The anger that bubbles up in me feels like a monster. A fire breathing, teeth gnashing dragon, ruining my day, my week, my life. My first impulse is to slay the dragon, and do away with the pain of these feelings.
I slash out with my temper, cutting off his head, again and again and again, but he never dies. He just generates new heads, one after the other and each one makes me as miserable as the last, or maybe even more so. I decide that I must find a less physical way of killing him and think that if I can only starve this dragon then it will go away and leave me alone, so I avoid everything that I think feeds him. No more thinking about the injustice done to innocent children, or the destructive ways of codependent people, or....and in the very act of not thinking about it I transform it into the elephant in the room. Now I am trampled and gored instead of burned and bitten.
It has taken me a while, a long while it seems, to recognize this creature that is making my life so hellish. It is no dragon, no elephant, it is a child of my own making. It is my own anger, born, nurtured and set free upon me and the world around me. I am the first victim and the last, but there are others in between. I cannot kill it, or starve it. I must embrace it, hold it close to my heart like I would any child and allow it to settle down, or it will destroy me.
And so I go back to what I know, to mindfulness, to this moment where I can breathe in and, smiling, breathe out, with all the concentration I have until it once again becomes second nature to me. Again and again, until I feel the dragon drift slowly to sleep upon my shoulder, I simply breathe.
And then I begin to feed him, to allow him to ingest the food that is driving him insane by compassionate listening. I listen to those tales that are so painful they leave holes in my thoughts, but I am protected by the love generated in this beautiful silence within me. Breathing in and breathing out, I listen, truly listen and allow this moment to be simply what it is, a moment in time.
I listen because I care, because I love and I do not allow that love to be contaminated by anything else. And if I cannot continue this compassionate listening, I excuse myself and begin to walk. Breathing in and breathing out, mindful only of each foot lifting and falling, of the light that falls upon my face in one breath and the leaf that flutters down before me in the next.
I give myself the time and the space to move back into the moment and the love and the peace.
It is a process, sometimes a long one, but one that has proven its worth again and again.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
What's In A Name?
I love naming things. Giving fanciful names to people I write about protects their identity and gives a little color to the story. Naming things like types of music, or kinds of books, or certain types of films, helps people begin to understand what I am trying to say.
But there is a danger in naming. Giving something a name can draw it inward, like sucking all the air out of a balloon, it takes away some of the magnificence, reducing it to an idea, a thought that may, or may not, include its essence.
If I say, "water" most people are familiar with what that is in its broadest sense. If I say, "ice" people think of frozen water, maybe a little cube, maybe a pond for ice skaters, maybe a place where men sit in tiny shacks fishing through holes. Some people will think of all these things and more, but many will only think of it first in the context they are most familiar.
The more specific I am, the easier it is for people to understand my story on a one dimensional level. Like a fisherman I throw out my words, trolling for feelings and understanding using naming instead of flies. I am controlling their thoughts, trying to trick them into believing they are here in this situation, experiencing these things I write about. There is nothing wrong with that, it has been the province of story tellers since the first once upon a time.
The best story tellers know that to really catch someone's mind the story must come within their framework of understanding. I say, "bear." The Inuit may think polar bear, a man in the state of Washington may think grizzly and people in the Appalachians think black bear. I am awakening different thoughts and pictures in different minds. If it is truly important to the story I need to say what kind of bear, but if the bear is there simply to draw on an individual's personal feelings, it might be better not to name it. Then the person fills in all the details and the devil really is in the details. Now this bear is more personal. It is an animal that you relate to through your own thoughts. It takes on a shape and set of feelings that come from your own experiences.
Of course every word is naming something, even words like, "is" relay the idea that something is in the present, as opposed to, "was." And "the" implies this particular thing instead of "a," or any old thing like this. I sometimes wonder at the frustration of people whose vocabulary is severely limited. I cannot imagine having to communicate in broad generalities all the time, but then I am a word person.
There! I have once again named myself, limiting the idea of me as simply someone who likes to use words when I am so much more! I am a woman, a human being, a living creature, a collection of atoms that came together in an amazing, miraculous combination of energy and form.
I am everything and nothing, everything and everything.
I am.
But there is a danger in naming. Giving something a name can draw it inward, like sucking all the air out of a balloon, it takes away some of the magnificence, reducing it to an idea, a thought that may, or may not, include its essence.
If I say, "water" most people are familiar with what that is in its broadest sense. If I say, "ice" people think of frozen water, maybe a little cube, maybe a pond for ice skaters, maybe a place where men sit in tiny shacks fishing through holes. Some people will think of all these things and more, but many will only think of it first in the context they are most familiar.
The more specific I am, the easier it is for people to understand my story on a one dimensional level. Like a fisherman I throw out my words, trolling for feelings and understanding using naming instead of flies. I am controlling their thoughts, trying to trick them into believing they are here in this situation, experiencing these things I write about. There is nothing wrong with that, it has been the province of story tellers since the first once upon a time.
The best story tellers know that to really catch someone's mind the story must come within their framework of understanding. I say, "bear." The Inuit may think polar bear, a man in the state of Washington may think grizzly and people in the Appalachians think black bear. I am awakening different thoughts and pictures in different minds. If it is truly important to the story I need to say what kind of bear, but if the bear is there simply to draw on an individual's personal feelings, it might be better not to name it. Then the person fills in all the details and the devil really is in the details. Now this bear is more personal. It is an animal that you relate to through your own thoughts. It takes on a shape and set of feelings that come from your own experiences.
Of course every word is naming something, even words like, "is" relay the idea that something is in the present, as opposed to, "was." And "the" implies this particular thing instead of "a," or any old thing like this. I sometimes wonder at the frustration of people whose vocabulary is severely limited. I cannot imagine having to communicate in broad generalities all the time, but then I am a word person.
There! I have once again named myself, limiting the idea of me as simply someone who likes to use words when I am so much more! I am a woman, a human being, a living creature, a collection of atoms that came together in an amazing, miraculous combination of energy and form.
I am everything and nothing, everything and everything.
I am.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
This Phenomena Called Music
There is nothing like ambling along through the shadows and scents of an old park on a warm spring afternoon. We packed sandwiches and drinks into a small tote and Chauncey gamboled around us like the eternal puppy that he is. Music drifted over us from some distant source too far away to be identifiable, but the voice of the trumpet could not be silenced by the breeze. Plaintive and clear, it evoked thoughts of hot humid southern nights where the whiskey is warm and the jazz so heavy it slides down sweat soaked skin in slow rivulets of hope and despair. I found myself sighing and then felt the catch in my throat as unknown memories tugged at my heart.
Music does this to me, carries me away to places I've only dreamed about. Places where primal memories can only come from Jung's collective unconscious and yet they carry all the emotional baggage of real places. Jazz and Klezmer, folk and sometimes even rock, grab hold of my soul, linking me to all the human race in the notes of times I can only imagine.
Klezmer music always catches me by surprise. The wailing notes of the violin making my feet ache to dance the dances I never knew, the soft syllables of words I don't understand speaking to me in stories more felt than heard. Tears well up and I yearn for those times that hide somewhere deep within the molecules of my body.
Traditional folk music has been known to reach down bike trails, luring me to downtown music fests where I stand in awe, like some groupie, until the band stops and then I must talk to them, hear their stories, buy their CD's and get their autographs so I can save this moment forever.
There is Roger Daltrey singing "Behind Blue Eyes." Whether he sings it with The Who, or The Chieftains, or anywhere else, he never fails to stir my soul.
And, of course, there are those personal moments when a musician plays just for me, those are the very best of all, the times when tears have sometimes poured down my face in unashamed joy.
Today it was the voice of a trumpet, just a little bit of jazz floating across the park. Who knows what it will be tomorrow, or the next time I am hijacked by the sounds of this phenomena called music.
Music does this to me, carries me away to places I've only dreamed about. Places where primal memories can only come from Jung's collective unconscious and yet they carry all the emotional baggage of real places. Jazz and Klezmer, folk and sometimes even rock, grab hold of my soul, linking me to all the human race in the notes of times I can only imagine.
Klezmer music always catches me by surprise. The wailing notes of the violin making my feet ache to dance the dances I never knew, the soft syllables of words I don't understand speaking to me in stories more felt than heard. Tears well up and I yearn for those times that hide somewhere deep within the molecules of my body.
Traditional folk music has been known to reach down bike trails, luring me to downtown music fests where I stand in awe, like some groupie, until the band stops and then I must talk to them, hear their stories, buy their CD's and get their autographs so I can save this moment forever.
There is Roger Daltrey singing "Behind Blue Eyes." Whether he sings it with The Who, or The Chieftains, or anywhere else, he never fails to stir my soul.
And, of course, there are those personal moments when a musician plays just for me, those are the very best of all, the times when tears have sometimes poured down my face in unashamed joy.
Today it was the voice of a trumpet, just a little bit of jazz floating across the park. Who knows what it will be tomorrow, or the next time I am hijacked by the sounds of this phenomena called music.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Codependence
I am living in a white rabbit world where people drink each other's tea because the other person is thirsty. A place where mirrors look for their reflection in us, so it is hard to know when to comb my hair, or even if I have any. I ask the person beside me how my hair looks and she gazes lovingly into my eyes trying to guess what I want him to say.
If my grass is too long, I mow yours. If the walk needs sweeping, I water the flowers. The cockatiel eats popcorn and the dog cries like a baby.
Every night we lock the doors and seal the windows and I'm not sure if it is to keep you out, or me in.
Shoes are removed at the door and smiles put on by the phone. The dog shares my bed, the alarm clock shares yours and in the morning the little cotton tail eats the flowers, so I sweep the walk when you unlock the doors and the Healthy Environment Truck picks up all the empty cups.
Now I don't know what I will drink out of when you get thirsty.
If my grass is too long, I mow yours. If the walk needs sweeping, I water the flowers. The cockatiel eats popcorn and the dog cries like a baby.
Every night we lock the doors and seal the windows and I'm not sure if it is to keep you out, or me in.
