The past reached out and wrapped itself around my heart this weekend. In the guise of faces long loved and voices whose timbre and power can carry whole auditoriums filled with people, carry them away into places most people only dream of. People whose eyes are filled with magic and whose every move is choreographed to draw you in. People that others stand up and applaud for.
But not this weekend.
This weekend, they wrapped each other and me in arms just as plain as those your mother used to hold you close. This weekend they told me stories in the light of a fire that barely matched the warmth in their faces. This weekend we sat around a table just like old times, eating chili and sharing pie and letting our shoulders rub close to each other for the first time in ages.
And when the fire died down and most people went home, one continued to play with an energy that picked me up and carried me away. Any little part that was left behind, latched onto the harmony that crept in and rounded it out. This weekend I went home, not to the place where I was born, or to the people whose blood runs in my veins, but to those who simply hold my heart.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
You And Me
It is always strange to me to see what another's thoughts have done to my words.
Not just anyone, but someone whose job it is to listen and hear what people are saying.
The two could not be farther apart. If I did not know she was speaking of me, I would have no idea what she was talking about. And yet she writes from a place of love.
It is amazing that love can stand in so many places at once and each one looks down on a different world. Each one a reality that exists, if only in the thoughts of the one who sees it. No wonder there is so much discord in the world.
If these views come from those who love and care for me, imagine what comes from those who do not.
When you speak to me, I want to put myself behind your eyes, cup my hands to your ears, allow my feet to feel the rocks under your feet and maybe then I will have an inkling of who you are.
Not just anyone, but someone whose job it is to listen and hear what people are saying.
The two could not be farther apart. If I did not know she was speaking of me, I would have no idea what she was talking about. And yet she writes from a place of love.
It is amazing that love can stand in so many places at once and each one looks down on a different world. Each one a reality that exists, if only in the thoughts of the one who sees it. No wonder there is so much discord in the world.
If these views come from those who love and care for me, imagine what comes from those who do not.
When you speak to me, I want to put myself behind your eyes, cup my hands to your ears, allow my feet to feel the rocks under your feet and maybe then I will have an inkling of who you are.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Worth The Wait
Perspective, perspective, perspective....it changes everything.
Ninety percent of how I feel comes from what I think in the moment.
And even the other ten percent is more up to me than I might want to believe.
It has taken me a long time to figure this out, but it was worth the wait.
I'd rather know it now than go on thinking my happiness only exists when someone else gives it to me.
Ninety percent of how I feel comes from what I think in the moment.
And even the other ten percent is more up to me than I might want to believe.
It has taken me a long time to figure this out, but it was worth the wait.
I'd rather know it now than go on thinking my happiness only exists when someone else gives it to me.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Moment
An old man sits, his long fingers wrapped around the cup of tea his wife has just refilled. It's warmth seeping into him, he begins to sway. In the distance a flute plays, a reed flute. Its thin high sound swirling, twirling, pulling him inward until he rises and follows the notes around and around. The skirt of his robes fly out wide and flat and he finds himself beyond time, beyond space, beyond that place where things were, or will be and moving into that place where I Am discards all worldly concerns. A place where fences no longer stand between man and man, or man and woman, or woman and woman. Where they do not even stand between a man and his soul. A place some call the center point and others do not have a name for.
Out beyond this place, in the world where mores rise like an obstacle course, keeping one soul from another because of things that do not even have a name in truth, stands an old woman. All around her stand others, but there is one far away, so far away his face is not even a blur. One who is drawn into this place that some do not have a name for.
Like two jackstraws caught up in the vortex of a dust devil, they are snatched up and spun around, whirling dervishes of love and soul whipped around like the chaff from grain and helpless to stop it. Until at last they reach the eye of this stormy world and settle into a stillness beyond all comprehension.
Here, in a field that bears no weight, stand, not a woman worn by time and a young Adonis, but two children. A girl, tall and slender, her eyes large and filled with love, her legs long and strong and her body not yet a harbinger of things to come. Beside her a boy, younger still, who clutches her hand, looking up at her with eyes both adoring and full of questions.
Where will she lead them? What arboreal bower will hold them in its arms? What rocky rills will they slip and slide in as their laughter echoes all around them?
She is the leader, the protector and he is a willing accomplice.
Joining hands, they too begin to spin, their bare toes digging in as around and around the flute trills bird notes and the light lifts them up and away. And the old man smiles, sinking down into a heap of white robes and spilt tea.
Out beyond this place, in the world where mores rise like an obstacle course, keeping one soul from another because of things that do not even have a name in truth, stands an old woman. All around her stand others, but there is one far away, so far away his face is not even a blur. One who is drawn into this place that some do not have a name for.
Like two jackstraws caught up in the vortex of a dust devil, they are snatched up and spun around, whirling dervishes of love and soul whipped around like the chaff from grain and helpless to stop it. Until at last they reach the eye of this stormy world and settle into a stillness beyond all comprehension.
Here, in a field that bears no weight, stand, not a woman worn by time and a young Adonis, but two children. A girl, tall and slender, her eyes large and filled with love, her legs long and strong and her body not yet a harbinger of things to come. Beside her a boy, younger still, who clutches her hand, looking up at her with eyes both adoring and full of questions.
Where will she lead them? What arboreal bower will hold them in its arms? What rocky rills will they slip and slide in as their laughter echoes all around them?
She is the leader, the protector and he is a willing accomplice.
Joining hands, they too begin to spin, their bare toes digging in as around and around the flute trills bird notes and the light lifts them up and away. And the old man smiles, sinking down into a heap of white robes and spilt tea.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Faulkner
I am reading The Unvanquished by William Faulkner right now and that truly astounds me. That I am reading it, not actually the story itself.
Years ago, when I was taking an American literature survey course in college, I hated Faulkner, specifically, I could barely get through the story, The Bear. Of course I was seventeen years old and had many things on my mind besides reading copious amounts of literature and Faulkner's writing is filled with words, lots of words, and long, very long, sentences.
So why am I reading it now? Well, I have a friend who is a professor in Jackson, Mississippi and he is teaching an American survey course very similar to the one I took way back in the dark ages. Actually right now, they are studying Poe's poetry, but in his words, "I love Faulkner to death." I mean, he would. He is a passionate English teacher in a southern university.
I am a fast talking northerner who seldom reads anything deeper than a novel anymore. Still I can appreciate his point of view. We have much in common and he claims he can make me love Faulkner too. We'll see.
At the worst, I enrich myself a bit. At the best, I am embarking upon a new little leg of this journey along the way.
Years ago, when I was taking an American literature survey course in college, I hated Faulkner, specifically, I could barely get through the story, The Bear. Of course I was seventeen years old and had many things on my mind besides reading copious amounts of literature and Faulkner's writing is filled with words, lots of words, and long, very long, sentences.
So why am I reading it now? Well, I have a friend who is a professor in Jackson, Mississippi and he is teaching an American survey course very similar to the one I took way back in the dark ages. Actually right now, they are studying Poe's poetry, but in his words, "I love Faulkner to death." I mean, he would. He is a passionate English teacher in a southern university.
I am a fast talking northerner who seldom reads anything deeper than a novel anymore. Still I can appreciate his point of view. We have much in common and he claims he can make me love Faulkner too. We'll see.
At the worst, I enrich myself a bit. At the best, I am embarking upon a new little leg of this journey along the way.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
What Goes Around
I've heard the old phrase, what goes around, comes around for years, but it is coming around to me now in a very concrete way!
I am famous for giving things away, my furniture, my clothes, my Christmas decorations! Now this is not a particularly laudable habit. In fact, it borders on disturbing, or it did in the past. I often gave things away when I was feeling bad in some way and just unloaded "stuff" because I couldn't really unload my difficulties. Of course I had no idea that was why I did it. It was usually an act of passion, sometimes regretted later on.
Now I am reaping the benefits of this neurosis! My sister gave me back a table for my apartment and this weekend she gave me back some of my nicer clothes! We have both lost some weight and she can no longer wear my old ones, while I need smaller ones.
It is funny how much fun it is to get new things, even if they are my own old things! I guess I can kind of equate it with putting away my children's toys when they were younger and getting different ones out, then switching them around later on. Novelty is always the spice of life, at least for me, but this time it is also turning out to be very cost efficient.
I need some nicer clothes now that I am out and about more and I certainly do not have the money to go buy the kind I would like to wear. Now if I can continue losing weight, this story will just get better and better.
I am famous for giving things away, my furniture, my clothes, my Christmas decorations! Now this is not a particularly laudable habit. In fact, it borders on disturbing, or it did in the past. I often gave things away when I was feeling bad in some way and just unloaded "stuff" because I couldn't really unload my difficulties. Of course I had no idea that was why I did it. It was usually an act of passion, sometimes regretted later on.
Now I am reaping the benefits of this neurosis! My sister gave me back a table for my apartment and this weekend she gave me back some of my nicer clothes! We have both lost some weight and she can no longer wear my old ones, while I need smaller ones.
