There is a cute little café, caterer not too far from us where we sometimes walk for lunch. It has just a few tables inside and a picnic table outside. With very reasonable prices, a quaint atmosphere and outstanding food it has to be the best deal in town. Another perk is that the people all tend to talk to each other among the tables and the two women who run it join in too, so there is a World Café atmosphere.
Today Lennon was a little antsy and my son told him to take a breath and relax. About the same time one of the owners stepped up and asked him how he was doing. Without batting an eye, my four year old grandson looked up at her and quietly said, “Help. Help. I’m being oppressed.” I nearly died, laughing that is. I’m not sure if he even understands what that means, but he surely came up with it in exactly the right place!
I saw part of a television show where some woman was a compulsive shopper, filling her house with very expensive clothes and shoes, some that cost $700! They couldn’t walk through the place anymore, which was the topic for the program. It annoyed me, but perhaps that is because I am the flip side of that problem. I am more likely to give things away too soon and then discover I do need them.
I also saw an advertisement about God and I thought, it’s not God I have a problem with. It’s the people who claim to represent him.
Lots of thoughts in my head tonight, but I’m not getting any work done. More work, less thinking. Time to put the ego to bed.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Obligations
Everyone has the right to expect to be treated decently, no matter what they do, or what other people think of it. There are no professions where someone should be fair game for exploiters and pushy people.
The younger and less experienced a person is, the more vulnerable they are. Some places and professions lend themselves more readily to this kind of mind set and if the authority figures, or the ones with money, push harder than they should, society has a tendency to look the other way.
This is wrong! Each and every one of us has an obligation to keep this from happening.
It is never easy. People who use and abuse others always have a rationale they can use to defend themselves, but most of us know the difference between right and wrong. It’s really not that hard to figure out.
Of course there are going to be witch hunts, but they aren’t as prevalent as most of us would like to think. Human nature in adults tends to shy away from ugly and distasteful situations, so when the accusations hit the fan, they should be listened to.
And good people then step up and do something about it.
The younger and less experienced a person is, the more vulnerable they are. Some places and professions lend themselves more readily to this kind of mind set and if the authority figures, or the ones with money, push harder than they should, society has a tendency to look the other way.
This is wrong! Each and every one of us has an obligation to keep this from happening.
It is never easy. People who use and abuse others always have a rationale they can use to defend themselves, but most of us know the difference between right and wrong. It’s really not that hard to figure out.
Of course there are going to be witch hunts, but they aren’t as prevalent as most of us would like to think. Human nature in adults tends to shy away from ugly and distasteful situations, so when the accusations hit the fan, they should be listened to.
And good people then step up and do something about it.
Monday, March 29, 2010
What A Deal!
It has always been customary to model the behavior we approve of. It is a powerful way of teaching. Yet, our society seems to be preaching from the back side of the pulpit anymore.
Years ago I was at a church meeting where we were trying to figure out how to implement some new and innovative ideas. It was in a white collar city where most of the people worked for big companies and everyone was offering to bring this, or that from their company as an offering. Not actually from the company, but just something they would pick up and bring. Finally our priest stopped and, smiling, looked at us all as he said, “Well, we ought to be able to steal almost anything we need!” It was a point well taken.
What was once considered wrong, is sometimes looked upon as quite an accomplishment anymore. Getting the best deal at any cost, coming out on top at all costs. Getting the most for the least amount of money, work, or effort is so highly prized by so many in our society anymore that it has become more than a game. It is now a way of life.
Yet we seem surprised when it happens to us. It is okay to steal videos, or votes, phone minutes, or music, or pay under the counter for deep discounts, but let someone take advantage of me and I am outraged? That’s the way it works folks. It is either right, or wrong, but it isn’t both.
If anything is fair game in your world, remember you are too.
There are still a handful of businesses and people who do play fair. They treat people right, produce quality products, and respect the rights of others. They are usually the ones who go out of their way to give a baker’s dozen and clean up the crumbs afterwards, but they don’t seem to elicit enough interest to be the subject of TV programs and movies and since they don’t gloat about their sly ways, they often go unnoticed.
These are the rock solid citizens who support the rest of us the best they can and these are the ones we better start supporting ourselves.
Years ago I was at a church meeting where we were trying to figure out how to implement some new and innovative ideas. It was in a white collar city where most of the people worked for big companies and everyone was offering to bring this, or that from their company as an offering. Not actually from the company, but just something they would pick up and bring. Finally our priest stopped and, smiling, looked at us all as he said, “Well, we ought to be able to steal almost anything we need!” It was a point well taken.
What was once considered wrong, is sometimes looked upon as quite an accomplishment anymore. Getting the best deal at any cost, coming out on top at all costs. Getting the most for the least amount of money, work, or effort is so highly prized by so many in our society anymore that it has become more than a game. It is now a way of life.
Yet we seem surprised when it happens to us. It is okay to steal videos, or votes, phone minutes, or music, or pay under the counter for deep discounts, but let someone take advantage of me and I am outraged? That’s the way it works folks. It is either right, or wrong, but it isn’t both.
If anything is fair game in your world, remember you are too.
There are still a handful of businesses and people who do play fair. They treat people right, produce quality products, and respect the rights of others. They are usually the ones who go out of their way to give a baker’s dozen and clean up the crumbs afterwards, but they don’t seem to elicit enough interest to be the subject of TV programs and movies and since they don’t gloat about their sly ways, they often go unnoticed.
These are the rock solid citizens who support the rest of us the best they can and these are the ones we better start supporting ourselves.
Up And At Em!
A long time ago my husband called home and asked what I was doing. I told him I was re-arranging the cabinets. He was surprised when he came in and saw that I had actually done that! Unscrewed them from the wall and put them in different places in the kitchen. Once I was aware that it was possible, I tried a variety of different ways over the years, even removing the island at one point.
I like doing things like that, trying out different lay outs, or using rooms for unusual purposes. When we built the house I put the laundry room off the closet in our master suite. It was also accessible from the hallway, the closet acted like insulation if I was running something in there and it was so convenient. A simple pocket door in the back of the closet made it work.
Today it was too cold, windy and wet to walk, so I re-arranged this kitchen and back hallway. This house is much smaller than my old ones, so I have to jockey furniture around when I do this and that makes it great exercise.
I’m not good at exercising just for the sake of my health. I need to keep it interesting if I am going to keep doing it. I played tennis for years, nothing beats running full court for four hours. I can eat like a horse when I do that, but I can’t do it anymore. I rode my bike until a couple years ago. I’ve had numerous memberships with gyms and a couple of exercise machines over the years too. We had a pool and keeping it clean was a major undertaking, followed by the reward, a swim. I have to admit that the gardening I’ve done has always been more or less because I had to, I tend to prefer natural settings,
but it was good exercise too
I’m trying folks. Anything that gets me up and moving has got to be good right now! Bear with me.
I like doing things like that, trying out different lay outs, or using rooms for unusual purposes. When we built the house I put the laundry room off the closet in our master suite. It was also accessible from the hallway, the closet acted like insulation if I was running something in there and it was so convenient. A simple pocket door in the back of the closet made it work.
Today it was too cold, windy and wet to walk, so I re-arranged this kitchen and back hallway. This house is much smaller than my old ones, so I have to jockey furniture around when I do this and that makes it great exercise.
I’m not good at exercising just for the sake of my health. I need to keep it interesting if I am going to keep doing it. I played tennis for years, nothing beats running full court for four hours. I can eat like a horse when I do that, but I can’t do it anymore. I rode my bike until a couple years ago. I’ve had numerous memberships with gyms and a couple of exercise machines over the years too. We had a pool and keeping it clean was a major undertaking, followed by the reward, a swim. I have to admit that the gardening I’ve done has always been more or less because I had to, I tend to prefer natural settings,
but it was good exercise too
I’m trying folks. Anything that gets me up and moving has got to be good right now! Bear with me.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Easter Egg Plan
Twenty seven years ago today my mother-in-law and I decided to stop smoking together. She had smoked most of her eighty one years. I had smoked about ten. She died April 1st. And over the course of the next few months, sometimes I envied her. It was the hardest habit I ever had to give up.
The point, though, is that I did give it up. “Your last real vice.” my husband sneered, “Now I suppose you think you’re perfect.“ I had to cut him some slack here. He’d been smoking nearly thirty years and was trying to quit too. I still drink coffee and have an occasional drink, but my real last vice is eating too much.
Until I moved away from Bloomington, I rode my bicycle every day and sometimes twenty, or more, miles on a weekend, but the trails were close and the environment conducive to that. Here the mountains undulate in grades that have the kids gasping for air. I just can’t do it, so I’ve put on weight and that makes everything harder. Plus my time is broken up by watching Lennon and any commitment has always been hard for me, no matter how pleasant it is.
Honestly, I hate the way I look. It makes me want to hide away. And then I seem to be falling apart, one muscle at a time, so it becomes a sort of vicious circle. After receiving an encouraging email from a friend I have decided to try out the Easter Egg plan, (looking for the hidden me and trying to bring her back into sight!)
The point, though, is that I did give it up. “Your last real vice.” my husband sneered, “Now I suppose you think you’re perfect.“ I had to cut him some slack here. He’d been smoking nearly thirty years and was trying to quit too. I still drink coffee and have an occasional drink, but my real last vice is eating too much.
Until I moved away from Bloomington, I rode my bicycle every day and sometimes twenty, or more, miles on a weekend, but the trails were close and the environment conducive to that. Here the mountains undulate in grades that have the kids gasping for air. I just can’t do it, so I’ve put on weight and that makes everything harder. Plus my time is broken up by watching Lennon and any commitment has always been hard for me, no matter how pleasant it is.
Honestly, I hate the way I look. It makes me want to hide away. And then I seem to be falling apart, one muscle at a time, so it becomes a sort of vicious circle. After receiving an encouraging email from a friend I have decided to try out the Easter Egg plan, (looking for the hidden me and trying to bring her back into sight!)
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Mixed Blessings
Something green is growing in my yard and it gives the impression that Spring has sprung, but let me tell you a secret. That stuff is always green here.
Like some alien vegetation who refuses to recognize the seasons, or be put down by a string of cold gray days, or even a blanket of snow, it peers at me defiantly. I believe it’s only admission of weakness is that it grows slower in the winter.
Two years ago, in anticipation of me moving in, my son mowed the three foot grass back there. That first mowing was left on the ground and when I raked it up there was mud. Out of that mud rose these green spiky creatures disguising themselves as fat grass.
Ignorance on my part and a naïve gratitude that my entire yard was not a muddy morass, a grassless swamp filled with spiders and worms and things that crawl, I was actually delighted to see it. Now I fight a never ending battle with the stuff.