Shoes are removed at the door and smiles put on by the phone. The dog shares my bed, the alarm clock shares yours and in the morning the little cotton tail eats the flowers, so I sweep the walk when you unlock the doors and the Healthy Environment Truck picks up all the empty cups.
Now I don't know what I will drink out of when you get thirsty.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Dogs And Trees And Children -- Oh My
Chauncey and I have found a nearby park to walk in, a sure sign that we are settling in. It's not beautiful except in its authenticity. It is a small inner city park with four ball diamonds, one for each size player, attached to an elementary school, sprinkled with swings and trees. There is a huge business of some sort across the back behind the hedgerows. I can hear big trucks there and see an occasional set of tires roll by.
We won't walk here forever, but I like the idea that we can get here by walking, and I like the trees. There are some really old sycamores, big trees, maybe six feet around, whose leaves have shaded many generations of children playing. It is a living park, filled with the shouts of people cheering on their favorite team at night. Neighborhood children play basketball on the cracked asphalt, sometimes with basket balls, but more often with whatever ball they happen to have at the moment. Today it was small and red, about the size of a golf ball, but all rubber. A dump truck was bringing in loads of wood chips to put under the swing sets, its warning beeper echoing across the nearby road as it backed up and a man was running a heavy roller over one of the smaller diamonds, then putting down the white lines.
Chauncey and I always enter through the parking lot and then meander our way around. Sometimes using the crushed white gravel path that runs behind the ball diamonds and sometimes just going from tree to tree. He likes the way they smell. My thoughts are more fanciful, I think, but who knows what he is thinking? I remember lodge pole pines that smelled like butterscotch in South Dakota and I like the smell of pines and furs. I suspect he is paying attention to all the dogs that came before him.
It takes about a half hour to circle it and go back home, just long enough right now. We've just started this walking business again. There are other parks nearby that we can drive too, but that is for later in the year when our habits are more set, our lungs better developed and our hearts needing more inspiration.
We won't walk here forever, but I like the idea that we can get here by walking, and I like the trees. There are some really old sycamores, big trees, maybe six feet around, whose leaves have shaded many generations of children playing. It is a living park, filled with the shouts of people cheering on their favorite team at night. Neighborhood children play basketball on the cracked asphalt, sometimes with basket balls, but more often with whatever ball they happen to have at the moment. Today it was small and red, about the size of a golf ball, but all rubber. A dump truck was bringing in loads of wood chips to put under the swing sets, its warning beeper echoing across the nearby road as it backed up and a man was running a heavy roller over one of the smaller diamonds, then putting down the white lines.
Chauncey and I always enter through the parking lot and then meander our way around. Sometimes using the crushed white gravel path that runs behind the ball diamonds and sometimes just going from tree to tree. He likes the way they smell. My thoughts are more fanciful, I think, but who knows what he is thinking? I remember lodge pole pines that smelled like butterscotch in South Dakota and I like the smell of pines and furs. I suspect he is paying attention to all the dogs that came before him.
It takes about a half hour to circle it and go back home, just long enough right now. We've just started this walking business again. There are other parks nearby that we can drive too, but that is for later in the year when our habits are more set, our lungs better developed and our hearts needing more inspiration.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Close To My Heart
Change can be painful.
In fact, it can be so painful that I am willing to live with all sorts of things rather than change them.
It can be so painful that I prefer trying to justify hurtful, or bad behaviors rather than change them.
And if I do decide to change things, the pain sometimes makes the changes hard to figure out. The closer to my heart the old ways are, the less likely they are to be changed.
It is like those long rows of dominoes my son used to set up on the pool table. One little change alters everything down the line and suddenly I am in a world of hurt. The pain can be so bad that I don't even notice that there are no more little blocks standing up between me and my goal, so I'm still in danger of reverting back to the old ways.
It takes courage, determination and sometimes just plain grit to make important changes in my life, but it is possible.
Change is an important part of growth and one of the best ways for me to weather the pain is to picture what will happen when I succeed.
What they say about life being a journey is true. We all are born and we all will die, but the ride is sure a lot better for some of us than others. If I never get on the right train, it will be one long miserable trip.
In fact, it can be so painful that I am willing to live with all sorts of things rather than change them.
It can be so painful that I prefer trying to justify hurtful, or bad behaviors rather than change them.
And if I do decide to change things, the pain sometimes makes the changes hard to figure out. The closer to my heart the old ways are, the less likely they are to be changed.
It is like those long rows of dominoes my son used to set up on the pool table. One little change alters everything down the line and suddenly I am in a world of hurt. The pain can be so bad that I don't even notice that there are no more little blocks standing up between me and my goal, so I'm still in danger of reverting back to the old ways.
It takes courage, determination and sometimes just plain grit to make important changes in my life, but it is possible.
Change is an important part of growth and one of the best ways for me to weather the pain is to picture what will happen when I succeed.
What they say about life being a journey is true. We all are born and we all will die, but the ride is sure a lot better for some of us than others. If I never get on the right train, it will be one long miserable trip.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Oh The People You Meet
A friend writes "You just never know who you're talking to and what they have done..." I've been thinking about that and it is so true.
As a child I remember my godfather playing chess with my dad. Two grown-ups who could sit for hours without any apparent movement did not impress me much. Later on I discovered that that same godfather sang opera with some big name divas on the summer circuit. In the winter he taught English and music at a Midwestern college.
By the time I was twelve I had met Uncle Mac, a dashing pink faced, white haired man who came to visit our next door neighbors. He was funny, debonair and always made me feel like a beautiful princess right out of one of my books. The last time I saw him was at my wedding and it is the only picture I have of him, a simple side shot of a man in the distance. He disappeared shortly after that and I found out he had gone "underground" because his daughter had been taken hostage. He was some sort of international spy who had worked for the government most of his life. He never surfaced.
In high school I met a tall thin woman at my grandmother's nursing home. She was talking about her son who liked to box and how good she thought he was. His name was George Foreman!
The man who interviewed me this past year is an ordained Baptist minister who just happened to miss our first appointment because a helicopter picked him up and whisked him off someplace. He sends my grandson post cards from all over the world and routinely travels, when working, with a gun on one hip and a large knife on the other.
Now I hear that a small sweet faced young man I thought of as a kid going to school while working at a fast food place is being sent on a two week special forces mission to Afghanistan to aid in the rescue of prisoners, or hostages.
Of course there have been other times, like when I was expounding on my (very knowledgeable?) views of what the Catholic church thought of birth control to a man who later became one of my best friends and who turned out to be a Catholic priest!
I always discover, after the fact, that the stuff of books is right here where I am.
As a child I remember my godfather playing chess with my dad. Two grown-ups who could sit for hours without any apparent movement did not impress me much. Later on I discovered that that same godfather sang opera with some big name divas on the summer circuit. In the winter he taught English and music at a Midwestern college.
By the time I was twelve I had met Uncle Mac, a dashing pink faced, white haired man who came to visit our next door neighbors. He was funny, debonair and always made me feel like a beautiful princess right out of one of my books. The last time I saw him was at my wedding and it is the only picture I have of him, a simple side shot of a man in the distance. He disappeared shortly after that and I found out he had gone "underground" because his daughter had been taken hostage. He was some sort of international spy who had worked for the government most of his life. He never surfaced.
In high school I met a tall thin woman at my grandmother's nursing home. She was talking about her son who liked to box and how good she thought he was. His name was George Foreman!
The man who interviewed me this past year is an ordained Baptist minister who just happened to miss our first appointment because a helicopter picked him up and whisked him off someplace. He sends my grandson post cards from all over the world and routinely travels, when working, with a gun on one hip and a large knife on the other.
Now I hear that a small sweet faced young man I thought of as a kid going to school while working at a fast food place is being sent on a two week special forces mission to Afghanistan to aid in the rescue of prisoners, or hostages.
Of course there have been other times, like when I was expounding on my (very knowledgeable?) views of what the Catholic church thought of birth control to a man who later became one of my best friends and who turned out to be a Catholic priest!
I always discover, after the fact, that the stuff of books is right here where I am.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Dance
Growth, the process that, ideally, broadens my horizons, views and, unfortunately other parts, as I age.
Right now the emphasis seems to be on relationships. It's always been that way, but it becomes more evident here where the colorful creature I live with has a never ending series of visitors.
I am imagining that great choreographer up in the sky sitting back, chuckling as he watches this dance unfolding.
First there was Motorcycle Mike, that guy who zoomed into her life long ago, whisked her off to Colorado and married her only to discover he had inadvertently hitched himself to the old woman in the shoe and her days of feeding and spanking all those children were far from over. In the end, or what they perceived as the end back then, he found it necessary to distance himself from all the children and money going in and out of his door.
Later on the Great Gray Leprechaun appeared. A spry little guy with energy to spare, a penchant for digging holes and a need to share his wealth with ultra-needy people that made them perfect for each other -- for a while.
Finally, along came Wally, the man who can fix, or build, anything, including relationships. A realist with quiet expectations, he is content to bide his time, sharing the occasional meal or trip with whoever is being pleasant in the moment.
All three continue to circle our house, allowing me the opportunity to discover my own faults and foibles as they move in and out of my space on this stage. All of us coming and going in intricate little patterns that define who we are and none of us are children. Each one has had many years to develop the skills and experience necessary to do the finagling, controlling and micro managing that make our lives what they are.
I have the advantage of the best perspective since I am close to the hub here, but perspective is never as clear as I might hope when it comes to myself. Like my nephew, when he tried to take his picture in the mirror, I find myself blinded by the light of my own making sometimes and lost in the shadows other times.
I hear the music building to a climax, but I suspect we still have years to go. In the meantime, the story unfolds, a rich, sometimes comical drama of three men and a woman enfolded in living out their golden years on the undulating prairies of central Illinois.
Right now the emphasis seems to be on relationships. It's always been that way, but it becomes more evident here where the colorful creature I live with has a never ending series of visitors.