It is funny how much fun it is to get new things, even if they are my own old things! I guess I can kind of equate it with putting away my children's toys when they were younger and getting different ones out, then switching them around later on. Novelty is always the spice of life, at least for me, but this time it is also turning out to be very cost efficient.
I need some nicer clothes now that I am out and about more and I certainly do not have the money to go buy the kind I would like to wear. Now if I can continue losing weight, this story will just get better and better.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Not Here
Tonight I just want to reprint my edited and finished poem, Not Here. It is the best I can do on this rainy dark night preceding the funeral of one of my dearest friends.
Not Here
Death surrounds me. I know about it, read about it, hear about it.
Today it touched me. Filled me with emptiness and left me here.
All I can think about is not here.
Not here. What an incredibly incomprehensible thing to imagine.
It is everywhere, on my email, in my phone.
Its sweetness lies in my heart.
So rich, so beautiful, so alive!
How can so much leave me so empty?
Flowing over me like the sea, seeping in, engulfing,
Dulling everything except my pain.
Some day this will be as natural as the sun on the lotus.
I will lift my face into the light of my memories and bask in their warmth.
Today, I cannot imagine that.
Not Here
Death surrounds me. I know about it, read about it, hear about it.
Today it touched me. Filled me with emptiness and left me here.
All I can think about is not here.
Not here. What an incredibly incomprehensible thing to imagine.
It is everywhere, on my email, in my phone.
Its sweetness lies in my heart.
So rich, so beautiful, so alive!
How can so much leave me so empty?
Flowing over me like the sea, seeping in, engulfing,
Dulling everything except my pain.
Some day this will be as natural as the sun on the lotus.
I will lift my face into the light of my memories and bask in their warmth.
Today, I cannot imagine that.
Perfectly Imperfect
Wouldn't it be funny if one day there was some sort of big heavenly glitch that allowed me to see everyone else, or at least everyone I know, doing whatever they were doing, or thinking whatever they were thinking while I did similar things?
There I would be, under the guise of my pseudonym, writing away, or perhaps reading away, only to look up and see Great Aunt Margaret, or Bill Bailey down the street right beside me! I might just be day dreaming and there would be my eighth grade teacher dreaming the same thing!
I suspect we are all really much more alike than most of us want to believe. Everyone, well almost everyone I know, gets up every morning and puts on their clothes. Not just their pants one leg at a time like we joke about, nor even their politically correct cotton shirts, but also all those facades people wear depending on where they are going, or who they are trying to impress.
Politicians get caught like this all the time, but that is because they are in the public eye. I'm betting the rest of us are not quite so puritanically perfect either. And there is nothing wrong with some of that. We all like to put our best foot forward and there is just no reason for everyone to know every lascivious, or mischievous thought in our head. There is a time and a place for most things. In fact, if you don't have an occasional "lapse" now and then, I think I'd really wonder about your humanity.
It is also important for us all to have a place where we explore thoughts and ideas before presenting them to the world as our own. I think that is pretty human too.
What I don't like is people who force their ideas of perfection on other people, especially when they, themselves, can't really live up to those standards. Nothing on this earth, that is alive, is straight up and down and perfectly smooth that I can think of. That kind of perfection, if indeed you consider that perfect, is dead and dried up, or simply man made.
I prefer a little juicy imperfection myself.
There I would be, under the guise of my pseudonym, writing away, or perhaps reading away, only to look up and see Great Aunt Margaret, or Bill Bailey down the street right beside me! I might just be day dreaming and there would be my eighth grade teacher dreaming the same thing!
I suspect we are all really much more alike than most of us want to believe. Everyone, well almost everyone I know, gets up every morning and puts on their clothes. Not just their pants one leg at a time like we joke about, nor even their politically correct cotton shirts, but also all those facades people wear depending on where they are going, or who they are trying to impress.
Politicians get caught like this all the time, but that is because they are in the public eye. I'm betting the rest of us are not quite so puritanically perfect either. And there is nothing wrong with some of that. We all like to put our best foot forward and there is just no reason for everyone to know every lascivious, or mischievous thought in our head. There is a time and a place for most things. In fact, if you don't have an occasional "lapse" now and then, I think I'd really wonder about your humanity.
It is also important for us all to have a place where we explore thoughts and ideas before presenting them to the world as our own. I think that is pretty human too.
What I don't like is people who force their ideas of perfection on other people, especially when they, themselves, can't really live up to those standards. Nothing on this earth, that is alive, is straight up and down and perfectly smooth that I can think of. That kind of perfection, if indeed you consider that perfect, is dead and dried up, or simply man made.
I prefer a little juicy imperfection myself.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Bad Dreams
Sometimes the unbelievable happens.
I don't know if I dream them into being, or it's simply fate, but sooner, or later I suppose anything can happen.
I am afraid of dogs. It is an irrational fear in most ways and a self perpetuating one in others. Dogs smell fear and it seems to annoy them.
I've worked out ways of dealing with this over the years. It's not a new fear, I can't remember when I didn't have it. Sometimes I imagine a beautiful wild yellow looking daisy flower I once saw blooming in the sand dunes of Colorado many years ago. It was such a strange and solitary little thing out there in the middle of all that sand that I took lots of pictures, but the ones in my head are just as bright today as they were back then. Other times I just try to pull inward and breathe through an experience until it is over.
I'm not afraid of your dog when you are there, or it is on a leash. It is only loose dogs, running wild that frighten me, or loose dogs who think they are protecting their home. I actually love dogs too, so it is a strange situation.
I do try never to imagine bad things of any sort happening. It just doesn't seem wise to tempt fate (well, unless I am writing a story, but that is different.) Yet, my imagination can kick into gear without any prompting from me sometimes and tonight was one of those times.
I was walking Chauncey, like I always do a little after ten PM and, as is frequently the case I could see two young men approaching us from the opposite direction walking their pit bull. There are lots of pit bulls and pit bull mixes around, mostly walked by young men and I don't think too much of it anymore. Tonight my imagination went to work and wondered what I would do if that dog broke its leash and attacked us. Just the thought made me shiver. Chauncey is so small.
I moved over off the sidewalk and began walking in the boulevard, giving them plenty of room to pass us when their dog began jerking on his chain and barking at us. Chauncey just froze at attention and I simply froze, but I really wasn't too worried. They were big boys and after all he was their dog. I figured they could deal with it, but he must have caught them off guard.
Suddenly he was charging toward us, tail down, ears back and my mind raced. I remember the dog whisperer saying not to pick your yappy small dog up in a dog park. It just encourages the big dogs to jump on you, but Chauncey wasn't yapping and I wasn't in a dog park and this dog looked like he wanted to kill us.
I grabbed Chauncey up and held him close as I turned my back and tried to pull as much of me in around him as I could just before this dog hit me in the back. Of course all of this happened in seconds and the guys were yelling at their dog and running towards us at the same time.
The dog knocked me off my feet and I tried to roll. In my mind I was thinking if I could get in a position like I would for a bear surely that might be good, but I couldn't cover my head because my arms were around Chauncey. We just sort of stayed there in a ball, nose to the ground and the men got their dog. No one was hurt, but I was surely shaken.
Typical of me, though, I jumped up and kept assuring them we were okay and sort of quickly walked away. I just wanted to put as much space between me and that dog as possible.
Once at home in my apartment I kind of fell apart. My hands are still kind of shaky and so are my legs. I think I will have to go out again before I go to bed and walk Chauncey once more right away. I'm afraid if I don't, I will be too afraid in the future and that is not an option. Usually, like with the snakes, doing something as soon as I am scared by it, helps me get over it.
This just tapped into one of my deepest fears. I still can't believe it happened.
I don't know if I dream them into being, or it's simply fate, but sooner, or later I suppose anything can happen.
I am afraid of dogs. It is an irrational fear in most ways and a self perpetuating one in others. Dogs smell fear and it seems to annoy them.
I've worked out ways of dealing with this over the years. It's not a new fear, I can't remember when I didn't have it. Sometimes I imagine a beautiful wild yellow looking daisy flower I once saw blooming in the sand dunes of Colorado many years ago. It was such a strange and solitary little thing out there in the middle of all that sand that I took lots of pictures, but the ones in my head are just as bright today as they were back then. Other times I just try to pull inward and breathe through an experience until it is over.
I'm not afraid of your dog when you are there, or it is on a leash. It is only loose dogs, running wild that frighten me, or loose dogs who think they are protecting their home. I actually love dogs too, so it is a strange situation.
I do try never to imagine bad things of any sort happening. It just doesn't seem wise to tempt fate (well, unless I am writing a story, but that is different.) Yet, my imagination can kick into gear without any prompting from me sometimes and tonight was one of those times.
I was walking Chauncey, like I always do a little after ten PM and, as is frequently the case I could see two young men approaching us from the opposite direction walking their pit bull. There are lots of pit bulls and pit bull mixes around, mostly walked by young men and I don't think too much of it anymore. Tonight my imagination went to work and wondered what I would do if that dog broke its leash and attacked us. Just the thought made me shiver. Chauncey is so small.
