Hibernation

I suppose everyone has times of reflection.  Times when life seems rather pointless, or just kind of plain.

Creativity and productivity seem to be absent, or very limited.

Energy drops to near hibernation levels.

Some people used to call these depression, or down times, but I think it is more likely they are transition times.

Moving forward wisely means building on the past, so a certain amount of nostalgia is normal, I guess.  Nostalgia is not something I am overly fond of, or used to.  I prefer the moment.

In this moment I know everything is doable -- I'm just not sure it's as important as it used to be.

The fullness of life

I had lunch with one of my very best friends today.  She had never seen my new apartment and as we walked in, she was immediately taken by the view out the windows!  She found the same beauty here that I do and saw the same luxury I saw, inside.

I guess that is one of the things that defines friendship, liking the same things, having similar views.

I can talk to almost anyone and enjoy them, but truly kindred spirits are few and far between.

I have learned to grab these moments in life, savor them for everything they are worth and then savor the fullness they leave behind.

In the beginning . . .

Assuming everyone starts out equal . . .

Except that never happens.

Equal is one of those impossible things.

Born into poverty or divine riches doesn't begin to explain who a person is.

He may be rich with a vicious nanny, or poor with a doting grandma.  She may be fed organic vegetables, or literally "spoiled" by too many sweets and poor choices.

Grandpa may be a conscientious Yoda, or an equally conscientious Beelzebub. 

Equality shifts in every moment and so does a good teacher's response.  It is a fine line to look past beautiful dresses and holey socks to a naturally bright, or eternally hungry child.

As school gears up for another year my wish is that all children find a teacher who can relate to them on the level they need in order to thrive, because it makes a difference.

There are consequences for anything and everything, but all children deserve a chance to become socialized, thinkers and doers.

If I were a rich man

In the garden of good and evil we don't need no snarky old snakes.

Or horned men with pitchforks, or demons from beyond!

The world of black and white, the ten commandments of the modern world, the resident evil of today is   (drum roll)  money!

With enough money safety standards are set to the highest possible profit level.

Science can be bought and sold without the inconvenience of facts or figures.

God is available for purchase in any flavor.

And respect is measured in nickels and dimes.

Cause like Tevye says, " when you're rich they think you really know." 

Well, at least THEY think they really know.

Reality measured in gold is cold and hard.

Apart

I met you when I was just stepping over the edge of childhood into that scary place called grown-up and you seemed so very grown-up to me then.  Now I know you weren't much more than a child yourself.

The wonder of you filled my thoughts, overflowed the pages of my notebooks, awakened a creativity in me that felt brand new and so unique.

I was such an innocent and you were so eager to teach me, perhaps a little too eager, but who knows?

I remember running into your arms, confident that you would always catch me and when that unthinkable thing happened -- when you had to go off to war, to that land so far away for such a long time; the tears poured from my eyes unbidden and unstoppable.  Living without you seemed impossible, but I grew stronger and more patient.

You gave me some of the greatest gifts of my life and I wonder when the turning point was?  It seems like only a moment lay between heaven and hell, but there were years, many years.  Is it possible to be so close and so far apart?

When you turned and walked away I was terrified, angry, hurt, -- relieved.

Who could have imagined how much better we both would be apart?

Facebook

I like things simple.  When they become complicated I tend to shy away from them.  I've done complicated -- it's no fun -- generally.

That doesn't mean I don't like intricate, or interesting -- just not, well, complicated.

Facebook is becoming just that.  Too many social situations to deal with. 

I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so it's getting to the point where I have to sift through tons of stuff I have absolutely no interest in at all.

Or worse!  Sometimes it is stuff that I find off putting, unpleasant, even repulsive.  Sometimes it is just preaching to the choir.  Sometimes it really makes sense, but it isn't something I consider recreational material.  For me -- Facebook is strictly recreational. 

If I am interested in something, find it fascinating, or unique, or pictures and info on family and friends, I like it.

If I am brought to a slow boil by it, I mostly try to avoid it.  I get enough of that in the news.  I know what's going on in the world.  I have very distinct opinions on almost all of it.  There has to be a place where that does not figure into my life, a place that is just fun.  That's all I want from Facebook.  Nothing else.