I am imagining that great choreographer up in the sky sitting back, chuckling as he watches this dance unfolding.
First there was Motorcycle Mike, that guy who zoomed into her life long ago, whisked her off to Colorado and married her only to discover he had inadvertently hitched himself to the old woman in the shoe and her days of feeding and spanking all those children were far from over. In the end, or what they perceived as the end back then, he found it necessary to distance himself from all the children and money going in and out of his door.
Later on the Great Gray Leprechaun appeared. A spry little guy with energy to spare, a penchant for digging holes and a need to share his wealth with ultra-needy people that made them perfect for each other -- for a while.
Finally, along came Wally, the man who can fix, or build, anything, including relationships. A realist with quiet expectations, he is content to bide his time, sharing the occasional meal or trip with whoever is being pleasant in the moment.
All three continue to circle our house, allowing me the opportunity to discover my own faults and foibles as they move in and out of my space on this stage. All of us coming and going in intricate little patterns that define who we are and none of us are children. Each one has had many years to develop the skills and experience necessary to do the finagling, controlling and micro managing that make our lives what they are.
I have the advantage of the best perspective since I am close to the hub here, but perspective is never as clear as I might hope when it comes to myself. Like my nephew, when he tried to take his picture in the mirror, I find myself blinded by the light of my own making sometimes and lost in the shadows other times.
I hear the music building to a climax, but I suspect we still have years to go. In the meantime, the story unfolds, a rich, sometimes comical drama of three men and a woman enfolded in living out their golden years on the undulating prairies of central Illinois.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Sixty
Realities are a part of life, but what part?
I just took part in a poll that was divided into sections that put me in the next to oldest group there was! That is a real eye opener. I am at the very bottom of this level, in fact I am almost in the next lower level, but almost is not being there.
I don't feel as old as my age sounds to me and I don't think I look old, but the fact is my age is right up there and that is a bit frustrating for me. I can exercise, lose weight, ride bikes, carry furniture up and down steps, but I cannot change the number of years I have been on this earth.
In truth, I wouldn't trade these years in, they've given me a lot of information and experiences I wouldn't want to give up. I just wish I didn't have so many negative thoughts about the sound of "sixty." There I wrote it! I am sixty years old. I don't feel like an elderly cookie baking grandma ready to sit knitting her way into the twilight of her life. I just spent the day hiking up hill and down all over central Illinois.
What I really need to do is get over my phobia of what other people perceive as sixty and get on with my life. Fortunately for me, I do not have to wear tags advertising my Achilles heel. Most of the people I run into have no idea of, nor any reason to care about, my age. It is not a big factor in my life -- until I think about it.
My life, like fine wines and good cheese, only gets better as I grow older. I have earned every laugh crinkle on this face, every curly gray hair you can see and I have an amazing portfolio of variable and assorted experiences. All of my senses are working perfectly, all of my desires are still flaming and life is about as good as it gets.
Sixty is just the word I use to quantify the time it took to get here.
I just took part in a poll that was divided into sections that put me in the next to oldest group there was! That is a real eye opener. I am at the very bottom of this level, in fact I am almost in the next lower level, but almost is not being there.
I don't feel as old as my age sounds to me and I don't think I look old, but the fact is my age is right up there and that is a bit frustrating for me. I can exercise, lose weight, ride bikes, carry furniture up and down steps, but I cannot change the number of years I have been on this earth.
In truth, I wouldn't trade these years in, they've given me a lot of information and experiences I wouldn't want to give up. I just wish I didn't have so many negative thoughts about the sound of "sixty." There I wrote it! I am sixty years old. I don't feel like an elderly cookie baking grandma ready to sit knitting her way into the twilight of her life. I just spent the day hiking up hill and down all over central Illinois.
What I really need to do is get over my phobia of what other people perceive as sixty and get on with my life. Fortunately for me, I do not have to wear tags advertising my Achilles heel. Most of the people I run into have no idea of, nor any reason to care about, my age. It is not a big factor in my life -- until I think about it.
My life, like fine wines and good cheese, only gets better as I grow older. I have earned every laugh crinkle on this face, every curly gray hair you can see and I have an amazing portfolio of variable and assorted experiences. All of my senses are working perfectly, all of my desires are still flaming and life is about as good as it gets.
Sixty is just the word I use to quantify the time it took to get here.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Feeding The Future
My eight year old nephew is spending the weekend with us. We had grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup, his favorites, for dinner. Followed by a movie, The Waterhorse, and popcorn, then computer time where he showed me cosmic monkeys shooting something. It seems boys are always shooting something, somehow. Then he downed three bowls of fruit loops and now I can hear racing on the tv in the other room.
Tomorrow we are going on a photo scavenger hunt that I designed. He has a list of things to find and take pictures of, but first he must figure out what they are, where they might best be found and what he must do to orchestrate the photo. Things like a four legged animal that is not domesticated, (he'll have to figure out what domesticated means.) Or things like a red bird, grandma on a bridge, animal in the water and boy in a mirror. We will be his wheels and take a picnic lunch along.
Later on we'll go look for the white deer at a nearby park and of course the obligatory stop at a MacDonalds with a playground that he and his grandmother always make part of their visit.
Sunday I'm making cinnamon rolls for breakfast before we take him home.
This is the next generation coming up and I am intrigued.
Tomorrow we are going on a photo scavenger hunt that I designed. He has a list of things to find and take pictures of, but first he must figure out what they are, where they might best be found and what he must do to orchestrate the photo. Things like a four legged animal that is not domesticated, (he'll have to figure out what domesticated means.) Or things like a red bird, grandma on a bridge, animal in the water and boy in a mirror. We will be his wheels and take a picnic lunch along.
Later on we'll go look for the white deer at a nearby park and of course the obligatory stop at a MacDonalds with a playground that he and his grandmother always make part of their visit.
Sunday I'm making cinnamon rolls for breakfast before we take him home.
This is the next generation coming up and I am intrigued.
Friday, May 21, 2010
A Craving
As long as I can remember there have been days like this. Days when there is that particular smell in the air, particular feel to the atmosphere. I cannot describe it. I can only describe the way it touches me.
I remember being three years old and thinking it was the feeling that grown-ups have when something very special is about to happen. I remember it as a young child when I looked out the window on a snowy day and thought how wonderful it was to be safe and cozy in my grandmother's big house looking out a window and that some day something wonderful was going to happen on a day like this one.
I remember feeling it in college right after dinner, when the sun has that extra warm and brilliant look. I thought it was how I would feel when I was married and spending time like this with my husband and children.
I have had it on rainy days like this one when I imagine what it will be like to curl up in a comfy place and read a really good book.
I had it this morning as I sat here thinking I have already written my thots, but I would love to be writing them right now.
It suddenly occurred to me that this feeling is the promise of a life fulfilled and fulfilling, the love of what is and was and will be and I have been blessed to have recognized it since day one. I just didn't know what it was. It's like smelling fresh hot bread right out of the oven for the very first time. It brings up pictures and feelings on every level. It's like waking up in a big bed when you are three years old and contemplating those smooth pink toes that belong to just you. It's a hunger for the moment that is so huge it can't be assuaged.
I have always had it.
I remember being three years old and thinking it was the feeling that grown-ups have when something very special is about to happen. I remember it as a young child when I looked out the window on a snowy day and thought how wonderful it was to be safe and cozy in my grandmother's big house looking out a window and that some day something wonderful was going to happen on a day like this one.
I remember feeling it in college right after dinner, when the sun has that extra warm and brilliant look. I thought it was how I would feel when I was married and spending time like this with my husband and children.
I have had it on rainy days like this one when I imagine what it will be like to curl up in a comfy place and read a really good book.
I had it this morning as I sat here thinking I have already written my thots, but I would love to be writing them right now.
It suddenly occurred to me that this feeling is the promise of a life fulfilled and fulfilling, the love of what is and was and will be and I have been blessed to have recognized it since day one. I just didn't know what it was. It's like smelling fresh hot bread right out of the oven for the very first time. It brings up pictures and feelings on every level. It's like waking up in a big bed when you are three years old and contemplating those smooth pink toes that belong to just you. It's a hunger for the moment that is so huge it can't be assuaged.
I have always had it.
Love Objects
Trying to start a conversation with a tree is easier than trying to talk to an unresponsive person. Trees, after all, respond telepathically! All I have to do is sit down and think a thought at that tree and it talks right back. You might call this active imagination, but it can be lots of fun and sometimes even a bit intriguing.
People, on the other hand, are expected to respond on their own. If they simply answer my questions, they are being polite, but not particularly effusive. I could use active imagination on them too, but it doesn't feel right to do that.
I cannot and would not want to force someone to talk to me who wasn't in the mood, but sometimes I sense that their mood is such, that a good conversation might perk them up. Try and tell that to someone who is a little morose, or depressed. They don't believe it. It reminds me of a children's song about the Grand Old Duke Of York that said, "when you're up you're up and when you're down you're down."
Down can be like a black hole, it just sucks the life right out of me. If it happens to be one of those times when I am "in love" then all is well, because all I need to do is connect with, or think about my love object of the moment. Other times are not so easy. For instance, if that proverbial love object is also down, we are in a world of hurt.
All I can do for me then is to write. I write the stories I want to happen, or the story of what is happening and life goes on. Eventually the light returns and things seem brighter and that is all it takes. If I perceive that life is better, it feels better, and gets better.
People, on the other hand, are expected to respond on their own. If they simply answer my questions, they are being polite, but not particularly effusive. I could use active imagination on them too, but it doesn't feel right to do that.
I cannot and would not want to force someone to talk to me who wasn't in the mood, but sometimes I sense that their mood is such, that a good conversation might perk them up. Try and tell that to someone who is a little morose, or depressed. They don't believe it. It reminds me of a children's song about the Grand Old Duke Of York that said, "when you're up you're up and when you're down you're down."