It grows ten times faster than the anemic little patches of grass around it, holding its ground against almost all newcomers, but still, it provides a lush background for those delicate blue flowers and short conical purple ones that manage to push through here and there. Even the dandelions have a sort of stark beauty when surrounded by this stuff and I have to admit it looks rather fabulous sticking up out of the snow on sunny winter days.
Right now, when I barely have enough energy to look at it, I sometimes envy its strength, I don’t think it wakes up one morning too tired to get out of bed and I know it isn’t bothered by thoughts of me. Perhaps it feeds on the residue of time past, when I plowed through this world unhindered by a nameless disease that trails along behind me making life a bit of an uphill struggle sometimes.
And perhaps it is only here to entertain me when I have the energy for nothing else. And perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all! Some things don't, you know.
Like some alien vegetation who refuses to recognize the seasons, or be put down by a string of cold gray days, or even a blanket of snow, it peers at me defiantly. I believe it’s only admission of weakness is that it grows slower in the winter.
Two years ago, in anticipation of me moving in, my son mowed the three foot grass back there. That first mowing was left on the ground and when I raked it up there was mud. Out of that mud rose these green spiky creatures disguising themselves as fat grass.
Ignorance on my part and a naïve gratitude that my entire yard was not a muddy morass, a grassless swamp filled with spiders and worms and things that crawl, I was actually delighted to see it. Now I fight a never ending battle with the stuff.
It grows ten times faster than the anemic little patches of grass around it, holding its ground against almost all newcomers, but still, it provides a lush background for those delicate blue flowers and short conical purple ones that manage to push through here and there. Even the dandelions have a sort of stark beauty when surrounded by this stuff and I have to admit it looks rather fabulous sticking up out of the snow on sunny winter days.
Right now, when I barely have enough energy to look at it, I sometimes envy its strength, I don’t think it wakes up one morning too tired to get out of bed and I know it isn’t bothered by thoughts of me. Perhaps it feeds on the residue of time past, when I plowed through this world unhindered by a nameless disease that trails along behind me making life a bit of an uphill struggle sometimes.
And perhaps it is only here to entertain me when I have the energy for nothing else. And perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all! Some things don't, you know.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thresholds
We often had student teachers in our preschool. At the end of the semester they would be evaluated by one of their supervisors and consequently, so would we. One of the stranger comments I ever received was also one of the best as far as I was concerned. The supervisor seemed surprised that we treated all the children equally.
We always had an open house before school started, when fifteen three year olds and their parents converged upon my classroom like those little Amish dolls without faces. The minute they stepped into the room, those faces began to take on personalities with unique markers that made each one impossible to forget.
My goal? I wanted to make each child fall in love with school and look forward to learning new things. Unless a child showed up with stitches, or distressed in some way, I barely noticed what they were wearing, or how they looked. I was looking for smiles, bright eyes, and confidence, the rest just naturally follows those. By the end of an average school year we generally had fifteen little leaders, ready, willing, and eager to participate in almost everything and sorry to be going home at the end of the morning.
The funny thing is that I did strive to treat them equally, but not at all the same. You don’t treat a fish like a bird, or a drum like a saxophone. I wasn’t running a drill press, I was simply opening doors and encouraging fifteen new human beings to walk through them and try things out. My job was to give them the starter set of tools they needed to cross those thresholds that would continue to appear for the rest of their lives.
We always had an open house before school started, when fifteen three year olds and their parents converged upon my classroom like those little Amish dolls without faces. The minute they stepped into the room, those faces began to take on personalities with unique markers that made each one impossible to forget.
My goal? I wanted to make each child fall in love with school and look forward to learning new things. Unless a child showed up with stitches, or distressed in some way, I barely noticed what they were wearing, or how they looked. I was looking for smiles, bright eyes, and confidence, the rest just naturally follows those. By the end of an average school year we generally had fifteen little leaders, ready, willing, and eager to participate in almost everything and sorry to be going home at the end of the morning.
The funny thing is that I did strive to treat them equally, but not at all the same. You don’t treat a fish like a bird, or a drum like a saxophone. I wasn’t running a drill press, I was simply opening doors and encouraging fifteen new human beings to walk through them and try things out. My job was to give them the starter set of tools they needed to cross those thresholds that would continue to appear for the rest of their lives.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
“Including Myself”
Perspective is the eternal enhancer in my life. Just about the time I think I know exactly how I feel about something, my perspective changes!
It’s not just that I have an open mind, it is that I have an imaginative one. Two words can change how I look at something, setting off a whole new chain of thoughts too delicious to let go of.
Every story needs someone who is tormented, someone who does the tormenting and someone who effects a rescue. A good writer lets the climax build until the pain is almost unbearable before something happens that turns things around. I feel a great connection to the poor injured soul who is put upon, whether because of his own actions, or the simple meanness of his tormentor.
It doesn’t matter why the tormentor hurts this person, it only matters that it fit into the story and cause the hero to come in for the rescue, or to soothe, or smooth things out in some way. In romance stories, that usually means great comforting and some sort of indication that happily ever after is imminent.
I write all three parts. All these thoughts come out of my head, the sweet ones, the loving ones and the dark ones! I am, in all honesty, all three people to some extent.
Put that into perspective.
It’s not just that I have an open mind, it is that I have an imaginative one. Two words can change how I look at something, setting off a whole new chain of thoughts too delicious to let go of.
Every story needs someone who is tormented, someone who does the tormenting and someone who effects a rescue. A good writer lets the climax build until the pain is almost unbearable before something happens that turns things around. I feel a great connection to the poor injured soul who is put upon, whether because of his own actions, or the simple meanness of his tormentor.
It doesn’t matter why the tormentor hurts this person, it only matters that it fit into the story and cause the hero to come in for the rescue, or to soothe, or smooth things out in some way. In romance stories, that usually means great comforting and some sort of indication that happily ever after is imminent.
I write all three parts. All these thoughts come out of my head, the sweet ones, the loving ones and the dark ones! I am, in all honesty, all three people to some extent.
Put that into perspective.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Needs Verses Neediness
I am a loner. I need lots of time alone if I am going to do the things I do best, but I do enjoy being with people. Mostly, though, I enjoy being with them one on one. I like to really pay attention to the person I am spending time with. Unfortunately that can’t happen here very often. It’s a long drive for my family and friends and they come in groups because of that. I still love seeing them and having them here. I just don’t feel like we really get enough personal time.
Some people thrive on crowds. They don’t want things up close and personal. They prefer to be doing something, even to the point of talking on their phone while visiting with their friends. I don’t understand that, but I can believe it is what they want.
Comfort levels vary greatly. I love cuddling Lennon and I have known two people I can actually sleep so close to that we share breaths, but on the whole, I prefer a nice foot, or two, between me and most people, most of the time.
I believe it is okay to ask for what I need, but I think it is important to distinguish between actual needs and simple preferences.
I see older women, and men too, who say things like, “I need someone to help me do this or that. I just can’t do it by myself.” Often they only mean they cannot do that one task, or perhaps they really mean they are lonely, or afraid of being alone and use neediness to draw people in.
The only problem with this it that eventually someone uses that neediness to start taking control of their lives and before they know it, they are living out someone else’s needs and whims, and they are miserable. Older people are especially vulnerable to this. Uncle Amos doesn’t like to cook and his son translates this into, Dad isn’t capable of cooking and pretty soon the son’s family moves in with him and takes over the house, or simply ships him out to a nursing home. A little extreme perhaps, but not really, it just takes a while for it to happen, so no one really notices, especially Uncle Amos. Until it is too late.
I think it is important to know what my needs are and then to find a way to communicate them as clearly and directly as possible.
Once someone else starts controlling my life, it loses most of its value to me. Extending my life by forcing me to eat things I don’t like, taking away my privacy and making it impossible to go and do what I want to, is simply torture. Why would anyone do that to someone they love?
If my actions do not hurt anyone else, allow me to continue on to the end. Absolve your own conscience by knowing it is what I want.
Some people thrive on crowds. They don’t want things up close and personal. They prefer to be doing something, even to the point of talking on their phone while visiting with their friends. I don’t understand that, but I can believe it is what they want.
Comfort levels vary greatly. I love cuddling Lennon and I have known two people I can actually sleep so close to that we share breaths, but on the whole, I prefer a nice foot, or two, between me and most people, most of the time.
I believe it is okay to ask for what I need, but I think it is important to distinguish between actual needs and simple preferences.
I see older women, and men too, who say things like, “I need someone to help me do this or that. I just can’t do it by myself.” Often they only mean they cannot do that one task, or perhaps they really mean they are lonely, or afraid of being alone and use neediness to draw people in.
The only problem with this it that eventually someone uses that neediness to start taking control of their lives and before they know it, they are living out someone else’s needs and whims, and they are miserable. Older people are especially vulnerable to this. Uncle Amos doesn’t like to cook and his son translates this into, Dad isn’t capable of cooking and pretty soon the son’s family moves in with him and takes over the house, or simply ships him out to a nursing home. A little extreme perhaps, but not really, it just takes a while for it to happen, so no one really notices, especially Uncle Amos. Until it is too late.
I think it is important to know what my needs are and then to find a way to communicate them as clearly and directly as possible.
Once someone else starts controlling my life, it loses most of its value to me. Extending my life by forcing me to eat things I don’t like, taking away my privacy and making it impossible to go and do what I want to, is simply torture. Why would anyone do that to someone they love?
If my actions do not hurt anyone else, allow me to continue on to the end. Absolve your own conscience by knowing it is what I want.
Learning To Finagle
A mother tells her toddler to stay away from the fire. He knows she doesn’t want him near the fire, but he at first he forgets and later on he needs to test the boundaries.
Mother’s response to his actions now become some of the most important ones she will ever make. Every single time he approaches that fire, she needs remove him from the area, repeating her warning. There are no exceptions. She may add that it is hot, or he might be burned, but the first words out of her mouth need to be, “stay away from the fire” and they need to be immediate and calm as she pulls him away.
If she is busy, or tired, or otherwise occupied and does not stop him, he will believe, and rightly so, that he must stay away from the fire only if she makes him, because that is the truth in her case.
A fire is dangerous, so most people can understand the need for this behavior, but what about requests for candy, or toys, or privileges? Most children do not seem to be in mortal peril from begging, or whining, or not following simple rules, so it can be easier to give in than following through.
The only trouble with this is that eventually the parent becomes tired of giving in and how is a child supposed to know when that is? When does a rule become important? The third time? The tenth time? Maybe even the one hundred and tenth time when mother has a melt down and begins yelling and screaming? This mother has taught her child that persistence pays off. Rules are simply an inconvenience. The odds are in his favor, so why should he bother to pay attention?
You don’t want that.
It’s a miserable way to live, for both mother and child. It’s confusing too. How does he learn which rules are really important, which things are really dangerous? He will spend the rest of his life thinking he can have anything he wants as long as he can finagle around whoever gets in his way.