I moved over off the sidewalk and began walking in the boulevard, giving them plenty of room to pass us when their dog began jerking on his chain and barking at us. Chauncey just froze at attention and I simply froze, but I really wasn't too worried. They were big boys and after all he was their dog. I figured they could deal with it, but he must have caught them off guard.
Suddenly he was charging toward us, tail down, ears back and my mind raced. I remember the dog whisperer saying not to pick your yappy small dog up in a dog park. It just encourages the big dogs to jump on you, but Chauncey wasn't yapping and I wasn't in a dog park and this dog looked like he wanted to kill us.
I grabbed Chauncey up and held him close as I turned my back and tried to pull as much of me in around him as I could just before this dog hit me in the back. Of course all of this happened in seconds and the guys were yelling at their dog and running towards us at the same time.
The dog knocked me off my feet and I tried to roll. In my mind I was thinking if I could get in a position like I would for a bear surely that might be good, but I couldn't cover my head because my arms were around Chauncey. We just sort of stayed there in a ball, nose to the ground and the men got their dog. No one was hurt, but I was surely shaken.
Typical of me, though, I jumped up and kept assuring them we were okay and sort of quickly walked away. I just wanted to put as much space between me and that dog as possible.
Once at home in my apartment I kind of fell apart. My hands are still kind of shaky and so are my legs. I think I will have to go out again before I go to bed and walk Chauncey once more right away. I'm afraid if I don't, I will be too afraid in the future and that is not an option. Usually, like with the snakes, doing something as soon as I am scared by it, helps me get over it.
This just tapped into one of my deepest fears. I still can't believe it happened.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A Certain Kind Of Handicap
All my life I have been slightly more than simply successful at most of the things I applied myself to. I tend to shine a bit, but never really make it as what the world would call a raging success. I doubt if I ever will.
For one thing, I simply do not apply myself religiously to anything for very long, with the possible exceptions of rearing my children and teaching my three year olds.
I can memorize, but when it comes to music, I don't do it in any methodical, or reasonable way that I can rely on. If I learn the music at all, it is because my fingers learn it for me. Should they falter, I am lost. Public speaking is the same way. I write out what I am going to say, make notes, practice, and then when I get up in front of people I mostly toss it all to the wind and speak from the heart. Fortunately for me it seems to work, but I almost never have much memory of what I said when I am through.
I seem to do my best writing the same way. I start a story and if it is going to work at all, it just flows out of me. Later I will spend hours cleaning it up, but usually miss many things that I don't see until it is too late. The unfortunate thing about this is that when I am very successful I have no way of replicating the process. It is like drawing water from a well. I cannot even start out with the idea that I am going to do something in particular, because when I do that the story is stilted and not very good at all. I don't seem to know if something is very good, but I do have a feeling when it actually stinks.
Perhaps I have an odd form of handicap. I have always felt that I write better than respond live. People can fluster me very easily. I am almost terminally shy and hate speaking on the phone most of the time. In fact, I usually dislike doing anything that requires me to be spontaneous in public, in person. I think in too many directions at once and it never comes out the way I mean it. I just need time to think through my responses and when I am around people I always feel rushed, no matter how kind they are.
I love people, though and really enjoy the time I spend with them, but they get what they get. The real me would rather be writing them letters!
For one thing, I simply do not apply myself religiously to anything for very long, with the possible exceptions of rearing my children and teaching my three year olds.
I can memorize, but when it comes to music, I don't do it in any methodical, or reasonable way that I can rely on. If I learn the music at all, it is because my fingers learn it for me. Should they falter, I am lost. Public speaking is the same way. I write out what I am going to say, make notes, practice, and then when I get up in front of people I mostly toss it all to the wind and speak from the heart. Fortunately for me it seems to work, but I almost never have much memory of what I said when I am through.
I seem to do my best writing the same way. I start a story and if it is going to work at all, it just flows out of me. Later I will spend hours cleaning it up, but usually miss many things that I don't see until it is too late. The unfortunate thing about this is that when I am very successful I have no way of replicating the process. It is like drawing water from a well. I cannot even start out with the idea that I am going to do something in particular, because when I do that the story is stilted and not very good at all. I don't seem to know if something is very good, but I do have a feeling when it actually stinks.
Perhaps I have an odd form of handicap. I have always felt that I write better than respond live. People can fluster me very easily. I am almost terminally shy and hate speaking on the phone most of the time. In fact, I usually dislike doing anything that requires me to be spontaneous in public, in person. I think in too many directions at once and it never comes out the way I mean it. I just need time to think through my responses and when I am around people I always feel rushed, no matter how kind they are.
I love people, though and really enjoy the time I spend with them, but they get what they get. The real me would rather be writing them letters!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Transformative Events
I am amazed at the slip sliding easy way truly transformative events often occur.
Back in the seventies, I was out riding my bike, taking my dog for a ride in the basket, thinking how great life was. Another day I was playing with my children, enjoying the beginning of a summer vacation back in 1986. This morning I was walking my dog around the neighborhood just wallowing in this beautiful Fall weather.
In each instance, as I was going about my everyday living, someone near and dear to me died.
Death surrounds us all the time. It is on the television and the computer, even in the local newspaper. Life ends for the departed, but for the ones left behind it is not so easy. How can someone I love no longer be here?
Not here, is an incredibly incomprehensible place to imagine. How can someone who laughed and cried with me, whose name is in my email and on my phone list, who fills my memories with thoughts of our disagreements and love, not be here?
Not here is a concept that spreads out like a flood on a flat plain, seeping in, surrounding everything. It seems nothing is safe from its touch and it is difficult to explain how something so full of sweetness can be so painful.
One day this flood will seep in so deeply that it will be as natural a part of me as the sun is to the lotus. I will lift my face into the light of my memories and bask in their warmth.
Today, I cannot imagine that.
Back in the seventies, I was out riding my bike, taking my dog for a ride in the basket, thinking how great life was. Another day I was playing with my children, enjoying the beginning of a summer vacation back in 1986. This morning I was walking my dog around the neighborhood just wallowing in this beautiful Fall weather.
In each instance, as I was going about my everyday living, someone near and dear to me died.
Death surrounds us all the time. It is on the television and the computer, even in the local newspaper. Life ends for the departed, but for the ones left behind it is not so easy. How can someone I love no longer be here?
Not here, is an incredibly incomprehensible place to imagine. How can someone who laughed and cried with me, whose name is in my email and on my phone list, who fills my memories with thoughts of our disagreements and love, not be here?
Not here is a concept that spreads out like a flood on a flat plain, seeping in, surrounding everything. It seems nothing is safe from its touch and it is difficult to explain how something so full of sweetness can be so painful.
One day this flood will seep in so deeply that it will be as natural a part of me as the sun is to the lotus. I will lift my face into the light of my memories and bask in their warmth.
Today, I cannot imagine that.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Listener
There are stories too sad for the telling.
And they need to be told most of all.
A story must be told.
It must be heard.
Tears fall silently,
Hearts break a thousand times
And still the story must be told.
Until hugs and love squeeze all the stuffing out
And it lies flat in the memory so it can be framed
And viewed without pain.
And they need to be told most of all.
A story must be told.
It must be heard.
Tears fall silently,
Hearts break a thousand times
And still the story must be told.
Until hugs and love squeeze all the stuffing out
And it lies flat in the memory so it can be framed
And viewed without pain.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Thinking
Over time I have had the chance to talk with many people about many things and these are just a few of the thoughts that popped up recently.
1. It's a lot easier to believe one is ugly than to think the problem lies elsewhere.
2. If an antidepressant isn't working maybe that's because the depression isn't chemical.
3. It's easier to change your prescription than your relatives.
4. Thinking too much isn't always a good thing.
;-)
1. It's a lot easier to believe one is ugly than to think the problem lies elsewhere.
2. If an antidepressant isn't working maybe that's because the depression isn't chemical.
3. It's easier to change your prescription than your relatives.
4. Thinking too much isn't always a good thing.
;-)
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Beyond Ideas of Wrong Doing And Right Doing
I wanted to send this out, because I don't think I could ever say these things this perfectly and I think we need to hear them. It was written by a dear friend of mine.
Eman8tions@aol.com
Sent: Sun, October 17, 2010 9:17:40 AM
Subject: Thought for the Day
On Friday, December 17th I will be doing a concert to celebrate Rumi's Wedding Day, the day he died and went on to full union with his Beloved Divine. We will be doing it on a much grander scale than in past years. Before it has been just me and twenty or thirty friends who got together in a musical meditation to be at One in the contemplation of the beauty and depth of Rumi's teachings and meditations.
This year it will be seen as a healing of the attitudes that have begun to damage the concept of our Muslim friends in our society. The teachings of Rumi, a 13th century Sufi Muslim, deeply reflect the universality of all religion, spirituality, love for the divine, love for truth and beauty however we wish to express it. He only asks for the devotion of love.
As I reflect on the concepts that swirl around this effort I am amazed that such beauty could potentially lead to debate, even conflict. There are those who would see the befriending of Muslims as encouraging terrorism. And yet they might very well have a teaching or phrase from Rumi on their refrigerator or office wall.