Down can be like a black hole, it just sucks the life right out of me. If it happens to be one of those times when I am "in love" then all is well, because all I need to do is connect with, or think about my love object of the moment. Other times are not so easy. For instance, if that proverbial love object is also down, we are in a world of hurt.
All I can do for me then is to write. I write the stories I want to happen, or the story of what is happening and life goes on. Eventually the light returns and things seem brighter and that is all it takes. If I perceive that life is better, it feels better, and gets better.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Humanity
I have a friend whose web cam is usually on, which means I can drop in on his life at any given moment. One would think this might become boring after a while, but I find it endlessly fascinating.
And that makes me wonder why? What is it about other people's lives that draws each of us? Why are those reality shows on television, 99.9% of which I personally do not care for, so popular?
For me, I think it is a peek into the life of a person whose personality lies parallel to my own. One time I am affirmed by the fact that he sits in front of his computer working away in solitary bliss. Another time finds me content in the confirmation that other people also drink coffee, slouch, prop their feet up and attend to business with their personal muses. Still other times find me simply lonely for the sight of someone working in a pool of light, or in their absence, knowing that the sun also sets in warm pools of late afternoon warmth all over the world.
In spite of being surrounded by people, I find inexpressible comfort in these moments. They become a sort of grown-up pacifier, or teddy bear, something to cling to that really provides nothing but a hook to my own thoughts. Perhaps they are the muse that links me, not with my creativity, but with my humanity.
And that makes me wonder why? What is it about other people's lives that draws each of us? Why are those reality shows on television, 99.9% of which I personally do not care for, so popular?
For me, I think it is a peek into the life of a person whose personality lies parallel to my own. One time I am affirmed by the fact that he sits in front of his computer working away in solitary bliss. Another time finds me content in the confirmation that other people also drink coffee, slouch, prop their feet up and attend to business with their personal muses. Still other times find me simply lonely for the sight of someone working in a pool of light, or in their absence, knowing that the sun also sets in warm pools of late afternoon warmth all over the world.
In spite of being surrounded by people, I find inexpressible comfort in these moments. They become a sort of grown-up pacifier, or teddy bear, something to cling to that really provides nothing but a hook to my own thoughts. Perhaps they are the muse that links me, not with my creativity, but with my humanity.
One Dark Night -- In The Middle Of A Dream
Imagine going out into the country, visiting a farm and doing all those country things. Walking down to the fields, feeding the pigs, even climbing up in the hayloft. At night everyone gathers around the piano and sings songs in a silly way and then the stories begin.
Not stories about great Aunt Martha, or the time little Sally Ann ran through the kitchen garden in the altogether, but stranger stories of what goes on in the back forty when no one is around. Stories told with a wink and a laugh, but whose teller keeps rubbing his thumb against his index finger and surreptitiously glancing toward the window in the corner.
In the morning everyone will be packing up to go back home. Everyone except Dan and Susan, they have decided to stay behind. Dan is the real last boy scout. Just out of college he still retains that boyish hope that there are things yet to be discovered in this world and Susan, a middle aged woman in her fifties, is looking for the last great adventure. They rise early and dress for the occasion.
This occasion means long canvas coveralls, tall boots, beekeeper's hats, sturdy white clothes meant for other things because there are no things meant for this. Three thirty in the morning barely looks like morning. It is dark and chilly out. The walk down the old tractor road is long and the clothes are heavy. Susan is having second thoughts, but calms herself by remembering that the story teller has seen it all before. Dan is thinking that this is all probably some set up at their expense.
The old metal gate swings open and they begin the last trek down to the decrepit old barn. A few milk cows still stand stone still in the fields around them. This is comforting to Susan. Dan barely gives their sturdy silhouettes any thought at all. Inside the barn things are different. Apparently they are not the only ones who came to see. Some other people linger near empty stalls and broken down pieces of the past. Susan wonders how they got there, but that thought is soon lost in the anticipation that begins to swallow her up as she checks her camera one last time.
The farmer arrives. He whispers something in a rough dialect to his son and they turn to the waiting people. Opening the trap door in the center of the barn, they begin their descent. One step at a time, six people hold onto the rickety wooden railings and peer into a black void broken only by the pale glow of the story teller's flashlight. No stories now. No words at all. Just the slow, almost silent shuffle of feet feeling their way along the dim, dusty trail that will slake their curiosity.
Thunder crashes over their heads and lightning lights up the square in the floor above them. Water drips through a crack somewhere and the boy stops, looks at his father and they turn around, motioning to the people on the steps to go back up, hurrying them along. No one complains. No one says a word. They are all just a bit relieved thinking that perhaps they didn't want to come on this adventure after all.
People mill about among the broken down stalls, removing their costumes and laughing nervously. Glancing at the trap door the farmer is carefully bolting and concealing under bales of musty old hay, one self righteously proclaims he has been had. The rest put away their cameras, feeling that sense of relief that comes when an ordeal is over. After all, no money was exchanged. There was nothing to be gained by these people who simply agreed to take them and let them see for themselves.
Susan motions towards the door and Dan follows her. Both of them are thinking of the story they have to tell.
Not stories about great Aunt Martha, or the time little Sally Ann ran through the kitchen garden in the altogether, but stranger stories of what goes on in the back forty when no one is around. Stories told with a wink and a laugh, but whose teller keeps rubbing his thumb against his index finger and surreptitiously glancing toward the window in the corner.
In the morning everyone will be packing up to go back home. Everyone except Dan and Susan, they have decided to stay behind. Dan is the real last boy scout. Just out of college he still retains that boyish hope that there are things yet to be discovered in this world and Susan, a middle aged woman in her fifties, is looking for the last great adventure. They rise early and dress for the occasion.
This occasion means long canvas coveralls, tall boots, beekeeper's hats, sturdy white clothes meant for other things because there are no things meant for this. Three thirty in the morning barely looks like morning. It is dark and chilly out. The walk down the old tractor road is long and the clothes are heavy. Susan is having second thoughts, but calms herself by remembering that the story teller has seen it all before. Dan is thinking that this is all probably some set up at their expense.
The old metal gate swings open and they begin the last trek down to the decrepit old barn. A few milk cows still stand stone still in the fields around them. This is comforting to Susan. Dan barely gives their sturdy silhouettes any thought at all. Inside the barn things are different. Apparently they are not the only ones who came to see. Some other people linger near empty stalls and broken down pieces of the past. Susan wonders how they got there, but that thought is soon lost in the anticipation that begins to swallow her up as she checks her camera one last time.
The farmer arrives. He whispers something in a rough dialect to his son and they turn to the waiting people. Opening the trap door in the center of the barn, they begin their descent. One step at a time, six people hold onto the rickety wooden railings and peer into a black void broken only by the pale glow of the story teller's flashlight. No stories now. No words at all. Just the slow, almost silent shuffle of feet feeling their way along the dim, dusty trail that will slake their curiosity.
Thunder crashes over their heads and lightning lights up the square in the floor above them. Water drips through a crack somewhere and the boy stops, looks at his father and they turn around, motioning to the people on the steps to go back up, hurrying them along. No one complains. No one says a word. They are all just a bit relieved thinking that perhaps they didn't want to come on this adventure after all.
People mill about among the broken down stalls, removing their costumes and laughing nervously. Glancing at the trap door the farmer is carefully bolting and concealing under bales of musty old hay, one self righteously proclaims he has been had. The rest put away their cameras, feeling that sense of relief that comes when an ordeal is over. After all, no money was exchanged. There was nothing to be gained by these people who simply agreed to take them and let them see for themselves.
Susan motions towards the door and Dan follows her. Both of them are thinking of the story they have to tell.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Our Divine Comedy
My sister is working in her yard. She says she loves to do this and I am glad. Grass mowing, raking, weeding, are not things I would ever choose to do for many reasons. Most of all I just have other things I'd rather do, but I also like the grass when it is longer and full of clover, or when dandelions are blooming along with the verbena and other tiny wild flowers that find their way into unfettered grass. I like the woodland meadow look. My sister likes the urban manicured look, which is good if you live in this neighborhood.
People here regard their yards as something to be controlled. I'm not sure if it is because man, as in human, not men, likes to control things, or if it gives them the false sense of security that says, "I am in control of nature here." They cannot even conceive of someone wanting to do things differently. In their eyes an untamed yard is a sign that you are sick and cannot get out, or lazy and don't want to be a fully working member of their society, or somehow tainted in the haid!
But I have years of not fitting in, so I can weather these storms. In my sister's eyes, the worst thing that could happen would be if she waited too long and they mowed her grass. In my eyes, that would be a gross over stepping of their authority in my life, but one I would gladly let them do if they felt so inclined.
Whatever. Today my sister went out to tamp down the earth of a hole her friend spent five hours digging up and filling in, then she intended to mow, but as usual, she was side tracked. I took Chauncey out to enjoy the comedy in our own backyard.
My sister carefully swept leaves toward herself with a push broom and then picked up a few to put them in a recycling sack. While she did this, the wind blew the rest back to wherever they came from, the flower bed, the garage, everywhere except where she wanted them. Then she went and got her manly blower to finish the job. Plugging it in like a pro, she left the cord all curled up over her pile of leaves and set to it, blowing leaves here, there and everywhere. Finally ending up by blowing them towards the grass and this is where the true comedy began.
As she blew them towards the grass, the wind picked them up and blew them back towards her! It was a classic cartoon whirlwind that could not have been better orchestrated if we had planned it. A huge circle of leaves blowing round and round between the yard and her. In the end I counted eleven leaves in the yard and the rest somewhere close to where they probably started out.
Later this afternoon we bought and planted quite a few little flowers to add color, and fill in between the perennials. I did help here. I helped pick them out, carry them and decide where to put them. I even took pictures and then I went in and cooked dinner.
Life, it's what we make it.
People here regard their yards as something to be controlled. I'm not sure if it is because man, as in human, not men, likes to control things, or if it gives them the false sense of security that says, "I am in control of nature here." They cannot even conceive of someone wanting to do things differently. In their eyes an untamed yard is a sign that you are sick and cannot get out, or lazy and don't want to be a fully working member of their society, or somehow tainted in the haid!