I don’t remember learning to walk, or talk. They are simply a part of who I am. Parents have a responsibility to teach their child how to live with and relate to other people and problems the same way. Some things are up for grabs, but some behaviors are simply not acceptable. Showing a child which is which and how to deal with them is a gift.
Remember that a parent’s rules should be carefully considered. Child rearing is not easy, but if I had to state one rule I lived by it would be this. I tried never to say what I did not mean and always follow through on what I did say. If it isn’t worth following through on, it isn’t worth making it a rule. Think about this before hand, because childhood sets the pattern for a lifetime of living.
Mother’s response to his actions now become some of the most important ones she will ever make. Every single time he approaches that fire, she needs remove him from the area, repeating her warning. There are no exceptions. She may add that it is hot, or he might be burned, but the first words out of her mouth need to be, “stay away from the fire” and they need to be immediate and calm as she pulls him away.
If she is busy, or tired, or otherwise occupied and does not stop him, he will believe, and rightly so, that he must stay away from the fire only if she makes him, because that is the truth in her case.
A fire is dangerous, so most people can understand the need for this behavior, but what about requests for candy, or toys, or privileges? Most children do not seem to be in mortal peril from begging, or whining, or not following simple rules, so it can be easier to give in than following through.
The only trouble with this is that eventually the parent becomes tired of giving in and how is a child supposed to know when that is? When does a rule become important? The third time? The tenth time? Maybe even the one hundred and tenth time when mother has a melt down and begins yelling and screaming? This mother has taught her child that persistence pays off. Rules are simply an inconvenience. The odds are in his favor, so why should he bother to pay attention?
You don’t want that.
It’s a miserable way to live, for both mother and child. It’s confusing too. How does he learn which rules are really important, which things are really dangerous? He will spend the rest of his life thinking he can have anything he wants as long as he can finagle around whoever gets in his way.
I don’t remember learning to walk, or talk. They are simply a part of who I am. Parents have a responsibility to teach their child how to live with and relate to other people and problems the same way. Some things are up for grabs, but some behaviors are simply not acceptable. Showing a child which is which and how to deal with them is a gift.
Remember that a parent’s rules should be carefully considered. Child rearing is not easy, but if I had to state one rule I lived by it would be this. I tried never to say what I did not mean and always follow through on what I did say. If it isn’t worth following through on, it isn’t worth making it a rule. Think about this before hand, because childhood sets the pattern for a lifetime of living.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Totally, Madly, In Love
I am reading a book where the two main characters talk about their respective childhoods. Neither was abusive, or bad, but one was definitely better than the other. It made me stop and reconsider my own childhood.
I tend to focus on moments when I write, but overall I had a wonderful childhood. My parents were young when they married, in love, passionate and glad they had children. In spite of my father’s boy genius status and myriad degrees, they had money problems because of the very things that made them good parents, so we moved way too frequently in attempts to find better paying positions for a man who would have loved to simply teach.
With all the insecurity in my life, I always felt my family would last forever. That is a priceless gift.
Yesterday I went to the park with Lennon and my son. Lennon assumes all grown-ups would like to climb on the toys and go down the slides. He called me over and began teaching me, step by step, how to climb up and it truly saddened me a bit to have to explain to him that because my muscles “hurt” I could not do that right now. Still we went for a walk by the river later on and explored the paths, discussed the bird calls and examined paw prints in the mud. It was a fabulous afternoon.
Last night he and I had dinner and a movie while his parents went to a friend’s home for a game night. We watched “The Water Horse” and it was interesting to see he was really scared in the beginning when only the music was ominous, but not at all put off by the growling, charging bulldog, booming artillery, or giant water horse rampaging around when it was scared. He was a little concerned when the boy rode it underwater, but only needed to be assured that they would surface in time.
His world is secure in spite of the fact that it is much different than mine was. His life, like a three legged stool, has Mommy, Daddy and Gramma, so it is always relatively even. I am separate and distinct from the family upstairs, but a very definite part of his life and he always manages to include me in his descriptions of how things are. I am tickled about this, but I am also surprised.
I never planned on this “Gramma” thing. It’s very different from how I imagined my life. I’ve spent the past ten years living out my dreams in real time doing real things that suit my idea of who I want to be. I never dreamed of being a cookie baking, babysitting sort of grandma. It’s not my cup of tea.
Yet, there is a sort of beautiful rightness to the way Lennon and I have defined our relationship. Someday I will be part of those childhood memories he has of his own life and I wonder if he will ever know how I tried to avoid it before I fell totally, madly, in love with him?
I tend to focus on moments when I write, but overall I had a wonderful childhood. My parents were young when they married, in love, passionate and glad they had children. In spite of my father’s boy genius status and myriad degrees, they had money problems because of the very things that made them good parents, so we moved way too frequently in attempts to find better paying positions for a man who would have loved to simply teach.
With all the insecurity in my life, I always felt my family would last forever. That is a priceless gift.
Yesterday I went to the park with Lennon and my son. Lennon assumes all grown-ups would like to climb on the toys and go down the slides. He called me over and began teaching me, step by step, how to climb up and it truly saddened me a bit to have to explain to him that because my muscles “hurt” I could not do that right now. Still we went for a walk by the river later on and explored the paths, discussed the bird calls and examined paw prints in the mud. It was a fabulous afternoon.
Last night he and I had dinner and a movie while his parents went to a friend’s home for a game night. We watched “The Water Horse” and it was interesting to see he was really scared in the beginning when only the music was ominous, but not at all put off by the growling, charging bulldog, booming artillery, or giant water horse rampaging around when it was scared. He was a little concerned when the boy rode it underwater, but only needed to be assured that they would surface in time.
His world is secure in spite of the fact that it is much different than mine was. His life, like a three legged stool, has Mommy, Daddy and Gramma, so it is always relatively even. I am separate and distinct from the family upstairs, but a very definite part of his life and he always manages to include me in his descriptions of how things are. I am tickled about this, but I am also surprised.
I never planned on this “Gramma” thing. It’s very different from how I imagined my life. I’ve spent the past ten years living out my dreams in real time doing real things that suit my idea of who I want to be. I never dreamed of being a cookie baking, babysitting sort of grandma. It’s not my cup of tea.
Yet, there is a sort of beautiful rightness to the way Lennon and I have defined our relationship. Someday I will be part of those childhood memories he has of his own life and I wonder if he will ever know how I tried to avoid it before I fell totally, madly, in love with him?
Saturday, March 20, 2010
1/6 Of A Second
I have been told that a film has thirty frames per second! Imagine that.
Now imagine watching a movie. Hundreds, thousands of frames flicking past my eyes in a never ending array of pictures.
I wonder how my eyes manage to translate all those pictures into rushing rivers and trees swaying in the wind, but somehow the illusion of continuous movement flows smoothly from the screen, through my eyes and right to my brain.
And then, like Alice down a rabbit hole, I see something I don’t expect to see. Something that pops in and out so quickly I almost imagine that I am imagining it. Only I don’t think I have slipped so far over the edge that my imagination is producing hallucinogenic pictures of my thoughts on prime time videos.
Yet, I know what I thought I saw and I know it is something I might like to see and I find myself rewinding to watch it all again. Yes! It is there! I have not lost my grip on reality and I am so tickled.
Now I need to go back and try to move my pause button as carefully as possible. Makes me wonder what kind of person I am who will count the blows of a hammer pounding a nail in just to pause in the right place, but that’s me.
Sometimes that one sixth of a second is the absolute icing on the cake.
Now imagine watching a movie. Hundreds, thousands of frames flicking past my eyes in a never ending array of pictures.
I wonder how my eyes manage to translate all those pictures into rushing rivers and trees swaying in the wind, but somehow the illusion of continuous movement flows smoothly from the screen, through my eyes and right to my brain.
And then, like Alice down a rabbit hole, I see something I don’t expect to see. Something that pops in and out so quickly I almost imagine that I am imagining it. Only I don’t think I have slipped so far over the edge that my imagination is producing hallucinogenic pictures of my thoughts on prime time videos.
Yet, I know what I thought I saw and I know it is something I might like to see and I find myself rewinding to watch it all again. Yes! It is there! I have not lost my grip on reality and I am so tickled.
Now I need to go back and try to move my pause button as carefully as possible. Makes me wonder what kind of person I am who will count the blows of a hammer pounding a nail in just to pause in the right place, but that’s me.
Sometimes that one sixth of a second is the absolute icing on the cake.
Easter Egg Hunts
In only a few weeks it will be Easter Sunday, an important church holy day, but one that brings back memories of growing up among a very ecumenical neighborhood.
We were what my mother referred to as lapsed Episcopalians, meaning she was a Baptist who had joined my father’s church, which he no long attended and, consequently, neither did she. Aunt Jo and Uncle Ralph, really just our next door neighbors, were Methodists, or she was and he was another one of the lapsed. The Weber’s were Presbyterians and the Abramowitz’s were Jewish. In fact, he was the Rabbi for one of the local synagogues. All around us were the Catholics whose huge families did not seem to have anyone labeled, “lapsed.” We all, the children that is, lived in awe of each other’s holidays when the ones celebrating could stand outside the school fence and talk to the ones inside whose freedom was still curtailed that day.
Except for Easter. Easter was always on Sunday and everyone had Easter egg hunts. Even Rabbi Abramowitz’s children hunted for Easter eggs. According to him, who didn’t believe in six foot white rabbits who hid eggs all over town?
I could barely sleep, I was so excited planning how I would dye my share of the hard boiled eggs my father always laid out on a big white tea towel. Then on Easter morning we had to wait for our parents to get up before the mad scramble to find what was hidden around the house. I was good at it.
First finding all the eggs I had personally dyed, then looking for that special one, the one that wasn’t hard boiled, but was so exquisite I put it off to the very end. Tickled to death to see that gorgeous egg flash before my eyes in some unexpected place, I would shout with glee and snatch it up to hide away in my basket. Of course I never ate it, no matter how beautiful and sweet it was.
Over the course of the next week I would eat the hard boiled eggs, but I never ate the candy ones. I played with them, made nests for them in my basket and pretended they were baby chicks and eggs and I was the mother. Until, finally, one day, they would all be gone. No more little Easter eggs to feed and spank and put to bed, not even the big beautiful one, just empty baskets stacked inside each other on the dining room table, waiting to be put away until next Easter.
Whenever I see some unexpected treasure flash out of nowhere into the corner of my eye, I am reminded of all the laughter and excitement of those long ago days.