The object of the concert is twofold. One, to create a beautiful experience. The second is to put that experience in the context of the two cultures, to see that we are more deeply connected than not, to educate those who might see differences rather than similarities.
Rumi says, "Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there."
Rather than debate the issue this concert will take us to the beautiful center. From that way of seeing it all becomes obvious, needing no explaining. We share the experience of the divine, the universal truth, agreement, understanding. When we go there together we experience the same thing. When we realize we have shared the same thing it changes how we feel about each other.
That is the power of sports, and music and art, to show us our humanity, reveal that we are the same.
Emanations
Copyright © 2010 by John MacEnulty,
10/16/10, St. Louis, MO
Namaste,
John MacEnulty
8117 Nola Ave.
St. Louis, MO 63114
314-395-9962
Eman8tions@aol.com
Sent: Sun, October 17, 2010 9:17:40 AM
Subject: Thought for the Day
On Friday, December 17th I will be doing a concert to celebrate Rumi's Wedding Day, the day he died and went on to full union with his Beloved Divine. We will be doing it on a much grander scale than in past years. Before it has been just me and twenty or thirty friends who got together in a musical meditation to be at One in the contemplation of the beauty and depth of Rumi's teachings and meditations.
This year it will be seen as a healing of the attitudes that have begun to damage the concept of our Muslim friends in our society. The teachings of Rumi, a 13th century Sufi Muslim, deeply reflect the universality of all religion, spirituality, love for the divine, love for truth and beauty however we wish to express it. He only asks for the devotion of love.
As I reflect on the concepts that swirl around this effort I am amazed that such beauty could potentially lead to debate, even conflict. There are those who would see the befriending of Muslims as encouraging terrorism. And yet they might very well have a teaching or phrase from Rumi on their refrigerator or office wall.
The object of the concert is twofold. One, to create a beautiful experience. The second is to put that experience in the context of the two cultures, to see that we are more deeply connected than not, to educate those who might see differences rather than similarities.
Rumi says, "Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there."
Rather than debate the issue this concert will take us to the beautiful center. From that way of seeing it all becomes obvious, needing no explaining. We share the experience of the divine, the universal truth, agreement, understanding. When we go there together we experience the same thing. When we realize we have shared the same thing it changes how we feel about each other.
That is the power of sports, and music and art, to show us our humanity, reveal that we are the same.
Emanations
Copyright © 2010 by John MacEnulty,
10/16/10, St. Louis, MO
Namaste,
John MacEnulty
8117 Nola Ave.
St. Louis, MO 63114
314-395-9962
Kindred Spirits
Kindred spirits are something most people treasure if they happen to find them. The trick is in doing just that.
I remember when I was small and discovered my first best friend. His name was Paul and he lived across the street. I was three and he was four and we both liked to play in his toy room with his sister, Julie. Eventually I moved away and I never saw either one again.
Later on, in kindergarten I met my other two best friends. We liked to play marbles, ride our bikes and sometimes play chess, but years passed and I moved away again.
For a while I had two girls who were my best friends, one a year older and one two years old whose birthday was the exact same day as mine! But, when one got to junior high and the other to high school, we drifted apart. I was just too young for them at that point.
Best friends came and went in my life mostly due to a lot of moving. It's hard to stay in touch even with the best of intentions when you are a child far away.
It is hard to do that long distance as an adult too, although it does happen, but most of my adult life I have been looking for kindred spirits who live close and share things that are important to both of us. I don't know if it's hard for everyone, or just me, but I find it is not an easy thing to do.
My beliefs can make it difficult for me to be part of most groups. I'm not a natural joiner. But there are things in my nature which do come quite naturally. One is teaching, one is writing, one is being very independent and when I was at the aviation museum for the volunteer dinner the other night, I realized that I was in among a group of people who share many things.
We all have a great interest in aviation. Most of us are night owls! This is the largest group of people I have ever known who are as likely to send me an email at 2 AM as 2 PM. We are reliable. If we say we will do something, we will. Many of us are teachers. I think all of us are thinkers and we are listeners. We love innovative ideas and are willing to stick our necks out to try things that might benefit others. I'm as close as I have ever been to a group of people who share many of my core values.
As I sat there eating platefuls of pizza and topped them off with frosted brownies and chocolate chip cookies and strawberries, I realized this was about as close as it gets to being surrounded by kindred spirits.
I remember when I was small and discovered my first best friend. His name was Paul and he lived across the street. I was three and he was four and we both liked to play in his toy room with his sister, Julie. Eventually I moved away and I never saw either one again.
Later on, in kindergarten I met my other two best friends. We liked to play marbles, ride our bikes and sometimes play chess, but years passed and I moved away again.
For a while I had two girls who were my best friends, one a year older and one two years old whose birthday was the exact same day as mine! But, when one got to junior high and the other to high school, we drifted apart. I was just too young for them at that point.
Best friends came and went in my life mostly due to a lot of moving. It's hard to stay in touch even with the best of intentions when you are a child far away.
It is hard to do that long distance as an adult too, although it does happen, but most of my adult life I have been looking for kindred spirits who live close and share things that are important to both of us. I don't know if it's hard for everyone, or just me, but I find it is not an easy thing to do.
My beliefs can make it difficult for me to be part of most groups. I'm not a natural joiner. But there are things in my nature which do come quite naturally. One is teaching, one is writing, one is being very independent and when I was at the aviation museum for the volunteer dinner the other night, I realized that I was in among a group of people who share many things.
We all have a great interest in aviation. Most of us are night owls! This is the largest group of people I have ever known who are as likely to send me an email at 2 AM as 2 PM. We are reliable. If we say we will do something, we will. Many of us are teachers. I think all of us are thinkers and we are listeners. We love innovative ideas and are willing to stick our necks out to try things that might benefit others. I'm as close as I have ever been to a group of people who share many of my core values.
As I sat there eating platefuls of pizza and topped them off with frosted brownies and chocolate chip cookies and strawberries, I realized this was about as close as it gets to being surrounded by kindred spirits.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Anyone Can Do It
I was inundated with ideas for my thots today. It seemed everywhere I went new things cropped up and I actually started jotting down a small list of ideas, but then the most fundamental truth finally came to me.
I have all these ideas because I am so happy. In fact, I am happier right now than I have been in years, perhaps even ever and that is almost incomprehensible.
Here I am, sixty years old and at an age where people often start to worry if they have what they need to live out their lives. Is their retirement large enough? Is this the house they have always dreamed of? Can they adjust to the changes that are appearing almost daily? And the answer is yes!
I left almost everything I knew and showed up on my daughter's doorstep in the middle of the night not knowing where I would be living, what I would be doing, how I would be doing it, what the rest of my life would be like. Then, one step at a time, I began to build a new life from scratch. I had a handful of clothing, my computer, my car, some personal items and my dog and from these things came all of this that I have now! If I can do this, you can do this.
First I had to find a place I could afford to live that would accept my dog and that, hopefully, would be not fancy, but decent. While I went from one place to another, I filled in the extra hours reacquainting myself with the city I was in, going to parks, driving around, looking at the internet. It was on the internet that I discovered an organization seeking volunteers and I contacted them. They helped me find places where my skills might be useful about the same time I found this apartment.
Slowly but surely I furnished my two rooms here and began to furnish the hours of my day with places I could go to be useful. Part of them were walking my dog who truly appreciates the chance to get out and around our new neighborhood. He is the perfect companion. Part of them were helping with a reading program for small children and some were working at the museum. Now I have shaped the hours of my days into useful units where I not only help other people, but have built friendships and social systems that are so fulfilling, slowly discarding some jobs and expanding others. I also began to expand my creative abilities and have found one of the most fulfilling outlets for my writing that also has brought new friends into my life.
I find myself busier than I have been in years and feeling richer and more content than I think I knew it was possible to be just taking one tiny step after another. So it is important never to give up hope and think you are too old, or too tired, or too useless, or too dumb, or even too poor, because you are not.
I have all these ideas because I am so happy. In fact, I am happier right now than I have been in years, perhaps even ever and that is almost incomprehensible.
Here I am, sixty years old and at an age where people often start to worry if they have what they need to live out their lives. Is their retirement large enough? Is this the house they have always dreamed of? Can they adjust to the changes that are appearing almost daily? And the answer is yes!
I left almost everything I knew and showed up on my daughter's doorstep in the middle of the night not knowing where I would be living, what I would be doing, how I would be doing it, what the rest of my life would be like. Then, one step at a time, I began to build a new life from scratch. I had a handful of clothing, my computer, my car, some personal items and my dog and from these things came all of this that I have now! If I can do this, you can do this.
First I had to find a place I could afford to live that would accept my dog and that, hopefully, would be not fancy, but decent. While I went from one place to another, I filled in the extra hours reacquainting myself with the city I was in, going to parks, driving around, looking at the internet. It was on the internet that I discovered an organization seeking volunteers and I contacted them. They helped me find places where my skills might be useful about the same time I found this apartment.