But I have years of not fitting in, so I can weather these storms. In my sister's eyes, the worst thing that could happen would be if she waited too long and they mowed her grass. In my eyes, that would be a gross over stepping of their authority in my life, but one I would gladly let them do if they felt so inclined.
Whatever. Today my sister went out to tamp down the earth of a hole her friend spent five hours digging up and filling in, then she intended to mow, but as usual, she was side tracked. I took Chauncey out to enjoy the comedy in our own backyard.
My sister carefully swept leaves toward herself with a push broom and then picked up a few to put them in a recycling sack. While she did this, the wind blew the rest back to wherever they came from, the flower bed, the garage, everywhere except where she wanted them. Then she went and got her manly blower to finish the job. Plugging it in like a pro, she left the cord all curled up over her pile of leaves and set to it, blowing leaves here, there and everywhere. Finally ending up by blowing them towards the grass and this is where the true comedy began.
As she blew them towards the grass, the wind picked them up and blew them back towards her! It was a classic cartoon whirlwind that could not have been better orchestrated if we had planned it. A huge circle of leaves blowing round and round between the yard and her. In the end I counted eleven leaves in the yard and the rest somewhere close to where they probably started out.
Later this afternoon we bought and planted quite a few little flowers to add color, and fill in between the perennials. I did help here. I helped pick them out, carry them and decide where to put them. I even took pictures and then I went in and cooked dinner.
Life, it's what we make it.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Tell Me Do
What do I want people to think of when they say, or hear, my name?
This goes beyond what I might want them to read in an obituary, because I am thinking of those people who really know me, the ones who wouldn't have to read the obits to know who I am.
I asked my sister what is the first thing she thinks of when she hears my name and she said, "What do you want to know?" See? That's my sister, kind to a fault, terrified of hurting anyone's feelings, good hearted." That's the sort of thing I want to know about me.
Because I insisted she tell me something before I told her what kinds of things I was looking for, she came up with outspoken, opinionated, always says it like it is. Later, after hearing what I said about her, she reneged by saying I was good hearted and kind too. Well, I like to think so, but it wasn't the first thing she thought of.
I wonder what people say when they talk about me? She says they say I am intelligent, fun to be with and funny. I like that, but somehow it just doesn't sound quite right to me.
Is this insecurity, or ego, or just plain silliness? I don't know, but it is what I was thinking about tonight.
This goes beyond what I might want them to read in an obituary, because I am thinking of those people who really know me, the ones who wouldn't have to read the obits to know who I am.
I asked my sister what is the first thing she thinks of when she hears my name and she said, "What do you want to know?" See? That's my sister, kind to a fault, terrified of hurting anyone's feelings, good hearted." That's the sort of thing I want to know about me.
Because I insisted she tell me something before I told her what kinds of things I was looking for, she came up with outspoken, opinionated, always says it like it is. Later, after hearing what I said about her, she reneged by saying I was good hearted and kind too. Well, I like to think so, but it wasn't the first thing she thought of.
I wonder what people say when they talk about me? She says they say I am intelligent, fun to be with and funny. I like that, but somehow it just doesn't sound quite right to me.
Is this insecurity, or ego, or just plain silliness? I don't know, but it is what I was thinking about tonight.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Heaven And Hell
I just ate the most delicious strawberry, dipped in chocolate so rich it was to die for.
My sister received a box of them from her son in New Orleans. Then she had to run to her other child who always lives on the edge of extinction, or so she would have us believe.
I've noticed, though, that those who live on the brink always manage to avoid that last little step that keeps them from tipping over and disappearing. We have been waiting for this one to take that final plunge for years now. The only thing left of her that is childish is her life style and everyone seems to extend a hand just long enough to keep her stranded in the same old destructive actions.
Someday, if the gods smile on her, she will be given enough grace to fall and that plunge will most likely be her only chance at salvation. Until then she dances on the edge holding the hands of her children, dangling them over a fire she doesn't even see.
People stand on both sides of her, ready to grab those children when she finally goes and people stand below her, ready with a safety net that will cart her off and offer her a chance at a life full of self respect and hope.
But for now we eat strawberries dipped in chocolate in between the gasps of terror.
My sister received a box of them from her son in New Orleans. Then she had to run to her other child who always lives on the edge of extinction, or so she would have us believe.
I've noticed, though, that those who live on the brink always manage to avoid that last little step that keeps them from tipping over and disappearing. We have been waiting for this one to take that final plunge for years now. The only thing left of her that is childish is her life style and everyone seems to extend a hand just long enough to keep her stranded in the same old destructive actions.
Someday, if the gods smile on her, she will be given enough grace to fall and that plunge will most likely be her only chance at salvation. Until then she dances on the edge holding the hands of her children, dangling them over a fire she doesn't even see.
People stand on both sides of her, ready to grab those children when she finally goes and people stand below her, ready with a safety net that will cart her off and offer her a chance at a life full of self respect and hope.
But for now we eat strawberries dipped in chocolate in between the gasps of terror.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Being An Earthling
I just came in from taking Chauncey out and as I stood there in the night air, I felt that homely deep connection to the earth that I have felt almost everywhere I've ever been. This time it was prompted by the smell of damp earth. Simple wet dirt! It is a smell that I am sure is familiar to people all over the world, one of those commonalities that we all share.
Whether you are used to it from watering your garden, or from the rain pouring down upon the land around you, or even from the potted plants growing in your living room, most of us know that smell. Like the sun and the moon, it is part of being an earthling.
I often stand peering up at the sky, looking at the stars and thinking that people have watched these same stars since time began. There is a feeling that comes to me in the solitariness of the night that tells me we are part of this giant organism called earth and we are so much more alike than any of us really understand. All of the social mores that separate us are just gossamer filaments compared to the sensual sensations of being alive and living in a world where we must share the same air and water, light and atmosphere.
You are my brother and my sister, part of this giant litter of homo sapiens born upon the earth. Isn't it amazing how much more likely we are to relate peacefully to dogs, or cats, or other creatures than each other? I think it is our commonality that causes the friction. Strong willed, determined creatures, not content with the status-quo, eager to move forward and conquer whatever lies before us. Sibling rivalry expanded into world wide dimensions whether we like it, or not. Mother earth resignedly putting up with our ridiculous altercations, knowing that in the course of eternity, we are only memorable en masse.
And yet my love for you is very singular, very one on one. What a strange thing that is!
Whether you are used to it from watering your garden, or from the rain pouring down upon the land around you, or even from the potted plants growing in your living room, most of us know that smell. Like the sun and the moon, it is part of being an earthling.
I often stand peering up at the sky, looking at the stars and thinking that people have watched these same stars since time began. There is a feeling that comes to me in the solitariness of the night that tells me we are part of this giant organism called earth and we are so much more alike than any of us really understand. All of the social mores that separate us are just gossamer filaments compared to the sensual sensations of being alive and living in a world where we must share the same air and water, light and atmosphere.
You are my brother and my sister, part of this giant litter of homo sapiens born upon the earth. Isn't it amazing how much more likely we are to relate peacefully to dogs, or cats, or other creatures than each other? I think it is our commonality that causes the friction. Strong willed, determined creatures, not content with the status-quo, eager to move forward and conquer whatever lies before us. Sibling rivalry expanded into world wide dimensions whether we like it, or not. Mother earth resignedly putting up with our ridiculous altercations, knowing that in the course of eternity, we are only memorable en masse.
And yet my love for you is very singular, very one on one. What a strange thing that is!
Friday, May 14, 2010
"Lord help the mister, who comes between me and my sister... "
Living together successfully incorporates an awful lot of skills. In order for two people to continue on as autonomous unique individuals they must have a deep and abiding respect for each other, an open and honest form of communication, and a tolerance for each others quirks. Anything less than that and one, or the other, is bound to be unhappy as time goes on.
Only one person can live in a body at once. When two people try to take up residence in one space, conflict rises up and begins to drive a wedge between them.
The old fairy tale relationships where the fair maiden is protected by the charging knight is just that, a fairy tale. Fair maidens who never learn to protect themselves eventually fade into the sunset along with rainbows, lollipops and roses, beautiful ideas for stories, but pretty insubstantial material when it comes to enduring. The same thing is true for charging knights. A knight who spends too many years charging every perceived danger may become blinded to the simple things in life.
There is great joy in walking side by side with those I love. We may take turns carrying the load. We may even carry it together, but if one tries to carry it all the time, the other becomes lost in the shadow behind him, or her. Lost souls are pitiful and pitiful is painful to live with.
True strength is one of the most attractive attributes I know of. It is sympathetic and empathetic without being controlling. It takes up its own space, leaving plenty of room for everyone else, so there continues to be room for change and growth. Fear, jealousy and all those other dark feelings belong in other moments, so that this moment is always a good one with the potential for another to soon follow.
As my sister and I begin our journey as housemates once more in this life, we leave many other relationships behind us. Each one a learning experience that brought us closer to where we are today. We still have much to learn about this business of two adult women cohabiting, but I believe we are truly on the right path.
Only one person can live in a body at once. When two people try to take up residence in one space, conflict rises up and begins to drive a wedge between them.
The old fairy tale relationships where the fair maiden is protected by the charging knight is just that, a fairy tale. Fair maidens who never learn to protect themselves eventually fade into the sunset along with rainbows, lollipops and roses, beautiful ideas for stories, but pretty insubstantial material when it comes to enduring. The same thing is true for charging knights. A knight who spends too many years charging every perceived danger may become blinded to the simple things in life.
There is great joy in walking side by side with those I love. We may take turns carrying the load. We may even carry it together, but if one tries to carry it all the time, the other becomes lost in the shadow behind him, or her. Lost souls are pitiful and pitiful is painful to live with.
True strength is one of the most attractive attributes I know of. It is sympathetic and empathetic without being controlling. It takes up its own space, leaving plenty of room for everyone else, so there continues to be room for change and growth. Fear, jealousy and all those other dark feelings belong in other moments, so that this moment is always a good one with the potential for another to soon follow.