We were what my mother referred to as lapsed Episcopalians, meaning she was a Baptist who had joined my father’s church, which he no long attended and, consequently, neither did she. Aunt Jo and Uncle Ralph, really just our next door neighbors, were Methodists, or she was and he was another one of the lapsed. The Weber’s were Presbyterians and the Abramowitz’s were Jewish. In fact, he was the Rabbi for one of the local synagogues. All around us were the Catholics whose huge families did not seem to have anyone labeled, “lapsed.” We all, the children that is, lived in awe of each other’s holidays when the ones celebrating could stand outside the school fence and talk to the ones inside whose freedom was still curtailed that day.
Except for Easter. Easter was always on Sunday and everyone had Easter egg hunts. Even Rabbi Abramowitz’s children hunted for Easter eggs. According to him, who didn’t believe in six foot white rabbits who hid eggs all over town?
I could barely sleep, I was so excited planning how I would dye my share of the hard boiled eggs my father always laid out on a big white tea towel. Then on Easter morning we had to wait for our parents to get up before the mad scramble to find what was hidden around the house. I was good at it.
First finding all the eggs I had personally dyed, then looking for that special one, the one that wasn’t hard boiled, but was so exquisite I put it off to the very end. Tickled to death to see that gorgeous egg flash before my eyes in some unexpected place, I would shout with glee and snatch it up to hide away in my basket. Of course I never ate it, no matter how beautiful and sweet it was.
Over the course of the next week I would eat the hard boiled eggs, but I never ate the candy ones. I played with them, made nests for them in my basket and pretended they were baby chicks and eggs and I was the mother. Until, finally, one day, they would all be gone. No more little Easter eggs to feed and spank and put to bed, not even the big beautiful one, just empty baskets stacked inside each other on the dining room table, waiting to be put away until next Easter.
Whenever I see some unexpected treasure flash out of nowhere into the corner of my eye, I am reminded of all the laughter and excitement of those long ago days.
Friday, March 19, 2010
What Line?
Strangers often find me incredibly easy to talk to. I seem to attract conversation wherever I go. Yet, it isn’t always that easy for the people who know me. I can be relatively harsh when the subject is near and dear.
I’m not proud of that, it is just what happens. Of course over the years I have improved a lot. Part of that is because those nearest and dearest don’t live so close anymore and I don’t feel any personal need to instruct them on things they might not believe I have any real right to do. My husband use to tell me I was getting “historical.” Nothing infuriated me more than those words when we were at each other tooth and nail.
I’m sure he was right, although he used it as a trigger and it almost always hooked me. I used to try and let things slide until the dam burst. Then it just all came out in an emotional and chaotic torrent.
Communication is an art and I am good with words, but words used as barbs instead of constructive openings for mediating a change can be brutal. Hurt and upset I am ashamed to say, can make me brutal. If you are my student, or friend, I might seem to be the model conflict negotiator, and I was trained in that! But if you are like family?
I have a friend who says we have to be careful not to say too much sometimes. He is absolutely right. The hardest thing I ever have to do when I am passionately involved in something, is back off.
Running full tilt into an emotional situation, heart armored against attack, stomach roiling, and feelings shielded from being bruised, makes me less sensitive to another person’s feelings than I might be otherwise. Recognizing the line that should not be crossed is hard. It becomes the ongoing quest as I grow older.
I’m not proud of that, it is just what happens. Of course over the years I have improved a lot. Part of that is because those nearest and dearest don’t live so close anymore and I don’t feel any personal need to instruct them on things they might not believe I have any real right to do. My husband use to tell me I was getting “historical.” Nothing infuriated me more than those words when we were at each other tooth and nail.
I’m sure he was right, although he used it as a trigger and it almost always hooked me. I used to try and let things slide until the dam burst. Then it just all came out in an emotional and chaotic torrent.
Communication is an art and I am good with words, but words used as barbs instead of constructive openings for mediating a change can be brutal. Hurt and upset I am ashamed to say, can make me brutal. If you are my student, or friend, I might seem to be the model conflict negotiator, and I was trained in that! But if you are like family?
I have a friend who says we have to be careful not to say too much sometimes. He is absolutely right. The hardest thing I ever have to do when I am passionately involved in something, is back off.
Running full tilt into an emotional situation, heart armored against attack, stomach roiling, and feelings shielded from being bruised, makes me less sensitive to another person’s feelings than I might be otherwise. Recognizing the line that should not be crossed is hard. It becomes the ongoing quest as I grow older.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Good Life
Where does the good life start?
For some people it used to be when you made a salary that equaled your age. I know most of those people don’t feel that is enough anymore. For others it is when you pay off your house, or the kids have all flown the nest for good. For some it is having a roof over your head and food on the table.
Some people are never satisfied. They are always on a quest for a bigger house, nicer car, more shoes, stainless steel appliances. For them life really is about who can go to heaven with the most stuff, even if that stuff is stashed away in attics and basements, or sometimes rental storage. It is worth it to them to pay to keep stuff they don’t use. Perhaps out of fear that they can’t replace it and perhaps just so they can say they have it, either way it sits useless somewhere, taking up space.
Others pride themselves on doing without and drive people nuts with all their boasting about recycling, and being green, and not wasting anything. And others live that way because they have no choice. (I fall in between here someplace.)
For some it is having health, for others wealth while they are young. The good life seems to be one of those things whose starting point is like the float in the toilet. Just depends on whose toilet it is. I was in an intentional community in New Mexico where the outhouses had no floats at all and they were awesome, smelled good and worked great with sawdust.
In a world where people are constantly at war and life can be shattered in an instant, instead of focusing on what I lack, whether that is health, or wealth, I prefer to enjoy the good moments, whatever they are, when they come. It’s a bit of a Taoist thing I suppose, but mostly it’s just experience.
I’ve had an awful lot of really good times in really bad times and somehow it felt like the good life.
For some people it used to be when you made a salary that equaled your age. I know most of those people don’t feel that is enough anymore. For others it is when you pay off your house, or the kids have all flown the nest for good. For some it is having a roof over your head and food on the table.
Some people are never satisfied. They are always on a quest for a bigger house, nicer car, more shoes, stainless steel appliances. For them life really is about who can go to heaven with the most stuff, even if that stuff is stashed away in attics and basements, or sometimes rental storage. It is worth it to them to pay to keep stuff they don’t use. Perhaps out of fear that they can’t replace it and perhaps just so they can say they have it, either way it sits useless somewhere, taking up space.
Others pride themselves on doing without and drive people nuts with all their boasting about recycling, and being green, and not wasting anything. And others live that way because they have no choice. (I fall in between here someplace.)
For some it is having health, for others wealth while they are young. The good life seems to be one of those things whose starting point is like the float in the toilet. Just depends on whose toilet it is. I was in an intentional community in New Mexico where the outhouses had no floats at all and they were awesome, smelled good and worked great with sawdust.
In a world where people are constantly at war and life can be shattered in an instant, instead of focusing on what I lack, whether that is health, or wealth, I prefer to enjoy the good moments, whatever they are, when they come. It’s a bit of a Taoist thing I suppose, but mostly it’s just experience.
I’ve had an awful lot of really good times in really bad times and somehow it felt like the good life.
Echoing
I find myself increasingly seeing the world in a different light. I spill a glass of water and think of rain, or I turn on the faucet to wash dishes and watch the water rise in the sink, only to think of floods.
It’s kind of like nothing is new, or unique, just another form of what is and has been since time began. As if the world is only a set of echoes reverberating across consciousness again and again.
The love of a mother for her offspring. The need for a father to impart his skills to a son. The desire to belong, to win, to withdraw.
The breath that flows from my body in a sigh and the wind that goes soughing through the trees on a soft summer’s day.
The pain of seeing the injustice in this world and the cataclysmic response of the earth to shifting tectonic plates. Somehow it all seems connected.
My world becomes increasingly hard and soft with fewer and fewer spaces in between. I find myself caring beyond bearing and wanting to turn away from a weight that feels almost hopeless. I am reminded of the earth shedding her summer softness in preparation for winter’s hardness, a necessary part of survival.
Perhaps all of it is really only the fleeting pondering of a woman who is nearing the end of a journey and wondering what it was all about. And perhaps it is only life echoing through the silence like it always has.
It’s kind of like nothing is new, or unique, just another form of what is and has been since time began. As if the world is only a set of echoes reverberating across consciousness again and again.
The love of a mother for her offspring. The need for a father to impart his skills to a son. The desire to belong, to win, to withdraw.
The breath that flows from my body in a sigh and the wind that goes soughing through the trees on a soft summer’s day.
The pain of seeing the injustice in this world and the cataclysmic response of the earth to shifting tectonic plates. Somehow it all seems connected.
My world becomes increasingly hard and soft with fewer and fewer spaces in between. I find myself caring beyond bearing and wanting to turn away from a weight that feels almost hopeless. I am reminded of the earth shedding her summer softness in preparation for winter’s hardness, a necessary part of survival.
Perhaps all of it is really only the fleeting pondering of a woman who is nearing the end of a journey and wondering what it was all about. And perhaps it is only life echoing through the silence like it always has.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Belonging
I have been thinking about society’s fickle behavior. Depending upon the era we are in, things change. Sometimes they change a lot, but the one thing that does not ever seem to change is the desire of people to belong.
We have a need to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Partly, I suppose because it means a bigger safety net in case something bad happens. Much of the time this need translates into something good, family, Brownies, Boy Scouts, chess clubs, sports teams.
Yet, that instinct to belong makes us a very vulnerable group of creatures. Anyone desiring to control us, only has to get us all riled up and we are ready, willing and able to band together into vigilante groups ready to ride out and right the wrongs we perceive before us.
Ku Klux Klan members, citizens leagues for decency, the inquisition, witch trials, all of these claim to be god fearing, upright people ready to defend the rest of us from dangerous, or immoral creatures who lie along the fringe of what is considered normal.
Like I said, people desiring to control the masses generally only need to find a scapegoat and point the finger. Given almost any reason, there seems to be an instinctual readiness in human beings to rise to the bait and go after a prey that is considered legal tender in the need for visceral reprisals. It may not be okay to murder people, but to tar and feather them, beat them, torture them as payment for being different in whatever the current mode of choice for “different” is, has always been more, or less condoned.
It was the Germans during WWI, the Japanese during WWII, the Jewish people through out the ages, the Muslims right now. The Spanish, the Irish, the blacks, disfigured people, or simply old people, no one is really safe in the long run, so it would seem we’d learn this is the most dangerous instinct man has.
But we don’t seem to. Belonging may be the most dangerous addiction mankind has ever known. It has so many uses for those with an agenda.
We have a need to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Partly, I suppose because it means a bigger safety net in case something bad happens. Much of the time this need translates into something good, family, Brownies, Boy Scouts, chess clubs, sports teams.
Yet, that instinct to belong makes us a very vulnerable group of creatures. Anyone desiring to control us, only has to get us all riled up and we are ready, willing and able to band together into vigilante groups ready to ride out and right the wrongs we perceive before us.