Slowly but surely I furnished my two rooms here and began to furnish the hours of my day with places I could go to be useful. Part of them were walking my dog who truly appreciates the chance to get out and around our new neighborhood. He is the perfect companion. Part of them were helping with a reading program for small children and some were working at the museum. Now I have shaped the hours of my days into useful units where I not only help other people, but have built friendships and social systems that are so fulfilling, slowly discarding some jobs and expanding others. I also began to expand my creative abilities and have found one of the most fulfilling outlets for my writing that also has brought new friends into my life.
I find myself busier than I have been in years and feeling richer and more content than I think I knew it was possible to be just taking one tiny step after another. So it is important never to give up hope and think you are too old, or too tired, or too useless, or too dumb, or even too poor, because you are not.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Me, Myself, And I
It is a dangerous thing to ask for a writer's opinion. If you want me to talk to you about it, you might be okay, but if expect a written response, beware!
A writer likes to write. It is addictive. The hardest thing to do is paring down an article, finding the bare essence, being clear and to the point.
I hear people agonizing over writing a five page essay. I can whip ten pages out in no time at all. I have thoughts about everything!
Of course that doesn't mean my opinions are worth anything, or interesting, or possibly even pertinent. That is always a matter of opinion, yours and mine.
Just don't expect one word answers from me, at least not unless you have made me angry, or I really don't care about something.
I'm pretty diverse. I love writing about me and you and sea turtles and sometimes even things I don't know anything about. There is no better way to become familiar with something than to have to write about it. Research is a way of life.
I think people might be surprised at the way I decide whether or not to do some things. I often find myself thinking, I could write about that, or that would make a good story, I should try it! Or I will do the reverse. I'll think, oh I could never write about that, so why bother?
I look at the world in two basic ways, both more geared to me, myself, and I, than I think many people do.
I look through my camera for photos that I can share with other people and even write about and I look for the unique experiences I don't see other's writing about. If everyone gets off the bus at Fifth and Jackson then I consider getting on, or off, three blocks either side, or maybe even on the opposite side of town. I don't know exactly why I am this way, or why I do these things. I only know I do.
It is a way of life that is fulfilling to me. It doesn't leave many unsatisfied gaps either, which is nice. The more self dependent I am, the happier I am.
A writer likes to write. It is addictive. The hardest thing to do is paring down an article, finding the bare essence, being clear and to the point.
I hear people agonizing over writing a five page essay. I can whip ten pages out in no time at all. I have thoughts about everything!
Of course that doesn't mean my opinions are worth anything, or interesting, or possibly even pertinent. That is always a matter of opinion, yours and mine.
Just don't expect one word answers from me, at least not unless you have made me angry, or I really don't care about something.
I'm pretty diverse. I love writing about me and you and sea turtles and sometimes even things I don't know anything about. There is no better way to become familiar with something than to have to write about it. Research is a way of life.
I think people might be surprised at the way I decide whether or not to do some things. I often find myself thinking, I could write about that, or that would make a good story, I should try it! Or I will do the reverse. I'll think, oh I could never write about that, so why bother?
I look at the world in two basic ways, both more geared to me, myself, and I, than I think many people do.
I look through my camera for photos that I can share with other people and even write about and I look for the unique experiences I don't see other's writing about. If everyone gets off the bus at Fifth and Jackson then I consider getting on, or off, three blocks either side, or maybe even on the opposite side of town. I don't know exactly why I am this way, or why I do these things. I only know I do.
It is a way of life that is fulfilling to me. It doesn't leave many unsatisfied gaps either, which is nice. The more self dependent I am, the happier I am.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Rescue
I found myself strangely and deeply moved when I read that the Chilean miners have been rescued and are back on top of the ground now.
I come from a coal mining town, but it is a mine that is much different from the mines that many work in around the world. The mines in my hometown are big, wide, clean.
I have been in one of those mines even though women are traditionally considered bad luck there, and I could almost imagine I felt the weight of the earth above me even though I stood upright in what appeared to be a well lit hall. I have also been underground in caves when there is no light at all and it is not a place for the faint of heart, or those afraid of close spaces. There have been moments when I thought I could not breathe simply because I could not see a thing at all.
Being trapped in a hot, damp, mine that might collapse upon me at any moment, for a long period of time like these miners have been, is beyond the scope of my imagination. I can only imagine that it would a situation of constantly controlled panic for me, stressful beyond belief.
I am so thankful these men have been rescued.
I come from a coal mining town, but it is a mine that is much different from the mines that many work in around the world. The mines in my hometown are big, wide, clean.
I have been in one of those mines even though women are traditionally considered bad luck there, and I could almost imagine I felt the weight of the earth above me even though I stood upright in what appeared to be a well lit hall. I have also been underground in caves when there is no light at all and it is not a place for the faint of heart, or those afraid of close spaces. There have been moments when I thought I could not breathe simply because I could not see a thing at all.
Being trapped in a hot, damp, mine that might collapse upon me at any moment, for a long period of time like these miners have been, is beyond the scope of my imagination. I can only imagine that it would a situation of constantly controlled panic for me, stressful beyond belief.
I am so thankful these men have been rescued.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
So Much
The Museum was filled with students today, mostly about fifteen years old, I would say and it was awesome. A few of them were totally blind and used canes, but many had partial sight and could see much more than I expected. Their enthusiasm was wonderful and some were already very informed.
As always, I learned more than I expected since the student's bus was late arriving and the former air force mechanics, navy engineers and pilots circulated around while they were waiting. Eager to impart their knowledge and willing to do so patiently and in great detail, they used my models to show me things about ailerons and winglets and the capabilities of AF-18s that I had never even thought of before. Same thing with my Cobra Attack Helicopter and Stearman biplane. One old guy even told about an experience he had parachuting mules into Burma in order to carry supplies that they couldn't have done otherwise! I passed these onto our students later on.
My days are full. Who can ask for more than that? Yet, I have so much more.
As always, I learned more than I expected since the student's bus was late arriving and the former air force mechanics, navy engineers and pilots circulated around while they were waiting. Eager to impart their knowledge and willing to do so patiently and in great detail, they used my models to show me things about ailerons and winglets and the capabilities of AF-18s that I had never even thought of before. Same thing with my Cobra Attack Helicopter and Stearman biplane. One old guy even told about an experience he had parachuting mules into Burma in order to carry supplies that they couldn't have done otherwise! I passed these onto our students later on.
My days are full. Who can ask for more than that? Yet, I have so much more.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Listen, Touch, Taste And Learn
Imagine going to the museum on a school tour.
You are between twelve and sixteen and will ride a bus nearly an hour and half to get there. It is an aviation museum and some of you remember going there two years ago. The ones who did are still talking about it.
Going in you will be divided into smaller groups that travel station to station. There is the Link trainer where students learn how a man whose father made organs devised a machine that simulated night flying so pilots could hone their instrument flying skills without the risk of crashing on dark, cloudy, or stormy nights when they couldn't see. There is a table where some pretty exotic model planes allow you to learn the names of the different planes and their parts. For example, the pitot tube which helps determine how fast the plane is going and the fact that helicopters have rotary blades, not propellers.
You will get to touch a giant engine and hear how it sounds when it is actually in use. You will also go outside and see all of the actual helicopters and planes, climbing into many of them and actually touching, wings, wheels, tails, pitot tubes etc. Then there will be a souvenir shop where you can choose from souvenirs your teacher has pre-approved ranging from two to four dollars. Lunch will be served by volunteers in the hangar next door and everyone hopes this will be another great trip.
The tricky part is that all of these children are visually handicapped and a few have other disabilities which would normally make museum tours very unlikely. With the help of many retired teachers and dedicated volunteers they are able to experience a great deal more than you might believe and everyone will have a great time. We have braille signs for the outside planes and the gift shop. We moved things and adjusted things so they can be touched from all sorts of angles and we will break the bus load down into 3-4 children per group, each with a "Tour Leader" who will help them transition from station to station, or plane to plane.
We've been planing this for several weeks, but tomorrow is the big day. I can't wait to see how it all goes!
You are between twelve and sixteen and will ride a bus nearly an hour and half to get there. It is an aviation museum and some of you remember going there two years ago. The ones who did are still talking about it.
Going in you will be divided into smaller groups that travel station to station. There is the Link trainer where students learn how a man whose father made organs devised a machine that simulated night flying so pilots could hone their instrument flying skills without the risk of crashing on dark, cloudy, or stormy nights when they couldn't see. There is a table where some pretty exotic model planes allow you to learn the names of the different planes and their parts. For example, the pitot tube which helps determine how fast the plane is going and the fact that helicopters have rotary blades, not propellers.
You will get to touch a giant engine and hear how it sounds when it is actually in use. You will also go outside and see all of the actual helicopters and planes, climbing into many of them and actually touching, wings, wheels, tails, pitot tubes etc. Then there will be a souvenir shop where you can choose from souvenirs your teacher has pre-approved ranging from two to four dollars. Lunch will be served by volunteers in the hangar next door and everyone hopes this will be another great trip.