As my sister and I begin our journey as housemates once more in this life, we leave many other relationships behind us. Each one a learning experience that brought us closer to where we are today. We still have much to learn about this business of two adult women cohabiting, but I believe we are truly on the right path.
Neighbors All Around
I've met some of the neighbors now. There is Handy Andy the perfectionist across the street, whose hobby appears to be touching up his perfect yard while wearing his perfectly pressed and perfectly creased work clothes. There is George who lives next door and whose wife keeps going to the sleep labs, but can't sleep there. George spent the morning detailing his yard and then Handy Andy came over and mowed it for him so he had to re-detail. I don't know how he felt about that, but I'm sure Andy was trying to be helpful. Then I met the guy on the other side who has been a gold miner, a fisherman, and most recently worked as a cameraman and grip out in California. He seems to have no interest in his yard, which is somewhat of a relief. I enjoyed talking to him the most. The guy behind us has two little border collies that are yappy, but brilliant and fun to watch. He likes Chauncey and that earns him all sorts of brownie points.
There are women in all these houses too, but they don't seem to come outside much, although I did talk briefly to a disembodied voice the other night as I retrieved my screwdriver from my trunk.
I'm just trying to be friendly, as I am sure they are too. I'm not looking for any best friends who live that close. I like being able to go out on my patio in the morning, drink my coffee and watch Chauncey without feeling obligated to do anything else. I don't mind a nod and a wave, but more than that seems like too much responsibility at the moment.
I just spent the better part of two years almost in isolation. I went out in my yard and saw only mountains and trees. Here I am surrounded by houses and people. There is an energy to living in the city that is interesting, but every city is different and Decatur is not Saint Louis, or San Francisco, or Denver. It is much smaller and feels like a small town to me in many respects. Not having to drive twenty miles through the mountains makes everything feel very convenient.
Someone asked if I was sad about leaving all my things behind, but I'm really not. I've always wondered if I could just up and leave it all. I liked the idea, but the reality was actually much better than I could have imagined. I have had some incredible experiences during the last ten years and it appears they aren't over yet.
There are women in all these houses too, but they don't seem to come outside much, although I did talk briefly to a disembodied voice the other night as I retrieved my screwdriver from my trunk.
I'm just trying to be friendly, as I am sure they are too. I'm not looking for any best friends who live that close. I like being able to go out on my patio in the morning, drink my coffee and watch Chauncey without feeling obligated to do anything else. I don't mind a nod and a wave, but more than that seems like too much responsibility at the moment.
I just spent the better part of two years almost in isolation. I went out in my yard and saw only mountains and trees. Here I am surrounded by houses and people. There is an energy to living in the city that is interesting, but every city is different and Decatur is not Saint Louis, or San Francisco, or Denver. It is much smaller and feels like a small town to me in many respects. Not having to drive twenty miles through the mountains makes everything feel very convenient.
Someone asked if I was sad about leaving all my things behind, but I'm really not. I've always wondered if I could just up and leave it all. I liked the idea, but the reality was actually much better than I could have imagined. I have had some incredible experiences during the last ten years and it appears they aren't over yet.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Treading Automation
Never ask the cable company how to do anything. The answers vary so much, depending on who answers their calls, that I would be hard pressed to believe they all work for the same company.
I spent most of the morning treading through the automated calling systems, trying to find out the best way to get my new computer on the Internet. My old one was a laptop that hooked into the wireless router I installed last week, but the laptop gave up its ghost the other day and now I have a desk top.
After winding through the maze of automated questions several times and going to the local office, I was given three solutions. Each, according to the person I spoke with, the only solution possible with this cable company and our set up. Obviously at least two of them were wrong.
The answer came in the form of a nice young man attending Milliken University here. He too was in line at the local place. He suggested we simply run another ethernet line from the router box to my computer. It meant drilling a larger hole in the corner of one bedroom and stapling the line across the basement ceiling, but once connected, it worked perfectly!
Last night I slept in my own new bed, in my own new room with my own new computer resting comfortably nearby. Throw in my dog, Chauncey who joined me, and we are good to go.
I spent most of the morning treading through the automated calling systems, trying to find out the best way to get my new computer on the Internet. My old one was a laptop that hooked into the wireless router I installed last week, but the laptop gave up its ghost the other day and now I have a desk top.
After winding through the maze of automated questions several times and going to the local office, I was given three solutions. Each, according to the person I spoke with, the only solution possible with this cable company and our set up. Obviously at least two of them were wrong.
The answer came in the form of a nice young man attending Milliken University here. He too was in line at the local place. He suggested we simply run another ethernet line from the router box to my computer. It meant drilling a larger hole in the corner of one bedroom and stapling the line across the basement ceiling, but once connected, it worked perfectly!
Last night I slept in my own new bed, in my own new room with my own new computer resting comfortably nearby. Throw in my dog, Chauncey who joined me, and we are good to go.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Four Friends
Four friends. Four separate people from diverse backgrounds. Three of them nurses. One a writer.
Three of them have always lived near each other, the last one often not so near. But the others came up and swam in her pool, weeded her garden and occasionally slept in her bed when she was gone on vacation!
Four friends who have cleaned each others houses, driven each other to pick up new puppies in far away places, gone shopping in hats only Hedda Hopper might wear and sweat-ed together in saunas.
One of them moved to North Carolina and the other three came out once a year to eat and visit, hike and shop and in between all that they washed her windows!
Four friends and the last one was always sickly, but now the strongest one is and it is time to sit in her hot tub, play with her puppy, and make her laugh until the laughter just bubbles up inside her and lifts her up into the healing light of love that four positive friends can create for each other.
Three of them have always lived near each other, the last one often not so near. But the others came up and swam in her pool, weeded her garden and occasionally slept in her bed when she was gone on vacation!
Four friends who have cleaned each others houses, driven each other to pick up new puppies in far away places, gone shopping in hats only Hedda Hopper might wear and sweat-ed together in saunas.
One of them moved to North Carolina and the other three came out once a year to eat and visit, hike and shop and in between all that they washed her windows!
Four friends and the last one was always sickly, but now the strongest one is and it is time to sit in her hot tub, play with her puppy, and make her laugh until the laughter just bubbles up inside her and lifts her up into the healing light of love that four positive friends can create for each other.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Apple Fritters And Jelly Donuts
I do not pretend to understand the whys of most things. I do speculate on them and sometimes I hope to influence them, but on the whole, I am doing the best I can just to accept them and move forward.
Of course I don't mean the whys of things like, why does water fall downward, or why do trees lose their leaves, or how is a baby born. I am thinking more of those less concrete things like, why do some people have to endure terrible things that seem beyond their control while others do not.
Sometimes I can see where one's actions may have led them into difficulties, but more often life just seems to pass out difficulties like donuts on a Sunday morning. One person gets the apple fritters, another that pesky little powdered sugar one and still another gets the jelly donut that makes everyone else envious until the jelly spurts out all over his favorite necktie, ruining it.
How I look at these difficulties influences the quality of my own life. I'm not sure I can always make lemonade with lemons, but I do try to put most of my attention on those things I have some control over and focus on the things that are good, or right, or pleasing. The rest I simply learn to live with.
I have had some great role models. My granddaughter has cerebral palsy. It isn't so debilitating that she must be in a wheel chair, but her large motor coordination is not the best, so walking is very tiring and she may never be able to do some of the fine motor things most of us take for granted. Still she copes beautifully and is one of the most cheerful people I know, focusing on what she can do rather than the rest.
That's about the best most of us can hope for.
Of course I don't mean the whys of things like, why does water fall downward, or why do trees lose their leaves, or how is a baby born. I am thinking more of those less concrete things like, why do some people have to endure terrible things that seem beyond their control while others do not.
Sometimes I can see where one's actions may have led them into difficulties, but more often life just seems to pass out difficulties like donuts on a Sunday morning. One person gets the apple fritters, another that pesky little powdered sugar one and still another gets the jelly donut that makes everyone else envious until the jelly spurts out all over his favorite necktie, ruining it.
How I look at these difficulties influences the quality of my own life. I'm not sure I can always make lemonade with lemons, but I do try to put most of my attention on those things I have some control over and focus on the things that are good, or right, or pleasing. The rest I simply learn to live with.
I have had some great role models. My granddaughter has cerebral palsy. It isn't so debilitating that she must be in a wheel chair, but her large motor coordination is not the best, so walking is very tiring and she may never be able to do some of the fine motor things most of us take for granted. Still she copes beautifully and is one of the most cheerful people I know, focusing on what she can do rather than the rest.
That's about the best most of us can hope for.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Goodness
The best of intentions can't change reality and the hardest part of reality can be the knowledge that I must learn to live with and love myself if I have any hope for peace, happiness, or contentment at all.
I think I have been in this place for some time now, but it is a hard concept to explain to anyone else. Most of childhood is spent learning to control ourselves, ignoring our most basic wants because they interfere with what our world considers civilized. We teach children to reach out, to share, to be philanthropic, but we seldom teach them to truly honor and respect themselves.
It is difficult to make compelling movies and stories for the average person about discovering one's own self worth. Long ago, when a boy grew up to be what his father was, or a girl knew what was expected of her, it might have been easier, but I suspect even those times had their own demons.
How often does a parent tell a child what he needs to do, or to change? How often does that same parent tell that same child what he is doing right, or what is uniquely beautiful about him? We learn how to spot our weaknesses, but it doesn't even occur to most of us to look for our goodness.
Goodness is a complicated thing. It's not just doing good things. It's not necessarily being obedient. It is possible to be a total failure in the ways of the world and still be a very good person. You can be financially poor, physically ill, homeless, jobless, even dirty and be good, truly good! Discovering this is a step onto the road to self-love. It's a big step for many of us, but it is doable.