Ku Klux Klan members, citizens leagues for decency, the inquisition, witch trials, all of these claim to be god fearing, upright people ready to defend the rest of us from dangerous, or immoral creatures who lie along the fringe of what is considered normal.
Like I said, people desiring to control the masses generally only need to find a scapegoat and point the finger. Given almost any reason, there seems to be an instinctual readiness in human beings to rise to the bait and go after a prey that is considered legal tender in the need for visceral reprisals. It may not be okay to murder people, but to tar and feather them, beat them, torture them as payment for being different in whatever the current mode of choice for “different” is, has always been more, or less condoned.
It was the Germans during WWI, the Japanese during WWII, the Jewish people through out the ages, the Muslims right now. The Spanish, the Irish, the blacks, disfigured people, or simply old people, no one is really safe in the long run, so it would seem we’d learn this is the most dangerous instinct man has.
But we don’t seem to. Belonging may be the most dangerous addiction mankind has ever known. It has so many uses for those with an agenda.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mutual Love
I remember when my mother died. It was a devastating moment in my life. It felt like the end of the world. My mother was dead. My mother, the woman who gave me life, was no longer here. I dreamed that I saw her darting around corners, lost in old buildings, driving the car that just passed me, it was all I could do to really believe it was even possible for her to no longer exist.
As the days passed and I was surrounded by an ever growing group of relatives and friends and townspeople that converge on those in mourning, especially in small towns, I was overwhelmed by their kindness. Each one wanted to share something about my mother, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk about her. First of all, I couldn’t do it with any grace, I always ended up in tears and that was so embarrassing. But then there was also a tiny part of me that was angry. Angry that they knew a part of her I hadn’t, or that they thought what they had to share was half as important as what I already knew. After all, she was my mother!
At the visitation and funeral, it was even more difficult. There was no room to move, or find any peace, or even any places to sit. I finally gathered my children up around me, one on each knee, the other next to me and found a chair to just sit on. And it was in that place I learned something I will never forget.
So many people there were also in deep mourning. They had also lost a mother, a grandmother, an only sister, a beloved aunt, or a best friend and each one of them was experiencing the same overwhelming loss I was to some degree. Each one felt like that funeral was there for them to say their final goodbye and it was just as hard for them as it was for me.
I began to wonder why it is that we want to own those we love, keep them to ourselves and I had no answer. I used to be a very jealous person and I know now that this comes from insecurity, from some sort of belief that there isn’t enough love to go around. I finally realized that this is true if everyone believes it, but what if we don’t?
What if everyone begins to understand that a love shared, truly shared, is multiplied a thousand times over?
When I began listening to all those people’s stories about my mother and sharing my own, the pain began to fade and new connections started to grow in every direction. I didn’t learn it all at once, but little by little I have continued to understand more and more.
There is nothing like mutual love to unite people. Two people who both love another person and know it, are the luckiest people in the world. They share something very special, something many people never get to experience.
As the days passed and I was surrounded by an ever growing group of relatives and friends and townspeople that converge on those in mourning, especially in small towns, I was overwhelmed by their kindness. Each one wanted to share something about my mother, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk about her. First of all, I couldn’t do it with any grace, I always ended up in tears and that was so embarrassing. But then there was also a tiny part of me that was angry. Angry that they knew a part of her I hadn’t, or that they thought what they had to share was half as important as what I already knew. After all, she was my mother!
At the visitation and funeral, it was even more difficult. There was no room to move, or find any peace, or even any places to sit. I finally gathered my children up around me, one on each knee, the other next to me and found a chair to just sit on. And it was in that place I learned something I will never forget.
So many people there were also in deep mourning. They had also lost a mother, a grandmother, an only sister, a beloved aunt, or a best friend and each one of them was experiencing the same overwhelming loss I was to some degree. Each one felt like that funeral was there for them to say their final goodbye and it was just as hard for them as it was for me.
I began to wonder why it is that we want to own those we love, keep them to ourselves and I had no answer. I used to be a very jealous person and I know now that this comes from insecurity, from some sort of belief that there isn’t enough love to go around. I finally realized that this is true if everyone believes it, but what if we don’t?
What if everyone begins to understand that a love shared, truly shared, is multiplied a thousand times over?
When I began listening to all those people’s stories about my mother and sharing my own, the pain began to fade and new connections started to grow in every direction. I didn’t learn it all at once, but little by little I have continued to understand more and more.
There is nothing like mutual love to unite people. Two people who both love another person and know it, are the luckiest people in the world. They share something very special, something many people never get to experience.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Bulwarks and Bastions
I stare at my front door, a bulwark of wood and steel that stands between me and anything that might enter my home. It seems solid and impenetrable, yet I have been invaded by earthworms on a rainy night when escaping into my home was their only hope of not drowning and they came right through that door!
I know that sounds ludicrous, but it is true and something else that is ludicrous, I am afraid of earthworms. My sister used to chase me with them and for some reason they terrify me more than snakes. But on a rainy night last year, when the water poured from the sky like a river whose dam has been torn apart, I opened my door and in crawled the earthworms. Amazingly fast for their size, I watched in horror as they stretched out to ten and twelve inches and rushed across my carpet. I had been invaded!
I called my daughter-in-law, a small sign of how afraid I was, and she asked a simple question. “Are they going too fast for you to catch them?”
So now when I lie awake at night, unable to sleep, planning which room I would barricade myself in, what I would put up against the window to keep the twelve foot grizzly, or pack of slathering wolves at bay, I am plagued with the knowledge that I have already been invaded by earthworms and they came right through the front door.
I know that sounds ludicrous, but it is true and something else that is ludicrous, I am afraid of earthworms. My sister used to chase me with them and for some reason they terrify me more than snakes. But on a rainy night last year, when the water poured from the sky like a river whose dam has been torn apart, I opened my door and in crawled the earthworms. Amazingly fast for their size, I watched in horror as they stretched out to ten and twelve inches and rushed across my carpet. I had been invaded!
I called my daughter-in-law, a small sign of how afraid I was, and she asked a simple question. “Are they going too fast for you to catch them?”
So now when I lie awake at night, unable to sleep, planning which room I would barricade myself in, what I would put up against the window to keep the twelve foot grizzly, or pack of slathering wolves at bay, I am plagued with the knowledge that I have already been invaded by earthworms and they came right through the front door.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Is It Courage?
I cannot judge an entire group of people by the actions of a few, yet I am responsible for the actions of those with whom I align myself.
No matter how the world sees me, or how I am judged, I cannot deny what I know, or make excuses that are not valid, to myself.
Believing that my actions can be excused because they come from someone higher up, or someone whose authority should never be questioned, when my own conscience tells me otherwise, is sitting on the fence that separates good from evil, perpetrators from heroes, the pitiful from the leaders.
It is never possible to please all of the people, all of the time, but letting things slide because it is easier takes a toll.
Anytime one swims against the current, life becomes difficult. How difficult depends on so many things and none of these are necessarily based on whether that decision is right, or wrong, good, or bad.
As for me, there are times in my life where I feel I have no real choice, I just do what I have to do.
I don’t know if that is courage, or not. I only know it is the truth.
No matter how the world sees me, or how I am judged, I cannot deny what I know, or make excuses that are not valid, to myself.
Believing that my actions can be excused because they come from someone higher up, or someone whose authority should never be questioned, when my own conscience tells me otherwise, is sitting on the fence that separates good from evil, perpetrators from heroes, the pitiful from the leaders.
It is never possible to please all of the people, all of the time, but letting things slide because it is easier takes a toll.
Anytime one swims against the current, life becomes difficult. How difficult depends on so many things and none of these are necessarily based on whether that decision is right, or wrong, good, or bad.
As for me, there are times in my life where I feel I have no real choice, I just do what I have to do.
I don’t know if that is courage, or not. I only know it is the truth.
Children
..Children are the most sacred of the sacred in this world. Anyone who defiles that has committed a crime, a sin, that goes beyond all boundaries.
There have been so many misconceptions about children in this world. Once thought not to feel like adults they were not given much pain medication in burn units, or even during surgery as preemies. Like women and slaves they were considered the property of whoever was responsible for their upkeep and the list goes on.
The truth is, children are the future. They are the people who will care for the next generation of children and the last generation of elderly. They should be looked upon as powerful beings in the making, because who they are will change the world accordingly.
There have been so many misconceptions about children in this world. Once thought not to feel like adults they were not given much pain medication in burn units, or even during surgery as preemies. Like women and slaves they were considered the property of whoever was responsible for their upkeep and the list goes on.
The truth is, children are the future. They are the people who will care for the next generation of children and the last generation of elderly. They should be looked upon as powerful beings in the making, because who they are will change the world accordingly.
Love Does Not Require Band Aids
The leviathan feels spurned and has sunk to the bottom where sixteen deep sea divers usually converge to lift it up.
Gasping and growing pale with fear, it truly believes that without them, it is going to die, while a simple flick of its injured ego could raise it to the surface where the air is fresh and clean. It might be painful, but it is certainly possible.
As an orphaned creature of gigantic proportions, it never basked in the warmth of the lime light unless it was ill. Now, as an adult with many wonderful attributes, it no longer needs to rely on these extreme behaviors. The love is already here, it needs no band aids to make it real.
Trusting in that knowledge will take some time. Right now it thrashes around, afraid, and angry that the usual rituals are not being repeated, but I am confident that growth is possible.
Gasping and growing pale with fear, it truly believes that without them, it is going to die, while a simple flick of its injured ego could raise it to the surface where the air is fresh and clean. It might be painful, but it is certainly possible.
As an orphaned creature of gigantic proportions, it never basked in the warmth of the lime light unless it was ill. Now, as an adult with many wonderful attributes, it no longer needs to rely on these extreme behaviors. The love is already here, it needs no band aids to make it real.
Trusting in that knowledge will take some time. Right now it thrashes around, afraid, and angry that the usual rituals are not being repeated, but I am confident that growth is possible.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Processional
The man driving the car has one hand on the wheel and one around my wrist. He keeps it low so no one else can tell he is doing this. I try to pull away, but when I do, he reaches out and pinches his nails into my thumb. It really hurts, but I still think that maybe I can open the car door and throw myself out. I turn, in spite of the pain, and try to get my feet in position to kick him. I think that might distract him enough that the car will swerve and he will have to concentrate on driving long enough for me to get away. But I am afraid.
He is going to kill me. I know that. He is also going to kill the two young men in the back seat and I wonder why one of them does not reach forward and throttle him. There are three of us. Surely we should be able to escape instead of going to our deaths like sheep. It is a surreal feeling knowing I am going to die soon and I try to stay calm. There are two large old fashioned cart type wagons ahead of us. They are filled with men whose heads I can barely see above the wagon’s edge. They are going to die too. It is a procession, but a grisly one if anyone knew what it was about, only they don’t.