The tricky part is that all of these children are visually handicapped and a few have other disabilities which would normally make museum tours very unlikely. With the help of many retired teachers and dedicated volunteers they are able to experience a great deal more than you might believe and everyone will have a great time. We have braille signs for the outside planes and the gift shop. We moved things and adjusted things so they can be touched from all sorts of angles and we will break the bus load down into 3-4 children per group, each with a "Tour Leader" who will help them transition from station to station, or plane to plane.
We've been planing this for several weeks, but tomorrow is the big day. I can't wait to see how it all goes!
Monday, October 11, 2010
If life is a box of chocolates what do I do when it melts
I look at my own life, talk to others, read letters and emails from other people. Life is a fascinating experience full of people who have so much more in common than not.
I listen. Always I listen to others' words and what I hear makes me smile, or grin, or sometimes it breaks my heart.
It is in the depths of the heart that I hear so many truths, so many sweet and sad tales that tell me we are a like.
Each in our own way trying to make sense of this world, trying to validate ourselves, not to others, that is a relatively easy thing to do. We are desperately trying to validate ourselves for ourselves, to convince ourselves that we are okay and good and productive and doing those things we are supposed to be doing.
I see what the people around me do. I know what I do. What I don't know are what the people around me are feeling and thinking. Human beings are good at building facades. We can make a hovel appear to be a palace, but so often we don't realize what is really there until the palace keels over and crumbles because it does not have the foundation it needs to hold it up.
It has always been this way, but in the beginning there were support systems that held most of us up, or shored us up. They were called tribes, or families and they loved us even if we had two heads, spindly legs and were gap toothed. Now, years after we have discovered ourselves, that is not always true.
We hold hands smiling and singing. Everything is beautiful and no one dares to look past the veneer to see if the center is filled with nougat, or something less palatable, because we don't really know what to do about that sort of thing. We want to believe that the veneers are what count. We don't want to talk about survival of the fittest, but the less fit are dropping all around us and very little is being done about it.
What does that say?
I listen. Always I listen to others' words and what I hear makes me smile, or grin, or sometimes it breaks my heart.
It is in the depths of the heart that I hear so many truths, so many sweet and sad tales that tell me we are a like.
Each in our own way trying to make sense of this world, trying to validate ourselves, not to others, that is a relatively easy thing to do. We are desperately trying to validate ourselves for ourselves, to convince ourselves that we are okay and good and productive and doing those things we are supposed to be doing.
I see what the people around me do. I know what I do. What I don't know are what the people around me are feeling and thinking. Human beings are good at building facades. We can make a hovel appear to be a palace, but so often we don't realize what is really there until the palace keels over and crumbles because it does not have the foundation it needs to hold it up.
It has always been this way, but in the beginning there were support systems that held most of us up, or shored us up. They were called tribes, or families and they loved us even if we had two heads, spindly legs and were gap toothed. Now, years after we have discovered ourselves, that is not always true.
We hold hands smiling and singing. Everything is beautiful and no one dares to look past the veneer to see if the center is filled with nougat, or something less palatable, because we don't really know what to do about that sort of thing. We want to believe that the veneers are what count. We don't want to talk about survival of the fittest, but the less fit are dropping all around us and very little is being done about it.
What does that say?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Savoring The Moment
I am almost too tired to write this tonight, but it was such a great day.
My son, grandson, and I went to the big old park here in town and spent the entire day walking, playing on the toys, splashing in the water fountains, jumping in bounce houses and even going to the zoo. It turned out to be the Fall Festival day and they had hay rack rides, as well as s'mores and everything was free and it was loads of fun.
We took the dog and he was almost as big a hit as the other things. Everyone wanted to pet Chauncey.
I learned some things I thought I already knew, like listen to your grandson when he talks. Lennon kept asking why the drops of water falling in front of his eyes as he played in the fountains, looked red, or blue, or black and we kind of brushed him off by saying it depended where you were looking as they dripped off. Look at something red and they will be red, etc. Finally he pointed to big, bloody looking splotches on the ground and said, "See, it's on the ground too!"
Seems the Chicago Cubs Hat he borrowed from his other grandma bleeds colors when it gets really wet! At that point we were just glad it was the hat.
On the way home we tracked down a hot air balloon that was starting to land and were able to be there as it hit the ground. The guys in it were really sweet and let Lennon "help" roll it up and put it away, all gathering together at the end to plop him down on the big balloon bag when it was finished. He's invited for a ride whenever he is tall enough to see over the basket!
Arriving at my house pretty late, we had chocolate milk and orange iced cookies. (Orange is Lennon's favorite color and he shares a love of chocolate milk with his gramma.) His daddy hooked up my cable box to the new television correctly and even connected the Dvd recorder they brought from my old house!
Now they are gone and I probably won't see them for another year, but this was a day to remember.
My son, grandson, and I went to the big old park here in town and spent the entire day walking, playing on the toys, splashing in the water fountains, jumping in bounce houses and even going to the zoo. It turned out to be the Fall Festival day and they had hay rack rides, as well as s'mores and everything was free and it was loads of fun.
We took the dog and he was almost as big a hit as the other things. Everyone wanted to pet Chauncey.
I learned some things I thought I already knew, like listen to your grandson when he talks. Lennon kept asking why the drops of water falling in front of his eyes as he played in the fountains, looked red, or blue, or black and we kind of brushed him off by saying it depended where you were looking as they dripped off. Look at something red and they will be red, etc. Finally he pointed to big, bloody looking splotches on the ground and said, "See, it's on the ground too!"
Seems the Chicago Cubs Hat he borrowed from his other grandma bleeds colors when it gets really wet! At that point we were just glad it was the hat.
On the way home we tracked down a hot air balloon that was starting to land and were able to be there as it hit the ground. The guys in it were really sweet and let Lennon "help" roll it up and put it away, all gathering together at the end to plop him down on the big balloon bag when it was finished. He's invited for a ride whenever he is tall enough to see over the basket!
Arriving at my house pretty late, we had chocolate milk and orange iced cookies. (Orange is Lennon's favorite color and he shares a love of chocolate milk with his gramma.) His daddy hooked up my cable box to the new television correctly and even connected the Dvd recorder they brought from my old house!
Now they are gone and I probably won't see them for another year, but this was a day to remember.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Ignore The Bog
It doesn't take any skill, class, or much of anything else to be mean and vindictive.
The art to fine living is in finding the love, the sweetness, the beauty in every situation, not just in those where my ego is pleased. Finding the redeeming qualities in irrational and unfair situations turns a mud pie into a much coveted gift.
One drop of love out weighs bucketfuls of hatefulness.
This short journey along the way has many side tracks, but why waste my time exploring the dark and dreary ones? It is not necessary to focus on the bog in the middle of the park when there are so many flowers everywhere else.
The art to fine living is in finding the love, the sweetness, the beauty in every situation, not just in those where my ego is pleased. Finding the redeeming qualities in irrational and unfair situations turns a mud pie into a much coveted gift.
One drop of love out weighs bucketfuls of hatefulness.
This short journey along the way has many side tracks, but why waste my time exploring the dark and dreary ones? It is not necessary to focus on the bog in the middle of the park when there are so many flowers everywhere else.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Blood Brothers
It is a small world and the reality of it engulfs me sometimes, picks me up and swallows me whole, leaving no room to be who I really am, to still be the same sweet, funny child that once lived inside this body. Because, no matter what the years do, the real me is still alive and kicking, trying to kick her way out and enjoy this sweet, sweet world where anything is possible, simply because I think it.
So I "talk" back and forth with a faceless friend and, like children, we share our secrets in dark corners, wiping each others tears away with tentative, but kind fingers and tickling each others fancy with our stories.
We promise never to betray the others confidence and we mean that. We are blood brothers, only there are no fingers to prick, no hugs to seal it.
There is only a very real need to have a friend who likes to play with the same toys and enjoy the same games on these long Autumn nights when the moon shines big and round in the night time sky and the winds begin to blow a little colder.
A cold wind only seems to make the room cozier when I am not alone and it is surprising how satisfying this imaginary real person is. In a world where technology has changed nearly everything, it only seems to make sense that this should happen too.
In the old days we would have penned long letters and waited eagerly by the mail box each day as the postman came, or not. This is really no different. People have always been judgmental about new things. They have always been fearful of the unknown, but I have no fear of this particular thing in my life. We are like spirits. Nameless, faceless, spirits who share only our feelings and thoughts. We cannot even share a cold in such an ethereal relationship as this one. There are no dangers, unless it would be wanting more from it.
Greed destroys almost anything and in this situation it would be the ending of something sweet and wonderful. I will not allow that.
In our world we write the stories that define us and there is no one to say yea, or nay to us. We are as free as the wind and fresh as the Autumn air and life is sweet and beautiful and good.
So I "talk" back and forth with a faceless friend and, like children, we share our secrets in dark corners, wiping each others tears away with tentative, but kind fingers and tickling each others fancy with our stories.
We promise never to betray the others confidence and we mean that. We are blood brothers, only there are no fingers to prick, no hugs to seal it.