Whether you love yourself because God made you and "God don't make no junk," or because you are a child of light, or simply because you are a child of man, or woman, doesn't matter. However you find a way to get some part of you on the road to this discovery is okay. In fact, it is imperative if you hope to make the most out of your life.
Loving yourself is like putting on magical glasses. It makes others so much easier to love.
And that makes life easier.
I think I have been in this place for some time now, but it is a hard concept to explain to anyone else. Most of childhood is spent learning to control ourselves, ignoring our most basic wants because they interfere with what our world considers civilized. We teach children to reach out, to share, to be philanthropic, but we seldom teach them to truly honor and respect themselves.
It is difficult to make compelling movies and stories for the average person about discovering one's own self worth. Long ago, when a boy grew up to be what his father was, or a girl knew what was expected of her, it might have been easier, but I suspect even those times had their own demons.
How often does a parent tell a child what he needs to do, or to change? How often does that same parent tell that same child what he is doing right, or what is uniquely beautiful about him? We learn how to spot our weaknesses, but it doesn't even occur to most of us to look for our goodness.
Goodness is a complicated thing. It's not just doing good things. It's not necessarily being obedient. It is possible to be a total failure in the ways of the world and still be a very good person. You can be financially poor, physically ill, homeless, jobless, even dirty and be good, truly good! Discovering this is a step onto the road to self-love. It's a big step for many of us, but it is doable.
Whether you love yourself because God made you and "God don't make no junk," or because you are a child of light, or simply because you are a child of man, or woman, doesn't matter. However you find a way to get some part of you on the road to this discovery is okay. In fact, it is imperative if you hope to make the most out of your life.
Loving yourself is like putting on magical glasses. It makes others so much easier to love.
And that makes life easier.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Happy Mother's Day!
Mother's love us. Maybe not the way we want them too, but usually to the best of their abilities.
My mother and I clashed on nearly everything and I still adored her and tried to emulate so many of the things I thought she would like that it amazes me now. Actually I adored both my parents, but I am very little like either one of them.
I remember the day I first met my oldest child. She was ten days shy of her fourth birthday and came running out of her foster mother's house yelling, "My angels are here!" My second oldest was whipped out of a social worker's arms and placed on a large footstool for our first meeting. He was three days old with the bluest eyes I had ever seen. My youngest was born to us and I will never forget the black eyed, long haired baby the doctor lay on my stomach as he said, "you have another son."
Three children who came to me in three different ways, but each of whom I love with all of my heart. By the end of June all my of children will have children of their own and that is the only way I think anyone can truly understand what it means to be a parent and to love in that unconditional, yet very real way unique to fathers and mothers and children.
It's not blood and it's certainly not being alike that makes this possible. It is just a colossal miracle for those who are fortunate enough to experience it.
My mother and I clashed on nearly everything and I still adored her and tried to emulate so many of the things I thought she would like that it amazes me now. Actually I adored both my parents, but I am very little like either one of them.
I remember the day I first met my oldest child. She was ten days shy of her fourth birthday and came running out of her foster mother's house yelling, "My angels are here!" My second oldest was whipped out of a social worker's arms and placed on a large footstool for our first meeting. He was three days old with the bluest eyes I had ever seen. My youngest was born to us and I will never forget the black eyed, long haired baby the doctor lay on my stomach as he said, "you have another son."
Three children who came to me in three different ways, but each of whom I love with all of my heart. By the end of June all my of children will have children of their own and that is the only way I think anyone can truly understand what it means to be a parent and to love in that unconditional, yet very real way unique to fathers and mothers and children.
It's not blood and it's certainly not being alike that makes this possible. It is just a colossal miracle for those who are fortunate enough to experience it.
Driving In The Silence
Consciousness has been an intentional part of my life for many years now. I would say that I am usually very aware of who I am and what I am doing, so imagine the surprise I had this evening as I sat in the living room with my sister watching Dr. Zhivago.
Three weeks ago today, Saturday, I realized I would be moving back to Illinois. I remember calling my sister and packing up the car. I sort of remember making decisions about which things I could bring in my car. I definitely remember the first three hours of driving back here, probably because I talked about that part of the trip so much, but that is where things get a little fuzzy.
Tonight I realized that I drove thirteen hours with no radio, no Cd's, stopping only to buy food once in the morning, to puddle the puppy every couple of hours and buy gas once. Thirteen hours of silence, most of which I have very little memory of.
Since I have arrived, I have felt driven to restore all my Illinois financial connections, insurance, car title and driver's license. I have frenetically cleared out my room here and collected the pieces I will use in it, as well as buying a mattress. I have done my best to acclimate Chauncey to the new place where his bowls are and tried to make him feel at home and my sister has done the same for me.
But tonight, as I sat in the living room, ensconced in the chair next to my sister's, I thought, "I am a gypsy." I have gone from a five bedroom home with everything, to my condo, to a farm house in the heartland, to the mountains of North Carolina during the last ten years and right now I own practically nothing and live in someone else's house!
I think I am in shock. Perhaps I am just coming out of the shock, but the world feels a little surreal tonight.
Three weeks ago today, Saturday, I realized I would be moving back to Illinois. I remember calling my sister and packing up the car. I sort of remember making decisions about which things I could bring in my car. I definitely remember the first three hours of driving back here, probably because I talked about that part of the trip so much, but that is where things get a little fuzzy.
Tonight I realized that I drove thirteen hours with no radio, no Cd's, stopping only to buy food once in the morning, to puddle the puppy every couple of hours and buy gas once. Thirteen hours of silence, most of which I have very little memory of.
Since I have arrived, I have felt driven to restore all my Illinois financial connections, insurance, car title and driver's license. I have frenetically cleared out my room here and collected the pieces I will use in it, as well as buying a mattress. I have done my best to acclimate Chauncey to the new place where his bowls are and tried to make him feel at home and my sister has done the same for me.
But tonight, as I sat in the living room, ensconced in the chair next to my sister's, I thought, "I am a gypsy." I have gone from a five bedroom home with everything, to my condo, to a farm house in the heartland, to the mountains of North Carolina during the last ten years and right now I own practically nothing and live in someone else's house!
I think I am in shock. Perhaps I am just coming out of the shock, but the world feels a little surreal tonight.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Comfortable Ruts
Comfort comes in the shape of familiar things, old comfy slippers, a favorite chair, or pillow, even a raggedy old sweatshirt. Babies do best when they know what to expect from their mothers, even if it is a sharp smack and loud words. The status quo is such a prized idea that we are hard wired to maintain and defend it.
Discipline is also a highly prized trait that is often well rewarded. How many times does it pay off when I doggedly continue to stick to my plan through thick and thin, on good days and bad, when I'm tired, or sick, through rain, or shine? Discipline helps me find and keep that status quo. It makes me feel like I am in control.
I do the same things day after day because I know they are the "right" things and eventually I wear myself into a comfortable rut where it is not necessary to expend any energy to rethink what I am doing, because I have done it so long.
Or so I think, but the truth is that things do change, whether I notice, or not. For one thing it is only possible to expend a tremendous amount of energy for so long before I must back off a bit. What I do then may slowly become incorporated into this glorious rut I am so comfortable with. Now, all the good intentions that got me here have been altered just a bit, but that alteration was so slow that I am still in my comfort zone and never notice.
It is not until things become uncomfortable that I realize they have gone down hill. Consciously changing that is much more difficult that the gentle slide that started it all. It requires stepping out of the comfort zone and getting a good grip on things before I begin to fill in the cracks and crevices that have slowly eroded all those good intentions
It's possible. I know that, because I've done it all before, but it isn't easy, especially at first. I'm not sure it is supposed to be. Life is a challenge from the get go. I struggled to leave the womb, suffered into my first teeth, survived the maturation of my teen years and raced into adulthood with a sense of curiosity and excitement that made me who I am today. These are the things that buff up the shine and make me glow. Without them I will slowly wither away into a dull little gray haired creature whose reason to be is gone.
I need to remember that there are going to be changes, in the way I use my money, or eat, or exercise, or even do my work, and it is usually better if I instigate them myself, then they will be aimed in the direction I want to go.
Discipline is also a highly prized trait that is often well rewarded. How many times does it pay off when I doggedly continue to stick to my plan through thick and thin, on good days and bad, when I'm tired, or sick, through rain, or shine? Discipline helps me find and keep that status quo. It makes me feel like I am in control.
I do the same things day after day because I know they are the "right" things and eventually I wear myself into a comfortable rut where it is not necessary to expend any energy to rethink what I am doing, because I have done it so long.
Or so I think, but the truth is that things do change, whether I notice, or not. For one thing it is only possible to expend a tremendous amount of energy for so long before I must back off a bit. What I do then may slowly become incorporated into this glorious rut I am so comfortable with. Now, all the good intentions that got me here have been altered just a bit, but that alteration was so slow that I am still in my comfort zone and never notice.
It is not until things become uncomfortable that I realize they have gone down hill. Consciously changing that is much more difficult that the gentle slide that started it all. It requires stepping out of the comfort zone and getting a good grip on things before I begin to fill in the cracks and crevices that have slowly eroded all those good intentions
It's possible. I know that, because I've done it all before, but it isn't easy, especially at first. I'm not sure it is supposed to be. Life is a challenge from the get go. I struggled to leave the womb, suffered into my first teeth, survived the maturation of my teen years and raced into adulthood with a sense of curiosity and excitement that made me who I am today. These are the things that buff up the shine and make me glow. Without them I will slowly wither away into a dull little gray haired creature whose reason to be is gone.
I need to remember that there are going to be changes, in the way I use my money, or eat, or exercise, or even do my work, and it is usually better if I instigate them myself, then they will be aimed in the direction I want to go.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Feelings
I am sometimes amazed at the little things that tug at my heart. In spite of all the years I have lived, I still feel some of the same things I have always felt and try as I might I doubt this will ever stop completely.