Outside the world is very rural, yet it is still a town. There is a large plaza where people sit at round tables reading papers on the right and a large dark square columned building on the left. A man in white clothing walks a burro down the street away from us and a long parade of mules go past us as they march the other way, out of town, two by two. I look at their tails swinging slightly as they lumber on and think how normal it all looks. Then I remember the tall men in gray robes, long gray faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods and I am even more afraid.
I kick the driver, hard, with both feet and reach up to grab the door handle. I tumble out of the car, but before I even land, the man is standing beside me and he is so angry. Now I am so afraid I cannot move, or speak. I look around for help, but no one seems to even notice us. Once more he grabs my arm and drags me away…and I wake up.
That was this morning and now I still don’t want to go back to bed.
He is going to kill me. I know that. He is also going to kill the two young men in the back seat and I wonder why one of them does not reach forward and throttle him. There are three of us. Surely we should be able to escape instead of going to our deaths like sheep. It is a surreal feeling knowing I am going to die soon and I try to stay calm. There are two large old fashioned cart type wagons ahead of us. They are filled with men whose heads I can barely see above the wagon’s edge. They are going to die too. It is a procession, but a grisly one if anyone knew what it was about, only they don’t.
Outside the world is very rural, yet it is still a town. There is a large plaza where people sit at round tables reading papers on the right and a large dark square columned building on the left. A man in white clothing walks a burro down the street away from us and a long parade of mules go past us as they march the other way, out of town, two by two. I look at their tails swinging slightly as they lumber on and think how normal it all looks. Then I remember the tall men in gray robes, long gray faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods and I am even more afraid.
I kick the driver, hard, with both feet and reach up to grab the door handle. I tumble out of the car, but before I even land, the man is standing beside me and he is so angry. Now I am so afraid I cannot move, or speak. I look around for help, but no one seems to even notice us. Once more he grabs my arm and drags me away…and I wake up.
That was this morning and now I still don’t want to go back to bed.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
My Friend
I always need someone in my life who inspires me and I mean really inspires me. Not just someone who is supposed to do that, or someone who is nice, but a truly outstanding person.
I am sure that person is very different for each of us, because you don’t really know me as well as I know myself and it is hard to share some things. I think I know my family and friends, but I also know that most of us don’t share those things that touch us the deepest. For example, I haven’t seen my brothers cry since they were young teenagers and, as close as we are, I know my sister has a very personal side she doesn’t share with me either.
I am lucky though. I know someone who does the things I used to only dream of. Someone who is as masculine as they come, physical and real and generous beyond belief. He is real enough to cry when he’s sad, or happy. He admits his mistakes, talks about his insecurities and then does something about it all. He is the stuff of heroes, but a real life hero.
He is also an everyday kind of person, the sort I can pour my heart out too and know he will understand what I am really saying.
I call him-- my Friend.
I am sure that person is very different for each of us, because you don’t really know me as well as I know myself and it is hard to share some things. I think I know my family and friends, but I also know that most of us don’t share those things that touch us the deepest. For example, I haven’t seen my brothers cry since they were young teenagers and, as close as we are, I know my sister has a very personal side she doesn’t share with me either.
I am lucky though. I know someone who does the things I used to only dream of. Someone who is as masculine as they come, physical and real and generous beyond belief. He is real enough to cry when he’s sad, or happy. He admits his mistakes, talks about his insecurities and then does something about it all. He is the stuff of heroes, but a real life hero.
He is also an everyday kind of person, the sort I can pour my heart out too and know he will understand what I am really saying.
I call him-- my Friend.
Grouchy People
I find myself writing a political rant, or rant of any kind and ask myself why? Usually it is because my sense of injustice has been awakened and I am feeling helpless and frustrated.
Sometimes, though, it is just because I am not feeling well and don’t realize it. If you happen to telephone during one of these times I am not always as patient as I should be. What would be amusing some other time, feels annoying.
A typical scenario might go something like this. I lie down for just a few minutes and end up falling asleep. The phone rings and you are excited. You just bought a new computer and want to tell me all about it. I told you to call and I said I would help you set it up, but right now I’m only feeling exhausted. Instead of simply telling you this, I trudge on.
You just bought your first flash drive, at my insistence. I tell you to put it in the computer, but you can’t open the package! That is actually pretty funny -- usually, but tonight I hear the edge in my voice as you wage war with the packaging industry, even shedding blood before you finally win.
I tell you to put it in your USB port and you say it doesn’t fit! I try to explain what a USB port is and tell you to look at the place where you plug in your mouse. I can’t see what is going on, but in the process of trying to do this, you knock your keyboard off the desk. Twice! I finally realize that I could have said it is the same place you plug in your digital camera and we are on our way!
I ask what you see on your screen and finally realize you must have inadvertently opened something else, because it makes no sense at all. I used to think your computer must be very unique. Now I know that it is only you that are unique.
I tell you to click on Start and you do. I say look for My Computer and you shriek, “There is a long list of stuff that just popped up and I can’t see anything else.” After a while I realize you opened the program list. We finally get to My Computer and I ask if you see anything like Devices With Removable Storage, or Drive F, or anything similar?
You don’t. I don’t understand, so I decide that maybe we need to take out the flash drive and start over. I try to explain where the icon is for removing it safely and after many attempts finally ask if you can see the clock on your computer’s lower right side. “No.” You say. “It is on the upper right side!” Aha! Go there I tell you and find a little computer looking thing with a green light over it. Even after you find it, we need another few minutes for you to be able to click on it properly and remove your flash drive.
Forty minutes into this phone call we finally try to move your pictures onto the flash drive and even that requires many explanations, and tries at getting both your pictures (once you find them,) and the flash drive screen both in front of you.
Then someone comes to your door and you need to go!
I finally realize that I am in no condition to be doing this and tell you not to call back tonight. Call tomorrow, because otherwise I am going to terminate a relationship that has existed since you and I were born!
Sometimes, though, it is just because I am not feeling well and don’t realize it. If you happen to telephone during one of these times I am not always as patient as I should be. What would be amusing some other time, feels annoying.
A typical scenario might go something like this. I lie down for just a few minutes and end up falling asleep. The phone rings and you are excited. You just bought a new computer and want to tell me all about it. I told you to call and I said I would help you set it up, but right now I’m only feeling exhausted. Instead of simply telling you this, I trudge on.
You just bought your first flash drive, at my insistence. I tell you to put it in the computer, but you can’t open the package! That is actually pretty funny -- usually, but tonight I hear the edge in my voice as you wage war with the packaging industry, even shedding blood before you finally win.
I tell you to put it in your USB port and you say it doesn’t fit! I try to explain what a USB port is and tell you to look at the place where you plug in your mouse. I can’t see what is going on, but in the process of trying to do this, you knock your keyboard off the desk. Twice! I finally realize that I could have said it is the same place you plug in your digital camera and we are on our way!
I ask what you see on your screen and finally realize you must have inadvertently opened something else, because it makes no sense at all. I used to think your computer must be very unique. Now I know that it is only you that are unique.
I tell you to click on Start and you do. I say look for My Computer and you shriek, “There is a long list of stuff that just popped up and I can’t see anything else.” After a while I realize you opened the program list. We finally get to My Computer and I ask if you see anything like Devices With Removable Storage, or Drive F, or anything similar?
You don’t. I don’t understand, so I decide that maybe we need to take out the flash drive and start over. I try to explain where the icon is for removing it safely and after many attempts finally ask if you can see the clock on your computer’s lower right side. “No.” You say. “It is on the upper right side!” Aha! Go there I tell you and find a little computer looking thing with a green light over it. Even after you find it, we need another few minutes for you to be able to click on it properly and remove your flash drive.
Forty minutes into this phone call we finally try to move your pictures onto the flash drive and even that requires many explanations, and tries at getting both your pictures (once you find them,) and the flash drive screen both in front of you.
Then someone comes to your door and you need to go!
I finally realize that I am in no condition to be doing this and tell you not to call back tonight. Call tomorrow, because otherwise I am going to terminate a relationship that has existed since you and I were born!
Monday, March 8, 2010
Unconditional Lovers
I just watched Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer. It’s the first time I’ve seen it and I found it quite amazing, both for its historical background and the story line. First of all it was not quite as schmaltzy as I thought it would be, although by today’s standards, it was certainly a little over the top, but it was still a touching story as well as the first real full length movie that had bits and pieces of synchronized dialogue.
That final scene where Jolson is singing his famous “Mammy,” to his movie mother and she is in absolute ecstasy reminded me of what kind of people we mothers really are. When it comes right down to it, most of us adore our children no matter what they do and when they do something wonderful we are blown away.
I remember the first time my son sang his little heart out in front of a packed theatre. He had just turned seven years old and when he finished, all three hundred and fifty people stood up applauding. Me? I just sat there in tears wishing I could hear him sing again and again, and I did. And the truth is, each time was the same for me. I never heard him sing, or play an instrument, or speak without believing he was the most talented and beautiful person in the entire world. I have yet to see him in court trying a case, but I am sure I will feel the same way then. He is my son.
Another truth? I felt the same way with each of my children whenever it was their moment to shine. It’s what mothers do.
We are the unconditional lovers that every person deserves and most only find in a doting parent.
That final scene where Jolson is singing his famous “Mammy,” to his movie mother and she is in absolute ecstasy reminded me of what kind of people we mothers really are. When it comes right down to it, most of us adore our children no matter what they do and when they do something wonderful we are blown away.
I remember the first time my son sang his little heart out in front of a packed theatre. He had just turned seven years old and when he finished, all three hundred and fifty people stood up applauding. Me? I just sat there in tears wishing I could hear him sing again and again, and I did. And the truth is, each time was the same for me. I never heard him sing, or play an instrument, or speak without believing he was the most talented and beautiful person in the entire world. I have yet to see him in court trying a case, but I am sure I will feel the same way then. He is my son.
Another truth? I felt the same way with each of my children whenever it was their moment to shine. It’s what mothers do.
We are the unconditional lovers that every person deserves and most only find in a doting parent.
Dare To Wake The Leviathan?
A friend suggests that it’s way past time for a wake up call. He’s right of course, but…
Who is willing to wake the leviathan?
It lurks deep below the conscious level, down in the murky places where no one can be sure of its size. It’s tail slowly undulates, creating waves, hoping to stir up the waters, lure in the unsuspecting creatures upon which it needs to feed.
Eyes closed, slow moving, one might mistakenly believe it is a benign creature, but beware the behemoth when the tiniest barb pricks its tough skin. Opening its huge mouth, it can devour an entire family in one fell swoop. Raking the meat from their bones and spitting out what’s left only to snatch it back up in gnashing teeth and splinter the remains.