There is only a very real need to have a friend who likes to play with the same toys and enjoy the same games on these long Autumn nights when the moon shines big and round in the night time sky and the winds begin to blow a little colder.
A cold wind only seems to make the room cozier when I am not alone and it is surprising how satisfying this imaginary real person is. In a world where technology has changed nearly everything, it only seems to make sense that this should happen too.
In the old days we would have penned long letters and waited eagerly by the mail box each day as the postman came, or not. This is really no different. People have always been judgmental about new things. They have always been fearful of the unknown, but I have no fear of this particular thing in my life. We are like spirits. Nameless, faceless, spirits who share only our feelings and thoughts. We cannot even share a cold in such an ethereal relationship as this one. There are no dangers, unless it would be wanting more from it.
Greed destroys almost anything and in this situation it would be the ending of something sweet and wonderful. I will not allow that.
In our world we write the stories that define us and there is no one to say yea, or nay to us. We are as free as the wind and fresh as the Autumn air and life is sweet and beautiful and good.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Classic
Class is something that some people never think about and others are so conscious of that it becomes an awkward way of life. I don't think you are necessarily born with class, nor do I believe you can buy it.
While certain styles of homes, cars and clothes can be a manifestation of a classy person, they are no guarantee.
Even though some educations, manners and achievements are traditionally associated with class, they are also no guarantee.
Real class is a way of perceiving the world and responding to it.
A person with class always manages to make things work out in some way. The hardest jobs are done willingly and without complaint. The fairness, or unfairness of having to deal with something is a moot point once the project is undertaken. The past is the past. The future is put in the best possible light and whatever occurs, does so with a minimum of fuss.
People are put at ease, made to feel at home, and dealt with quietly and calmly.
Class is simple good manners, good hospitality, coupled with a strong personality.
Class is always discernible.
While certain styles of homes, cars and clothes can be a manifestation of a classy person, they are no guarantee.
Even though some educations, manners and achievements are traditionally associated with class, they are also no guarantee.
Real class is a way of perceiving the world and responding to it.
A person with class always manages to make things work out in some way. The hardest jobs are done willingly and without complaint. The fairness, or unfairness of having to deal with something is a moot point once the project is undertaken. The past is the past. The future is put in the best possible light and whatever occurs, does so with a minimum of fuss.
People are put at ease, made to feel at home, and dealt with quietly and calmly.
Class is simple good manners, good hospitality, coupled with a strong personality.
Class is always discernible.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Grave And Deadly Errors
People are so quick to rise up and jump on young people who commit hateful deeds. We say they should know better. They should realize how their actions are going to affect other people, but where do these people learn their values?
In way too many places, it is okay to make fun of, or judge people because of their size, shape, sexual preferences, talents, or lack there of. As long as it is done in private, at home, or in clubs, or for the amusement of others we seem to condone it. Supposedly it does no real harm in private, but is this true?
I don't think so. I think the sins of the fathers (and mothers) are still being visited on their children who go out into the world trying to emulate those they admire, or at least those who taught them right from wrong. Lack of experience is going to allow leaks. The hatred and bigotry will seep out of these children just as surely as the rancid grease leaks out of those bins behind restaurants of even the best sort.
The purported outrage of a society that still barely accepts people who vary from the old American "norm" is often a cover up for the rage they feel when they are inadvertently outed by the very children they taught these things to.
When anyone's child dies because of who he is, it is a tragedy and it is a tragedy that is generally linked to generations of people who believe they and their family are righteous, upright people whose children will never be in that position.
As long as people continue to spout things that have no real basis in truth, or science, we are bound to make grave and deadly errors. We are all accountable.
In way too many places, it is okay to make fun of, or judge people because of their size, shape, sexual preferences, talents, or lack there of. As long as it is done in private, at home, or in clubs, or for the amusement of others we seem to condone it. Supposedly it does no real harm in private, but is this true?
I don't think so. I think the sins of the fathers (and mothers) are still being visited on their children who go out into the world trying to emulate those they admire, or at least those who taught them right from wrong. Lack of experience is going to allow leaks. The hatred and bigotry will seep out of these children just as surely as the rancid grease leaks out of those bins behind restaurants of even the best sort.
The purported outrage of a society that still barely accepts people who vary from the old American "norm" is often a cover up for the rage they feel when they are inadvertently outed by the very children they taught these things to.
When anyone's child dies because of who he is, it is a tragedy and it is a tragedy that is generally linked to generations of people who believe they and their family are righteous, upright people whose children will never be in that position.
As long as people continue to spout things that have no real basis in truth, or science, we are bound to make grave and deadly errors. We are all accountable.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Joy
I have always said that joy is an extreme, that I will settle for contentment, but I have to say that lately I have felt much joy.
I have grown accustomed to content. I have a fairly simple formula for it. I simply sit silently and allow perspective to seep into my bones and if I do this long enough my vision clears. Of course there are bound to be moments when this doesn't happen for a while, but they are becoming fewer and farther in between.
Joy has a smoothness, a richness, a texture, a viscosity, that is more than happiness. In comparison, happiness is ice tea and joy is a milkshake. It has a staying power that is able to flow over and around the red peppers and rotten apples without being lost. It doesn't ignore them, or pretend they aren't there, it just doesn't allow them to totally obliterate it.
Joy permeates my life lately and I can't really tell you why. I'm not really sure I can take any credit for it happening either. I am only noticing it.
There have always been joyful people in the world. Sometimes they are confused with fanatics, but I think there is a difference. Fanatics are high on some "thing," or some concept, they require a stimulus. Joy only requires noticing.
Noticing what? That is difficult to explain. I'd love to put on seminars on how to find joy, but it's kind of like that old sarcastic comment, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." If you need someone to explain joy then you haven't found it yet. I can only tell you what I have done, how I live that seems to bring it to me, but you might be completely different.
In a way, all my thots are about my search for the way, for the energy that fulfills me in ways that are sweet beyond imagining, but these are my ways and you must find your own.
I have grown accustomed to content. I have a fairly simple formula for it. I simply sit silently and allow perspective to seep into my bones and if I do this long enough my vision clears. Of course there are bound to be moments when this doesn't happen for a while, but they are becoming fewer and farther in between.
Joy has a smoothness, a richness, a texture, a viscosity, that is more than happiness. In comparison, happiness is ice tea and joy is a milkshake. It has a staying power that is able to flow over and around the red peppers and rotten apples without being lost. It doesn't ignore them, or pretend they aren't there, it just doesn't allow them to totally obliterate it.
Joy permeates my life lately and I can't really tell you why. I'm not really sure I can take any credit for it happening either. I am only noticing it.
There have always been joyful people in the world. Sometimes they are confused with fanatics, but I think there is a difference. Fanatics are high on some "thing," or some concept, they require a stimulus. Joy only requires noticing.
Noticing what? That is difficult to explain. I'd love to put on seminars on how to find joy, but it's kind of like that old sarcastic comment, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." If you need someone to explain joy then you haven't found it yet. I can only tell you what I have done, how I live that seems to bring it to me, but you might be completely different.
In a way, all my thots are about my search for the way, for the energy that fulfills me in ways that are sweet beyond imagining, but these are my ways and you must find your own.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Pumpernickel
I don't know about other people, but there are some things I just cannot put down. I love bread and the better the bread, the more difficult it is for me to eat it reasonably. Like not eating the whole loaf at a single setting!
As a child I would go to my grandfather's restaurant and while the other kids might want this, or that, I wanted the hot rolls in the warmer. I didn't even care if they had butter, I loved them just the way they were.
Go to one of those restaurants where they have unlimited bread sticks and I could actually skip the meal. Especially if they are garlic bread sticks. It's the same way with one of the local pizza places that sends garlic butter with their pizzas. Friends, siblings, and all others, give me your crusts! And I don't even care if you eat all the pizza!
Yesterday I bought some pumpernickel bread to go with the soup I had made. Good, dark, rich, pumpernickel with butter on it, yum. Right now, as I write, I am finishing off the rest of the loaf! I know better than to buy it for this very reason. I have worked so hard to lose this weight and it isn't going to last if I eat an entire loaf of bread in two days!
I'm trying to decide what to do with myself. What is the appropriate punishment for eating bread? This isn't just gluttony. This is specific gluttony. I love everything about bread, that hot warm smell when it is baking, the texture of good bread as it is cut into pieces for eating, the way it tastes when toasted and how good it is with honey butter, or strawberry preserves, or even garlic butter! I love it with swiss cheese, or for sopping up eggs. I love sandwiches made on big Italian rolls, or crusty French bread. I like croutons, toasted with garlic butter and adding tons of calories to salad and hot rolls dripping in butter. I even love bread pudding with its caramelized sauce.
If there is a perfect food, for me it is bread and I truly do have to be very careful about how much I eat. Not only can it make me fat, but it could take the place of all those other things we are supposed to eat every day. The food pyramid that I prefer is solidly weighted down by bread. It's the fruits and vegetables I need to work on.
Tomorrow I will walk a little bit extra, but tonight I am savoring the pumpernickel.