These things never will go away, but I have learned to deal with them by looking at them differently than I might have as a very young person. I have good days, bad days, happy days and sad days. What seems unimportant one day, may bring me to tears on another. Things I brush off without a second thought on one day, seem very important on another. Some days I am totally independent and think I need no one. Other days I want a shoulder to cry on, or arms to fall into. Sometimes I need to share my joy. Other times I am content to just enjoy it. Sometimes I even feel jealousy, which is silly, because who knows what other things another human being must deal with.
I am simply a human being. No more, no less, and that can be pretty humbling knowledge. Sometimes I want to be perfect and that is one more thing that will never go completely away.
Life may not be a trade off, it may not be fair, but it is what it is and nothing can change that. The only thing I can change is how I choose to deal with it and that is where experience comes into play. I know I can deal with almost anything, even negative feelings, in the moment.
These things never will go away, but I have learned to deal with them by looking at them differently than I might have as a very young person. I have good days, bad days, happy days and sad days. What seems unimportant one day, may bring me to tears on another. Things I brush off without a second thought on one day, seem very important on another. Some days I am totally independent and think I need no one. Other days I want a shoulder to cry on, or arms to fall into. Sometimes I need to share my joy. Other times I am content to just enjoy it. Sometimes I even feel jealousy, which is silly, because who knows what other things another human being must deal with.
I am simply a human being. No more, no less, and that can be pretty humbling knowledge. Sometimes I want to be perfect and that is one more thing that will never go completely away.
Life may not be a trade off, it may not be fair, but it is what it is and nothing can change that. The only thing I can change is how I choose to deal with it and that is where experience comes into play. I know I can deal with almost anything, even negative feelings, in the moment.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Odd Couple
I hooked up the wireless router today, so I am finally on my own computer! It was a huge job, because part of it entailed moving my sister's computer, printer and desk into her room and setting it all back up. Then for some reason I don't understand I couldn't connect on my own computer. Finally, having done some mysterious thing that I hope I never have to repeat, I got mine to work on the wireless network.
I also helped move the last hutch and china closet out of this room and brought the small bookcase up. All I need now is a bed and that comes next week.
Of course in the midst of this my sister had to shop at least three times and I went with her to the grocery store. I also cooked dinner, but she made the bed up with clean sheets, so I guess we're even. Of course if we ever start trying to even things out we'll be lost. We are the odd couple personified.. I need things neat and simple. She thrives in chaos. I want things started and finished. She starts a million things and sort of finishes half of them, but I am vocal enough that she gets it. I cannot cook in a kitchen full of boxes and laundry and I get that she must escape to go shopping every three hours.
I don't understand it, but then I'm sure she doesn't understand why I need wha
I also helped move the last hutch and china closet out of this room and brought the small bookcase up. All I need now is a bed and that comes next week.
Of course in the midst of this my sister had to shop at least three times and I went with her to the grocery store. I also cooked dinner, but she made the bed up with clean sheets, so I guess we're even. Of course if we ever start trying to even things out we'll be lost. We are the odd couple personified.. I need things neat and simple. She thrives in chaos. I want things started and finished. She starts a million things and sort of finishes half of them, but I am vocal enough that she gets it. I cannot cook in a kitchen full of boxes and laundry and I get that she must escape to go shopping every three hours.
I don't understand it, but then I'm sure she doesn't understand why I need wha
Brick Walls
Stupidity should not be grounds for civil suits.
If you stand behind a moving car, you should expect it to hit you and if someone is moving it as a favor to you, suing them for rolling over your foot is an inexcusable breach of conduct.
That does not mean it is not painful, or perhaps even a tragedy. It is just not an opportunity to make money that most people would take against family, or friends. Such an action pretty much negates any sympathy I may have had for you in the beginning. It also makes me wary of being around you, because I may be the next recipient of your form of good will.
People who do these sorts of things never seem to realize that they are forging their own future. Short term gain is always first on their list. They count on the good will and decency of others to overlook their transgressions time and time again, but eventually the brick wall they force others up against becomes their own nemesis.
Someday the wolf will appear at the door and there will be no saviors to run him off. They will all be somewhere else licking their own wounds, trying to recover from the traps that were set for them.
If you stand behind a moving car, you should expect it to hit you and if someone is moving it as a favor to you, suing them for rolling over your foot is an inexcusable breach of conduct.
That does not mean it is not painful, or perhaps even a tragedy. It is just not an opportunity to make money that most people would take against family, or friends. Such an action pretty much negates any sympathy I may have had for you in the beginning. It also makes me wary of being around you, because I may be the next recipient of your form of good will.
People who do these sorts of things never seem to realize that they are forging their own future. Short term gain is always first on their list. They count on the good will and decency of others to overlook their transgressions time and time again, but eventually the brick wall they force others up against becomes their own nemesis.
Someday the wolf will appear at the door and there will be no saviors to run him off. They will all be somewhere else licking their own wounds, trying to recover from the traps that were set for them.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Where Is The Center?
When there isn't enough, people hoard things and that is a hard mind set to get out of. I remember a little catch phrase people often used in the eighties. It went, "Let's see who can get to heaven with the most (whatever, quilting material, tapes, anything someone collected.)
More is always better -- until it is not.
Once the basics are met, it eventually becomes obvious that more means just that. More to clean. More to maintain. More to store. More to deal with all around. I suppose if that more is the center of your life, that feels like a good thing.
The center of my life is deep inside of me and I like to keep things simple. That is not to say I don't like nice things. I do. I just don't want to spend too much time taking care of those things.
More is always better -- until it is not.
Once the basics are met, it eventually becomes obvious that more means just that. More to clean. More to maintain. More to store. More to deal with all around. I suppose if that more is the center of your life, that feels like a good thing.
The center of my life is deep inside of me and I like to keep things simple. That is not to say I don't like nice things. I do. I just don't want to spend too much time taking care of those things.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Devoured By Time
As a youngster, I would have said, time is real because we can measure it, but unlike milk which can be smelled, felt and drunk by the cup, quart, or gallon, time is more abstract. The world measures it in seconds, hours, days, months, years, but it has been done in sunrises, moon phases, and probably a million other ways, "over time."
Now that I am back in familiar territory I am invited to all the little celebrations family uses to mark the passage of time and lives. Last week it was a confirmation. This week I went to a first birthday party for my great nephew. This thing called time moves forward like a great vampire, devouring the life force of everything within it as it creeps along. Slowly stretching infants into adults, it appears to be a giver of life in the beginning, but later on, as these same bodies begin to shrink and shrivel and become wizened, it appears as the grim reaper.
My awareness of time really began when I was ten years old and realized that when my father recalled an event ten years earlier, I could not yet do that. Now my attention is caught again as I realize that I can recall my own child's first birthday as clearly as if it were yesterday. I close my eyes, allowing my mind to drift, and it is still 1978, until I open them to the sounds of today's laughter. I am a time traveler who is unfettered by the hissing tubes and rattling steam engines of sci-fi movies.
I wonder, when I reach that stage where almost all the juice has been sucked out of me and I am drying up like a raisin in the sun, if I will choose the time I want to be in, or if it will choose me?
Now that I am back in familiar territory I am invited to all the little celebrations family uses to mark the passage of time and lives. Last week it was a confirmation. This week I went to a first birthday party for my great nephew. This thing called time moves forward like a great vampire, devouring the life force of everything within it as it creeps along. Slowly stretching infants into adults, it appears to be a giver of life in the beginning, but later on, as these same bodies begin to shrink and shrivel and become wizened, it appears as the grim reaper.
My awareness of time really began when I was ten years old and realized that when my father recalled an event ten years earlier, I could not yet do that. Now my attention is caught again as I realize that I can recall my own child's first birthday as clearly as if it were yesterday. I close my eyes, allowing my mind to drift, and it is still 1978, until I open them to the sounds of today's laughter. I am a time traveler who is unfettered by the hissing tubes and rattling steam engines of sci-fi movies.
I wonder, when I reach that stage where almost all the juice has been sucked out of me and I am drying up like a raisin in the sun, if I will choose the time I want to be in, or if it will choose me?
Communication
My way is easy.
I want things done now! And I am perfectly willing to do them myself if that is necessary, or possible.
It is just not always possible. There are things that must be done by other people for a variety of reasons and those people generally have their own sense of timing and priorities.
My challenge, then, is to develope the patience and skills necessary to exist in the same space as these people, without making them, or me, miserable. Communication is the ultimate tool. I am pretty good at stating my needs and I need to encourage those around me to do the same thing. That is not easy if they grew up believing people should anticipate each other's needs, so I keep saying, "You have to tell me what you think, or feel, because otherwise, I really don't know."
I don't think a lot of people believe that, but it is true. Even twins, born one after the other, enter this world to slightly different experiences, so that as the years go by, priorities and needs tend to evolve in different ways for different people. People with the very best of intentions can never hope to get it right all the time for someone else and why should they have to? I may want tacos today, but tomorrow Chinese sounds better. How could anyone know that if I don't tell them?
Clutter drives one person crazy, structure does the same to another. Each of us is a unique individual, but as long as we have the ability and desire to communicate, we'll be okay.
I want things done now! And I am perfectly willing to do them myself if that is necessary, or possible.
It is just not always possible. There are things that must be done by other people for a variety of reasons and those people generally have their own sense of timing and priorities.
My challenge, then, is to develope the patience and skills necessary to exist in the same space as these people, without making them, or me, miserable. Communication is the ultimate tool. I am pretty good at stating my needs and I need to encourage those around me to do the same thing. That is not easy if they grew up believing people should anticipate each other's needs, so I keep saying, "You have to tell me what you think, or feel, because otherwise, I really don't know."
I don't think a lot of people believe that, but it is true. Even twins, born one after the other, enter this world to slightly different experiences, so that as the years go by, priorities and needs tend to evolve in different ways for different people. People with the very best of intentions can never hope to get it right all the time for someone else and why should they have to? I may want tacos today, but tomorrow Chinese sounds better. How could anyone know that if I don't tell them?
Clutter drives one person crazy, structure does the same to another. Each of us is a unique individual, but as long as we have the ability and desire to communicate, we'll be okay.
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