Better, perhaps, for everyone else to remain in the shark cages praying that the bars are strong enough to provide a semblance of safety
Who is willing to wake the leviathan?
It lurks deep below the conscious level, down in the murky places where no one can be sure of its size. It’s tail slowly undulates, creating waves, hoping to stir up the waters, lure in the unsuspecting creatures upon which it needs to feed.
Eyes closed, slow moving, one might mistakenly believe it is a benign creature, but beware the behemoth when the tiniest barb pricks its tough skin. Opening its huge mouth, it can devour an entire family in one fell swoop. Raking the meat from their bones and spitting out what’s left only to snatch it back up in gnashing teeth and splinter the remains.
Better, perhaps, for everyone else to remain in the shark cages praying that the bars are strong enough to provide a semblance of safety
Who I Am
What is the difference between an adventure and a calamity?
The outcome is one thing, I suppose. If it turns out okay in the end, it was an adventure, but I believe the biggest difference is state of mind.
First of all, I do not believe the world is quite as dangerous as most people seem to think it is. I know there are bad people out there and they are dangerous, but most of the people I have met are just me in different skins and clothes. A little common sense goes a long way.
Secondly, I believe that a lot of the danger is more drama than reality. Drama people thrive on talking about what they avoided. I thrive on talking about what I experienced, but I’m not stupid. I am careful and I do learn from my mishaps.
I have never been ticketed for an accident, but I have driven off the Interstate in the middle of a snowstorm at night and had to be towed out. I have swerved off an icy country road and felt my car come flying out of the ditch and slide bouncing, sideways, across a cornfield. I have even had my car slip madly across three lanes of traffic and end up facing the other direction, but it was very early and there was no other traffic. I learned a lot from these things, but I consider them adventures since no one was hurt, not even my car, well the undercarriage was full of corn husks in one of them.
I love to just seize life by the heart and bury my nose in all the sweet experiences that come my way, knowing that what will happen will happen. And some beautiful things have happened. Yes, there have been times afterwards when I think my heart will break, but it doesn’t and I couldn’t imagine having missed that adventure.
Life is extraordinary and the most amazing things happen when I allow them to. And sometimes even more amazing things happen when I feel I have no choice except to do what must be done.
Adventure, or calamity? I can’t really think of anything that turned out to be a real calamity and that is pretty much why I am who I am.
The outcome is one thing, I suppose. If it turns out okay in the end, it was an adventure, but I believe the biggest difference is state of mind.
First of all, I do not believe the world is quite as dangerous as most people seem to think it is. I know there are bad people out there and they are dangerous, but most of the people I have met are just me in different skins and clothes. A little common sense goes a long way.
Secondly, I believe that a lot of the danger is more drama than reality. Drama people thrive on talking about what they avoided. I thrive on talking about what I experienced, but I’m not stupid. I am careful and I do learn from my mishaps.
I have never been ticketed for an accident, but I have driven off the Interstate in the middle of a snowstorm at night and had to be towed out. I have swerved off an icy country road and felt my car come flying out of the ditch and slide bouncing, sideways, across a cornfield. I have even had my car slip madly across three lanes of traffic and end up facing the other direction, but it was very early and there was no other traffic. I learned a lot from these things, but I consider them adventures since no one was hurt, not even my car, well the undercarriage was full of corn husks in one of them.
I love to just seize life by the heart and bury my nose in all the sweet experiences that come my way, knowing that what will happen will happen. And some beautiful things have happened. Yes, there have been times afterwards when I think my heart will break, but it doesn’t and I couldn’t imagine having missed that adventure.
Life is extraordinary and the most amazing things happen when I allow them to. And sometimes even more amazing things happen when I feel I have no choice except to do what must be done.
Adventure, or calamity? I can’t really think of anything that turned out to be a real calamity and that is pretty much why I am who I am.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
My Lucky Day
Have I ever mentioned that I think I am a lucky person? If I haven’t, I need to say that tonight.
Today was one of those days. I was up at five a.m. to let the dogs upstairs out. I had to be back there by ten if I didn’t want to mop the floor. Duke is just too elderly to wait any longer than that. I let them all out and went to feed the cat and turn off her heating pad.
My son made her a wonderful little cat house with a foyer and heating pad that I turn to the second level at night and off in the morning since she is an outside cat. After she was taken care of I went to let the dogs back in and the two girls came right away. I thought it was all down hill after that. If anyone is going to give me trouble it is never Duke. At least not until today.
Today, my neighbor, I’ll call him Jethro (not his real name) was out there. Jethro still has his winter beard and he says he is afraid of dogs. He always tells whoever comes out that Eben bit him. She’s our Australian shepherd and very smart. She often finds a way out of the yard and Jethro always says she bit him. I asked him, “Did she get out of the yard?”
“No.” He replied, “but I’m afraid of dogs.” I assured him that I was afraid of dogs too and that maybe he should keep his hands on his side of the fence when the dogs are in the yard. I said it sweetly and he evidently took no offence because he nodded and smiled broadly. Still Duke would not come in as long as Jethro was out there, because Jethro also likes to feed our dogs at six every morning no matter how many times we tell him they are very well fed in the house. (If we can get them to come in.)
I won’t tug on Duke, he’s big and old and I am a little afraid of being bitten and Jethro wouldn’t go inside, so Duke stayed out by the fence, hoping for more treats. Eventually I just left him out and went down to my house. An hour later I came up and Jethro and gone in, so Duke finally came in. Jethro also left me a big bouquet of flowers on the mailbox, which suggests to me that he knows he’s very annoying.
Then tonight, after moving my bed back into the bedroom and lugging furniture all around my house all day, I went up and let the dogs out before treating myself to a fast food hamburger, or at least that was my intention. I drove my car about a half mile down the road when suddenly nothing worked. I couldn’t get it to go and I couldn’t shift gears. I finally just let it roll backwards down the hill into the paper mill road and called my son.
The kids are in Tennessee, but I needed our neighbor’s phone number. I was stranded. My son was in the middle of the Dixie Stampede and all I could hear were people shouting. He said he’d call right back.
In the meantime, a big semi was trying to turn onto the street where I was stranded. He had a delivery for the paper mill, but I was blocking his way. I explained what was going on with my car and he offered to finish backing it down into the employee parking lot in order to get it off their access road. Then he said he needed to make the delivery and he’d be right back.
About ten minutes later he walked up from the delivery dock and took a look at my car. He said he used to be a mechanic before he went to Iraq and thought he could help me. He kept looking and I told him about getting my axle replaced this past week and he finally decided it was the new axle.
He called a tow truck for me and arranged for the driver to take me home before he towed my Honda out to the repair place. Then he had to leave, but he said if I was still there when he returned, he’d take me home. About twenty minutes after he left, the tow truck arrived and agreed that it was probably my new axle, then he slid his truck up and did the slickest little pick up you could ever imagine.
On the way home, it turned out that he knew the guy who’d helped me out. He said he’d been a great mechanic, but injured his hands in Iraq and could no longer work on cars. He also knew the guy who had repaired my axle. It was his old partner who left him to go to a dealership and then left them to start his own place! Small world.
He drove me home, waited while I ran down and got my checkbook and told me to be sure and ask the repair place to reimburse the towing bill. Still he charged me thirty dollars less than the last guy wanted for towing.
This is a small town and I was on a road that normally gets no traffic on a Saturday night. I might have had to leave my car and walk home if not for these people.
I am so lucky. Well, sorta……
Today was one of those days. I was up at five a.m. to let the dogs upstairs out. I had to be back there by ten if I didn’t want to mop the floor. Duke is just too elderly to wait any longer than that. I let them all out and went to feed the cat and turn off her heating pad.
My son made her a wonderful little cat house with a foyer and heating pad that I turn to the second level at night and off in the morning since she is an outside cat. After she was taken care of I went to let the dogs back in and the two girls came right away. I thought it was all down hill after that. If anyone is going to give me trouble it is never Duke. At least not until today.
Today, my neighbor, I’ll call him Jethro (not his real name) was out there. Jethro still has his winter beard and he says he is afraid of dogs. He always tells whoever comes out that Eben bit him. She’s our Australian shepherd and very smart. She often finds a way out of the yard and Jethro always says she bit him. I asked him, “Did she get out of the yard?”
“No.” He replied, “but I’m afraid of dogs.” I assured him that I was afraid of dogs too and that maybe he should keep his hands on his side of the fence when the dogs are in the yard. I said it sweetly and he evidently took no offence because he nodded and smiled broadly. Still Duke would not come in as long as Jethro was out there, because Jethro also likes to feed our dogs at six every morning no matter how many times we tell him they are very well fed in the house. (If we can get them to come in.)
I won’t tug on Duke, he’s big and old and I am a little afraid of being bitten and Jethro wouldn’t go inside, so Duke stayed out by the fence, hoping for more treats. Eventually I just left him out and went down to my house. An hour later I came up and Jethro and gone in, so Duke finally came in. Jethro also left me a big bouquet of flowers on the mailbox, which suggests to me that he knows he’s very annoying.
Then tonight, after moving my bed back into the bedroom and lugging furniture all around my house all day, I went up and let the dogs out before treating myself to a fast food hamburger, or at least that was my intention. I drove my car about a half mile down the road when suddenly nothing worked. I couldn’t get it to go and I couldn’t shift gears. I finally just let it roll backwards down the hill into the paper mill road and called my son.
The kids are in Tennessee, but I needed our neighbor’s phone number. I was stranded. My son was in the middle of the Dixie Stampede and all I could hear were people shouting. He said he’d call right back.
In the meantime, a big semi was trying to turn onto the street where I was stranded. He had a delivery for the paper mill, but I was blocking his way. I explained what was going on with my car and he offered to finish backing it down into the employee parking lot in order to get it off their access road. Then he said he needed to make the delivery and he’d be right back.
About ten minutes later he walked up from the delivery dock and took a look at my car. He said he used to be a mechanic before he went to Iraq and thought he could help me. He kept looking and I told him about getting my axle replaced this past week and he finally decided it was the new axle.
He called a tow truck for me and arranged for the driver to take me home before he towed my Honda out to the repair place. Then he had to leave, but he said if I was still there when he returned, he’d take me home. About twenty minutes after he left, the tow truck arrived and agreed that it was probably my new axle, then he slid his truck up and did the slickest little pick up you could ever imagine.
On the way home, it turned out that he knew the guy who’d helped me out. He said he’d been a great mechanic, but injured his hands in Iraq and could no longer work on cars. He also knew the guy who had repaired my axle. It was his old partner who left him to go to a dealership and then left them to start his own place! Small world.
He drove me home, waited while I ran down and got my checkbook and told me to be sure and ask the repair place to reimburse the towing bill. Still he charged me thirty dollars less than the last guy wanted for towing.