As a child I would go to my grandfather's restaurant and while the other kids might want this, or that, I wanted the hot rolls in the warmer. I didn't even care if they had butter, I loved them just the way they were.
Go to one of those restaurants where they have unlimited bread sticks and I could actually skip the meal. Especially if they are garlic bread sticks. It's the same way with one of the local pizza places that sends garlic butter with their pizzas. Friends, siblings, and all others, give me your crusts! And I don't even care if you eat all the pizza!
Yesterday I bought some pumpernickel bread to go with the soup I had made. Good, dark, rich, pumpernickel with butter on it, yum. Right now, as I write, I am finishing off the rest of the loaf! I know better than to buy it for this very reason. I have worked so hard to lose this weight and it isn't going to last if I eat an entire loaf of bread in two days!
I'm trying to decide what to do with myself. What is the appropriate punishment for eating bread? This isn't just gluttony. This is specific gluttony. I love everything about bread, that hot warm smell when it is baking, the texture of good bread as it is cut into pieces for eating, the way it tastes when toasted and how good it is with honey butter, or strawberry preserves, or even garlic butter! I love it with swiss cheese, or for sopping up eggs. I love sandwiches made on big Italian rolls, or crusty French bread. I like croutons, toasted with garlic butter and adding tons of calories to salad and hot rolls dripping in butter. I even love bread pudding with its caramelized sauce.
If there is a perfect food, for me it is bread and I truly do have to be very careful about how much I eat. Not only can it make me fat, but it could take the place of all those other things we are supposed to eat every day. The food pyramid that I prefer is solidly weighted down by bread. It's the fruits and vegetables I need to work on.
Tomorrow I will walk a little bit extra, but tonight I am savoring the pumpernickel.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Give Until You Are Rich
There are people in this world who can see child abuse and elder abuse and and animal abuse, and look the other way, or even say, well he/she is my friend so what can I do, and just let it go on. I cannot do that.
There are people who do not realize that what they do, even though it appears to make another person happy, is really hurting that person. They, somehow, cannot see that today may change the rest of that person's life in ways that will make it so much more difficult in the long run. I cannot wear those blinders.
There are people dying in this world because others are greedy, or do not care enough to do those things that must be done.
I realize there are things I cannot change no matter how much I try, no matter what I do. These things haunt me on long dark nights when I hear the cries of the suffering in my dreams.
I know what it is like to feel alone in a roomful of people. I know what it is like to feel worthless and useless. I know what it is like to feel mistreated and alone. I have been there. I have been to the edge and back again many times.
I'm tougher now. Seasoned and annealed by a lifetime of living, but it has only made my heart more tender. It is one thing not to know, but something else altogether to know. To know and be unable to make a difference is hard.
It is odd that my life should be so simple and good and beautiful now, when there is so much sadness in this world. Perhaps the only way to come to terms with this is to do what I can to help others, to know that I am doing the best I know how to alleviate some things and that I must salve my ego by understanding that there are others who feel the same way.
Those of us who are more fortunate must help those who are less fortunate. We cannot count on a trickle down effect. Instead we must pour ourselves into our own worlds and flood it with what we can. Everyone has something to offer and the funny thing is, it is the offering that often brings us the most.
So give until you are rich.
There are people who do not realize that what they do, even though it appears to make another person happy, is really hurting that person. They, somehow, cannot see that today may change the rest of that person's life in ways that will make it so much more difficult in the long run. I cannot wear those blinders.
There are people dying in this world because others are greedy, or do not care enough to do those things that must be done.
I realize there are things I cannot change no matter how much I try, no matter what I do. These things haunt me on long dark nights when I hear the cries of the suffering in my dreams.
I know what it is like to feel alone in a roomful of people. I know what it is like to feel worthless and useless. I know what it is like to feel mistreated and alone. I have been there. I have been to the edge and back again many times.
I'm tougher now. Seasoned and annealed by a lifetime of living, but it has only made my heart more tender. It is one thing not to know, but something else altogether to know. To know and be unable to make a difference is hard.
It is odd that my life should be so simple and good and beautiful now, when there is so much sadness in this world. Perhaps the only way to come to terms with this is to do what I can to help others, to know that I am doing the best I know how to alleviate some things and that I must salve my ego by understanding that there are others who feel the same way.
Those of us who are more fortunate must help those who are less fortunate. We cannot count on a trickle down effect. Instead we must pour ourselves into our own worlds and flood it with what we can. Everyone has something to offer and the funny thing is, it is the offering that often brings us the most.
So give until you are rich.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Internal Censors
There are so many different reasons to write and I suspect that most writers find they have a mix.
If one is writing to make enough money to put bread on the table, then it makes sense to write for the audience. Of course, if being read more than once is a priority, that should be a consideration anyway.
If one is writing for one's self, then no holds are barred, or so it would seem. Yet, there are many internal censors that change that. There is the possibility that someone else will read it and the fall out would be devastating in some instances.
I find it cathartic to write under a pseudonym just so I can let my imagination fly free, but I realize that some day a connection might be made between me and Jo Smith, so to pretend otherwise is foolish. To ignore all criticism would be self limiting. While no one has the right to destroy my creation out of sheer meanness, I do still have much to learn and constructive criticism is actually a gift.
I do like to be read. I think almost any writer, who is honest, really wants to be read and appreciated. There is just that fear that someone is going to knock the wind out of my sails and sink this ship while it is having such a good time rollicking about out there in this great sea of humanity. I don't want that. This feels too good.
If one is writing to make enough money to put bread on the table, then it makes sense to write for the audience. Of course, if being read more than once is a priority, that should be a consideration anyway.
If one is writing for one's self, then no holds are barred, or so it would seem. Yet, there are many internal censors that change that. There is the possibility that someone else will read it and the fall out would be devastating in some instances.
I find it cathartic to write under a pseudonym just so I can let my imagination fly free, but I realize that some day a connection might be made between me and Jo Smith, so to pretend otherwise is foolish. To ignore all criticism would be self limiting. While no one has the right to destroy my creation out of sheer meanness, I do still have much to learn and constructive criticism is actually a gift.
I do like to be read. I think almost any writer, who is honest, really wants to be read and appreciated. There is just that fear that someone is going to knock the wind out of my sails and sink this ship while it is having such a good time rollicking about out there in this great sea of humanity. I don't want that. This feels too good.
Friday, October 1, 2010
A Whole New World For Brodie
Today was one of those happy, sad days.
Yesterday, when I went to the apartment office to pick up a package I was asked if I would like another shih tzu? They were very eager for me to take this little guy since his current owners could not keep him and they see me walking my dog all over the place. We are obviously a very familiar pair around here. Unfortunately, I cannot afford to have two shih tzus. Besides shots and the need for good food and care in order to keep their coat and skin in good shape, they require trips to the groomers at least every other month, if not more.
The pressure was on. They paid an outrageous amount for him, but are willing to give him to me for free just so he will have a good home. They are desperate. I said, no. Then, last night, I remembered my sister was talking about how much she missed my dog when he came home after I got back from Denver. She was my babysitter for two weeks. So, several phone calls later and another trip over to the apartment office, it was decided that Brodie, his name, now had a new home.
My sister came up and spent the afternoon with me and we went out to lunch. It was fun, but then we had to meet Brodie for the first time. He is an adorable little guy, black and white with that sweet shih tzu face. He's about a year and a half old, uses puppy pads and is up to date on everything, except he is not neutered. My sister fell in love with him right off.
His old owner was in tears. I hugged her and assured her he would be a much loved only child and we would send her pictures and she was even welcome to come visit him whenever my sister came to town, or even drive down to Decatur if she wanted to.
Tonight Brodie is in his new home. He just peed on my sister's chair and she was very understanding, so I know he is in the right place!
Yesterday, when I went to the apartment office to pick up a package I was asked if I would like another shih tzu? They were very eager for me to take this little guy since his current owners could not keep him and they see me walking my dog all over the place. We are obviously a very familiar pair around here. Unfortunately, I cannot afford to have two shih tzus. Besides shots and the need for good food and care in order to keep their coat and skin in good shape, they require trips to the groomers at least every other month, if not more.
The pressure was on. They paid an outrageous amount for him, but are willing to give him to me for free just so he will have a good home. They are desperate. I said, no. Then, last night, I remembered my sister was talking about how much she missed my dog when he came home after I got back from Denver. She was my babysitter for two weeks. So, several phone calls later and another trip over to the apartment office, it was decided that Brodie, his name, now had a new home.
My sister came up and spent the afternoon with me and we went out to lunch. It was fun, but then we had to meet Brodie for the first time. He is an adorable little guy, black and white with that sweet shih tzu face. He's about a year and a half old, uses puppy pads and is up to date on everything, except he is not neutered. My sister fell in love with him right off.
His old owner was in tears. I hugged her and assured her he would be a much loved only child and we would send her pictures and she was even welcome to come visit him whenever my sister came to town, or even drive down to Decatur if she wanted to.
Tonight Brodie is in his new home. He just peed on my sister's chair and she was very understanding, so I know he is in the right place!
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