, all of which had long disappeared under this lively predator that grows a foot a day, exponentially, as it spreads out in all directions.)
Friday, September 4, 2009
Laughing Out Loud
I woke up feeling so good this morning I almost didn’t know what to do. So I did what I do every morning, but it was so much more fun today.
I made myself a good cup of coffee. I sat in the silence and watched the clouds rise up off the mountains, allowing gratitude to pour out of me and into the light around me. I read my email and wallowed in the loving thoughts of my very oldest and best friends for a while.
Later I went and read another friend’s blog and laughed out loud as only he can make me do. His shenanigans are the sort that always touch me in just the right places and it feels so good to know there are kindred spirits out there.
I got some work done and even helped my sister solve a problem on her computer. (The fact that I am anyone’s computer guru always astounds me…….and pleases me too!) It was a great day.
Conscious living can be a struggle, but on a day like today it was so easy. I swear, not one smile was left unnoticed, not one loving feeling lost in mindless muttering. I am flooded with the joy of my blessings and the way they never desert me. It reminds me of how important it is to continue noticing them on less perfect days.
Breathing in I calm my body
Breathing out I smile
Dwelling in the present moment
I know this is a wonderful moment.
by Thich Nhat Hanh
I made myself a good cup of coffee. I sat in the silence and watched the clouds rise up off the mountains, allowing gratitude to pour out of me and into the light around me. I read my email and wallowed in the loving thoughts of my very oldest and best friends for a while.
Later I went and read another friend’s blog and laughed out loud as only he can make me do. His shenanigans are the sort that always touch me in just the right places and it feels so good to know there are kindred spirits out there.
I got some work done and even helped my sister solve a problem on her computer. (The fact that I am anyone’s computer guru always astounds me…….and pleases me too!) It was a great day.
Conscious living can be a struggle, but on a day like today it was so easy. I swear, not one smile was left unnoticed, not one loving feeling lost in mindless muttering. I am flooded with the joy of my blessings and the way they never desert me. It reminds me of how important it is to continue noticing them on less perfect days.
Breathing in I calm my body
Breathing out I smile
Dwelling in the present moment
I know this is a wonderful moment.
by Thich Nhat Hanh
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Lennon
I have spent years learning to let go of what I cannot change. Tonight I am not going to write My Thots until I can do that. Perhaps there will be Thots. Perhaps not.
Lennon
The only things that appear capable of countering tonight are Lennon. Those beautiful experiences given to me because of sweetness, innocence and impossibly great hearts.
At a time when the world worships youth and beauty, I have not felt particularly beautiful for quite some time. Yet, in the eyes of love, I have been, and am, beautiful.
To be loved for who I am and what I believe, is to know that my life has not been futile. To look into eyes who see me as light and love is to see myself the way I wish to be. To hear my own words flowing from mouths I adore, is a gift beyond comprehension.
And so I close my eyes and let my mind hold close these moments that fill me better than anything else in the world.
Lennon
The only things that appear capable of countering tonight are Lennon. Those beautiful experiences given to me because of sweetness, innocence and impossibly great hearts.
At a time when the world worships youth and beauty, I have not felt particularly beautiful for quite some time. Yet, in the eyes of love, I have been, and am, beautiful.
To be loved for who I am and what I believe, is to know that my life has not been futile. To look into eyes who see me as light and love is to see myself the way I wish to be. To hear my own words flowing from mouths I adore, is a gift beyond comprehension.
And so I close my eyes and let my mind hold close these moments that fill me better than anything else in the world.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Monstrosities
August was a tough month this year. So much pain that even the medicine didn’t help much and while everyone is talking about healthcare, I got to figure out how much medical care I could afford without insurance, so that kept everything interesting.
My car has been free of anything except maintenance for ten years, so it stands to reason that eventually a few things must be repaired, or replaced. Unfortunately for me this year and this past month were when it made up its mind that some things had to go. Still, I love my car. I cannot recommend Honda Accords more, they are awesome!
There is just nothing like perusing my bills to reinforce the idea that I am going to have to be more creative! Last month, with both me and the car down, the bills were staggering and it all began to affect the way I thought. Top that off with all the days I had to spend in bed and by last week my dreams were getting to be world class nightmares, really spectacular monstrosities that might even make it on the big screen.
It appears this flare up is waning and life is moving back into a gentler lane.
This morning I woke up wondering why I didn’t write My Thots about Pavarotti, specifically the day he spent with me! You see they were holding the World Cup for Women’s Soccer across the street and he stayed with me so he could watch. I remember looking up and seeing him pretending to wash my front windows as he waved and laughed at me!