I am becoming the ultimate skimmer.  (A skimmer is someone swimming fast enough not to drown in the opinions, rants, raves and other darkness floating around out there.)

But don't worry.  I give and get a fair dose of reality in a million other places, so I can't possibly go through life uneducated or unscathed.

Memories

Our memories define us as the people we used to be and really still are.

The filter of a personality changes the way we both see and remember events in our lives.

Behavior is reinforced by the attention it receives.

If being puny and sick makes us pitiful and gets us lots of attention, those are the kinds of things we remember and look for in everything around us.

If finding fault and talking righteously about it gets us positive attention, then we stick to that.

Children learn very early to cultivate those things that bring them attention because as helpless little creatures we NEED that attention to survive.

But as adults we have the ability to change.  Now we need to live in the real world, a world where Goldilocks is not all sunshine and goodness and the three bears are not very understanding about people who just walk into their house and mess things up.

It is important to remember memories with regard to perception.  Wanting to do good and doing it may be different things, but the reasoning behind them is often closer than many of us might think. 

Translating the memories of childhood into their own reality requires some effort, but sometimes it is truly worthwhile.

Misconception

It is good to have heroic ancestors, magnificent mothers, outstanding grandparents, but sometimes the past becomes so blown out of proportion that people spend a whole life trying to be something no one ever was.

Those chaste virgins were more often clothed in guilt and misconception than anything else.  Their children kept in an imaginary line that stifled the development of "baser" feelings.

The world is not by nature neat and orderly and when it appears to be distinctly so, the underground is alive and well.

Growing up frustrated and stunted is not an attribute.  It's okay to make mistakes and it is absolutely guaranteed if you are branching out, trying new things, courageous enough to be yourself -- and not perfect.

Time bombs

Facebook has found a way to invade the black hole I have carefully cultivated for my own peace of mind.  Yesterday someone popped up claiming to be responding to a request for friendship I know I never sent, never would have sent, now, solidly entrenched in among my friends.

The nightmares follow.  Depression hovers over me like a hawk waiting to swoop in at any moment and consume me.  Nothing can undo what is already done.

I now have that Cheshire cat smile hanging above me, watching me, grinning with maniacal glee. A self-satisfied, unshakable smile that has delighted in my discomfort.  Like a snake in the grass, it can silently pop up when I least expect it and shock me into remembering things I thought were forgotten.

Amazed at the way the past can ruin the present, I have done everything in my power to avoid it. I collect pictures, but nothing else in my house, except my jewelry, is more than four years old.  I have found such comfort in that.

It makes me feel free, clean, healthy, devoid of the ugliness of past things -- and I miss it.

The art of living . . .well

Drama mongers need to get a real life.

Find a hobby.  Find a passion!  Discover what makes life savory and delightful.  Make the minutes meaningful, do something for yourself, for your city, your country!

Pay yourself in satisfaction.

Don't rely on others to make your life meaningful.  Find out why you are here -- and then get busy and do it!

There will always be something wrong, something not fair, or fun, or right.  Focus on the other stuff.

There is always some kind of choice.  The art of living -- well seems to be making choices that enrich you and the world.  Anyone can complain and whine and be morose. Almost any animal can run around with its tail between its legs howling and raising a ruckus.  People can do so much more.

Start slow.  Take one moment at a time and if you get lost, just stop and start again.   Like anything else it is a habit that can be developed.

Decisions

If there is some great scale hovering above me, weighing in the yin and the yang, or the good and the bad, or the black and the white, I wish I had more say so about who is dropping what on to it.

I just had a wonderful weekend, but I came home to discover the dog upstairs is peeing through the deck onto my chair (and I hope not my table.)

The lawn mowing service has sprayed grass all over my porch so that I had to sweep it off before I could scrub the chair.

Then came the hardest part:  how do I deal with all of this without looking like the neighborhood grouch?

Taught to the tune of a

I am constantly assaulted by sayings on Facebook meant to make my life better.  Each one seems to mean well and be aimed at improving my thoughts, but . . .