This is a small town and I was on a road that normally gets no traffic on a Saturday night. I might have had to leave my car and walk home if not for these people.
I am so lucky. Well, sorta……
Hidden Treasure
Everyone needs something they look forward to.
I think one of the big problems with aging for some people is that they don’t feel there really is anything.
It becomes necessary to find new interests once joints begin to ache and skin is no longer as smooth and youthful as it once was. Scary to say, but this is the place in life when it’s time to see if the pudding has set and all those years of living have produced a personality and wholeness capable of sustaining an interest strong enough to keep one alive.
Whatever turns out to be a focal point interesting enough to stir the imagination and move the body, becomes worth its weight in gold.
Treasure it.
I think one of the big problems with aging for some people is that they don’t feel there really is anything.
It becomes necessary to find new interests once joints begin to ache and skin is no longer as smooth and youthful as it once was. Scary to say, but this is the place in life when it’s time to see if the pudding has set and all those years of living have produced a personality and wholeness capable of sustaining an interest strong enough to keep one alive.
Whatever turns out to be a focal point interesting enough to stir the imagination and move the body, becomes worth its weight in gold.
Treasure it.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Left Waiting
I don’t do very well when something takes a lot longer than I expected. Even if I have nothing else to do, or can do whatever I need to while I am waiting, I tend to fall apart.
It’s always been this way for me, even as a child. I remember waiting for my friend’s father to pick us up from the show and it seemed like he wasn’t coming. I convinced her we should walk over to his office, because he probably forgot. He must have come seconds after we disappeared, because by the time her mother discovered us at his office my friend was in big trouble. I was ten, she was two years to the day older than me. We shared a birthday, but she got a terrible spanking when we got home. Looking back I realize that her parents probably thought we’d been kidnapped, or something worse, but at the time I only felt it was their fault for taking so long.
Lennon’s parents are generally pretty good at calling when they are going to be late from work, but twice now they have left me hanging for some time. The first time I merely mentioned that I didn’t want to have to do that again. Tonight, even though they were only an hour late, I thought I should just let them know I was a little upset, so I called and fell apart on the telephone. My son knows I am a night owl and he knew I had my computer, so he figured all was well. I felt trapped and by the time he answered the phone I was in tears. What was wrong? I really didn’t know. I mumbled something about the dog crying, the fire kept going out and where were they?
Definitely an over reaction on my part and I felt pretty silly by the time they showed up, but it was real at the time. Whatever it is, I don’t deal well with it.
It’s always been this way for me, even as a child. I remember waiting for my friend’s father to pick us up from the show and it seemed like he wasn’t coming. I convinced her we should walk over to his office, because he probably forgot. He must have come seconds after we disappeared, because by the time her mother discovered us at his office my friend was in big trouble. I was ten, she was two years to the day older than me. We shared a birthday, but she got a terrible spanking when we got home. Looking back I realize that her parents probably thought we’d been kidnapped, or something worse, but at the time I only felt it was their fault for taking so long.
Lennon’s parents are generally pretty good at calling when they are going to be late from work, but twice now they have left me hanging for some time. The first time I merely mentioned that I didn’t want to have to do that again. Tonight, even though they were only an hour late, I thought I should just let them know I was a little upset, so I called and fell apart on the telephone. My son knows I am a night owl and he knew I had my computer, so he figured all was well. I felt trapped and by the time he answered the phone I was in tears. What was wrong? I really didn’t know. I mumbled something about the dog crying, the fire kept going out and where were they?
Definitely an over reaction on my part and I felt pretty silly by the time they showed up, but it was real at the time. Whatever it is, I don’t deal well with it.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Swan's Song
I came to you unbidden
Across a continent whose mountains and streams we will never cross together.
Yet you reached out
Offering me a hand up and I grasped it almost in desperation.
I came to you unthinking
Believing you were only the means to an end, not understanding the means is all there is.
The end is only an illusion
That holds up its end of this rope we are jumping double Dutch.
I came to you uncaring
Having no idea who you were, only to be amazed by who you are.
Goodness personified
Hidden behind a façade that drives off all those who believe they really know.
I came to you unloving
Not realizing that I would grow to love you more than I could ever imagine.
Without ever touching your face
Or holding in my arms, one who calls forth my sun every day and the stars at night.
I come to you
Pouring out all the secrets of my heart, all the thoughts in my mind, confident
That you will never defile them
Because you are my reflection, the one who understands who I am.
And I wish that I had met you sooner.
Across a continent whose mountains and streams we will never cross together.
Yet you reached out
Offering me a hand up and I grasped it almost in desperation.
I came to you unthinking
Believing you were only the means to an end, not understanding the means is all there is.
The end is only an illusion
That holds up its end of this rope we are jumping double Dutch.
I came to you uncaring
Having no idea who you were, only to be amazed by who you are.
Goodness personified
Hidden behind a façade that drives off all those who believe they really know.
I came to you unloving
Not realizing that I would grow to love you more than I could ever imagine.
Without ever touching your face
Or holding in my arms, one who calls forth my sun every day and the stars at night.
I come to you
Pouring out all the secrets of my heart, all the thoughts in my mind, confident
That you will never defile them
Because you are my reflection, the one who understands who I am.
And I wish that I had met you sooner.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Bright Enough
Young children accept themselves for who they are, I was no exception. Except….that I ceased to be un-self-aware before I was three. I remember those first thoughts.
Among other things, I cannot remember when I did not have night terrors about fires and dogs. I still have nightmares about dogs even though I love the ones I know now. I lit my first match when I was married and had to use a match every time I used my stove. I am fascinated by fireplaces and camp fires, but still secretly terrified of being burned.
It takes a huge amount of courage to conquer deep seated fears. I have courage. I have always felt I had no choice, but there are always choices.
I knew what I was supposed to like and be and do and it was usually so far from what I wanted that the gap astounded even me. I suspected I was flawed, but if you are a very high functioning child no one seems to care about anything else. Besides I knew most grown-ups were already dealing with “serious” problems, so I simply became whatever it was necessary to be in the moment.
I am so good at morphing that it’s possible I am the mold from which all other things are modeled. I don’t really know. I only know life from my side of the cookie cutter and most of my life the world chose which one to use and cut me out.
Now, as I enter the last part of my life, I am trying to resist the urge to shape up and be “normal.” Whatever I am surely cannot be so bad that it must be hidden forever. In fact, I am pretty sure that all these abilities to overcome and conform and please must hold something strong and good that is uniquely me and I would like to experience that for myself.
I may make a lot of mistakes, but I am trying to lift the bar that keeps me from just letting go and doing, saying, being who I really am. If I was bright enough to be all the rest, surely I am bright enough to be myself. And brave enough too.
Among other things, I cannot remember when I did not have night terrors about fires and dogs. I still have nightmares about dogs even though I love the ones I know now. I lit my first match when I was married and had to use a match every time I used my stove. I am fascinated by fireplaces and camp fires, but still secretly terrified of being burned.
It takes a huge amount of courage to conquer deep seated fears. I have courage. I have always felt I had no choice, but there are always choices.
I knew what I was supposed to like and be and do and it was usually so far from what I wanted that the gap astounded even me. I suspected I was flawed, but if you are a very high functioning child no one seems to care about anything else. Besides I knew most grown-ups were already dealing with “serious” problems, so I simply became whatever it was necessary to be in the moment.
I am so good at morphing that it’s possible I am the mold from which all other things are modeled. I don’t really know. I only know life from my side of the cookie cutter and most of my life the world chose which one to use and cut me out.
Now, as I enter the last part of my life, I am trying to resist the urge to shape up and be “normal.” Whatever I am surely cannot be so bad that it must be hidden forever. In fact, I am pretty sure that all these abilities to overcome and conform and please must hold something strong and good that is uniquely me and I would like to experience that for myself.
I may make a lot of mistakes, but I am trying to lift the bar that keeps me from just letting go and doing, saying, being who I really am. If I was bright enough to be all the rest, surely I am bright enough to be myself. And brave enough too.
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Quest
Far away, under the light of a new moon, a man climbs the last hundred feet up into the clouds and falls gasping onto the floor of a cavern. Hot, sweaty, out of breath, he still must travel down through the tunnels before him until he comes to the place he is looking for. It is not an easy way, but he is strong and determined, almost driven.
Something in the distance dances in the shadows. Swirling, writhing, sinuously curling around and around, luring him closer and closer until he finds himself in a room whose heat nearly suffocates him. It is here that he sits down, folds his legs and waits.
Naked and alone, he opens his heart and closes his eyes until the heat becomes so intense that breathing is almost impossible. Then, just in the instant when he believes he will not survive, it seems the fire is engulfing him and opening his eyes, he finds a tiny piece of straw, the tip of which is barely glowing.
Instantly, the fire goes out and the man stares down at that tiny fragile glow, realizing it is now his duty to carry it out of the cave and down the mountain without allowing it to be extinguished. It seems like an impossible task, but he is enchanted by its beauty and will do whatever is necessary.
The terrain is rough and the weather fickle. There are days when he finds himself almost too exhausted to move and others when it is so damp, he fears he is incapable of carrying out this task. Yet, he never gives up. Constantly feeding the little thing and watching it grow, he tries to fan the flames with every ounce of experience he has and he succeeds. Other people are doing similar things, some alone, others together, each to the best of his ability and eventually the flames become as large as the one caring for them, but still the job is not finished.
Until one day, the flames part, and out steps a man, shaped in the image of the father who fed and nurtured and loved him since the moment he was given over into his hands.
Something in the distance dances in the shadows. Swirling, writhing, sinuously curling around and around, luring him closer and closer until he finds himself in a room whose heat nearly suffocates him. It is here that he sits down, folds his legs and waits.
Naked and alone, he opens his heart and closes his eyes until the heat becomes so intense that breathing is almost impossible. Then, just in the instant when he believes he will not survive, it seems the fire is engulfing him and opening his eyes, he finds a tiny piece of straw, the tip of which is barely glowing.
Instantly, the fire goes out and the man stares down at that tiny fragile glow, realizing it is now his duty to carry it out of the cave and down the mountain without allowing it to be extinguished. It seems like an impossible task, but he is enchanted by its beauty and will do whatever is necessary.
The terrain is rough and the weather fickle. There are days when he finds himself almost too exhausted to move and others when it is so damp, he fears he is incapable of carrying out this task. Yet, he never gives up. Constantly feeding the little thing and watching it grow, he tries to fan the flames with every ounce of experience he has and he succeeds. Other people are doing similar things, some alone, others together, each to the best of his ability and eventually the flames become as large as the one caring for them, but still the job is not finished.
Until one day, the flames part, and out steps a man, shaped in the image of the father who fed and nurtured and loved him since the moment he was given over into his hands.
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