Then I really woke up and realized the reason I didn’t write about it was that it was only a dream. A great dream, though!
Here’s to September! May it be healthier, happier and a whole lot simpler!
My car has been free of anything except maintenance for ten years, so it stands to reason that eventually a few things must be repaired, or replaced. Unfortunately for me this year and this past month were when it made up its mind that some things had to go. Still, I love my car. I cannot recommend Honda Accords more, they are awesome!
There is just nothing like perusing my bills to reinforce the idea that I am going to have to be more creative! Last month, with both me and the car down, the bills were staggering and it all began to affect the way I thought. Top that off with all the days I had to spend in bed and by last week my dreams were getting to be world class nightmares, really spectacular monstrosities that might even make it on the big screen.
It appears this flare up is waning and life is moving back into a gentler lane.
This morning I woke up wondering why I didn’t write My Thots about Pavarotti, specifically the day he spent with me! You see they were holding the World Cup for Women’s Soccer across the street and he stayed with me so he could watch. I remember looking up and seeing him pretending to wash my front windows as he waved and laughed at me!
Then I really woke up and realized the reason I didn’t write about it was that it was only a dream. A great dream, though!
Here’s to September! May it be healthier, happier and a whole lot simpler!
It’s All In The Name
It is late. The road is dark and I turn on the car radio looking for something to keep me awake and focused. Thirty seconds later I am sorry.
I am listening to one of the descendents of the village rouser, that man who rallied the town folk to gather up their torches and storm Dr. Frankenstein’s castle, kill the monster and end all their troubles. The one who later became a terrified man whose crop was failing and who called his neighbors to help him find the witch responsible and burn her! The one who put sheets over his head and stormed the homes of those who did not fit in some way in order to assuage the pain of all those whose ills needed someone to blame.
I recognize him by his call words. “Red Chinese, Commie Americans,” name calling, the time honored tradition of those calling the beleaguered illiterate, semi-literate and desperate to come and find a solution to their problems by assaulting and torturing the innocent. The men and women who draw their power from inciting sheer numbers of poorly informed people to rise up and bedevil those who are different.
Hard times call for hard solutions and when people can’t figure out what those solutions are they can reach their lowest common denominator, fear crimes. Crimes that make no sense at all, but strike out at anyone who does not fit that great American mythical symbol of perfection , the traditional Caucasian couple with two point five children, working two, often gender specific and definitely decent jobs, belonging to the appropriate organizations and no others, united under a particular Christian God with justice for all, except anyone who doesn’t fill one of the above holes.
Of course these poor blind soldiers have no concept that any one of these holes may be modified to include them too someday. That is not part of the call to battle. It is keeping emotions high, and thinking at an all time low, that is crucial to this kind of power and there are people who excel at it. There are also people who feel most complete when they are participating in it.
Both terrify me.
I and most of the people I love and value deeply do not fill all of these slots. If you do, then be sure to listen carefully so you know when the name calling slowly morphs into the one that includes you, because eventually it will. It always does.
I am listening to one of the descendents of the village rouser, that man who rallied the town folk to gather up their torches and storm Dr. Frankenstein’s castle, kill the monster and end all their troubles. The one who later became a terrified man whose crop was failing and who called his neighbors to help him find the witch responsible and burn her! The one who put sheets over his head and stormed the homes of those who did not fit in some way in order to assuage the pain of all those whose ills needed someone to blame.
I recognize him by his call words. “Red Chinese, Commie Americans,” name calling, the time honored tradition of those calling the beleaguered illiterate, semi-literate and desperate to come and find a solution to their problems by assaulting and torturing the innocent. The men and women who draw their power from inciting sheer numbers of poorly informed people to rise up and bedevil those who are different.
Hard times call for hard solutions and when people can’t figure out what those solutions are they can reach their lowest common denominator, fear crimes. Crimes that make no sense at all, but strike out at anyone who does not fit that great American mythical symbol of perfection , the traditional Caucasian couple with two point five children, working two, often gender specific and definitely decent jobs, belonging to the appropriate organizations and no others, united under a particular Christian God with justice for all, except anyone who doesn’t fill one of the above holes.
Of course these poor blind soldiers have no concept that any one of these holes may be modified to include them too someday. That is not part of the call to battle. It is keeping emotions high, and thinking at an all time low, that is crucial to this kind of power and there are people who excel at it. There are also people who feel most complete when they are participating in it.
Both terrify me.
I and most of the people I love and value deeply do not fill all of these slots. If you do, then be sure to listen carefully so you know when the name calling slowly morphs into the one that includes you, because eventually it will. It always does.
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