I am one of those people whose inner life is so rich, and complicated, and real feeling that the outer world can easily overwhelm me.  I definitely do not have a one track mind.  In fact, it is just the opposite.  It's like living in a skyscraper of thoughts where only the elevator keeps me sane.  There, in the center point, I find the peace I need to travel between the others.

I used to like to draw floor plans for houses, now I like to knit in the winter, while I watch television.  It is something that helps me relax because it usually occupies my mind enough to keep me focused away from rants or thoughts that pop into any blank places. At bedtime I read until I can't keep my eyes open.

I have tried meditation and centering prayer and they help, but not with mantras.  The only mantras I have ever found truly successful are from Thich Nhat Hanh.  They keep me in the moment and force me to focus only because I need to remember the words as I actually breathe: Breathing in, I calm body and mind. Breathing out, I smile. Dwelling in the present moment I know this is the only moment.”

Otherwise I must focus on letting excess thoughts blow away, "like a feather on the breath of God," over and over and over and I fall asleep, perhaps because it is so exhausting.

Learning to live inside one's own body can be difficult and it is something the world generally doesn't help with.  A good parent helps a child find his own inner being and live with it successfully. 

No saying, or proverb, or set of encouraging words can replace, "To thine own self be true;" without this knowledge life is a crap shoot, an iffy proposition that leaves us perspiring to the tune of other people's "inspiring" words until we expire.

One fine thing

Life is good.

It's certainly not easy, sometimes I can be up until 3 AM dealing with the finer points, but still, it's good.  (And worth losing sleep over.)

The hardest part of living is remembering that details make a difference. I may not remember the tide that swooped in over the beach every night for a million years, but I will never forget the sand dollar I discovered one morning at sunrise.

It is possible to own tons of "stuff," and have an endless line of people in my life, but still be like that little mouse standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon staring wistfully at the other side. 

It is not quantity that matters, it is quality and that is true across the board from the fork in the silverware drawer, to the heart that shares all my thoughts.

Once upon a me

The barometer on my feelings rises and falls with alarming frequency.

Sometimes I feel like an ocean, ebbing and flowing, full of strengths and depths that amaze even me.

Other times I am like a bubble being buffeted by the wind, bruised by the rain, even dented by too much sunshine.

I try to build up reserves, to control how I react to all the pressures of just living so that when they are magnified by circumstances I can stand fast.

I realize that many of my feelings and reactions are based on the fairy tale of me, or at least the one I tell myself and that is actually pretty scary. The thought that life, as I know it, depends on what I conjure up means I have to take on a lot of responsibility that I really don't want.

No wonder ancient sages retreat into solitude and meditations.  The more I live, the less I can blame anyone else.   Writing about it falls somewhere between a rant and a fairy tale because I really don't know . . . and it's obviously going to take, at least, a lifetime to figure it out.

All the myriad moves

We are all sliding down that slippery slope to old age.

Some of us swinging by the facelifts that keep our eyelids off our cheeks and our lips closer to our ears than God ever meant them to be.

Others surfing on wrinkles that put sharpeis to shame.

With my weight there is sometimes more rolling than sliding, but it's all downhill and more fun than I ever dreamed.

That old wive's tale that you need grandchildren in order to be silly and have fun has been proven by Snopes to be false.  All you really need is a good imagination.

But . . .  grandchildren are good too.

Whatever it takes to keep smiling and moving is worth going after.

Have Funnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

The saturation point

Nature is approaching the climax of the year.

That moment when the birth of seeds and bugs and blooms exceeds the saturation point and bursts forth everywhere.

I drive through outdoor space, through the underpass into my neighborhood as cottonwood seeds rush towards me, a soft meteor shower pinging against my windshield, a tiny reproduction of the universe in the here and now.

Spiders weave webs to catch me as I walk out the door to my deck and dance down on gossamer threads to dangle over my plant, entertaining and terrifying me in one fell swoop.

Rabbits feign nonchalance as they protect their nests from unimaginable distances.  Squirrels scamper up and down trees in delirious joy.

Ripe and fecund, the world groans in ecstasy and prepares to collapse in upon itself.

This is the last charge before the descent of plenty into decay, the glory before the miasma of August.

A perfect world

A little bird popped up this morning and asked me what I'd do if I ran the world!  He said I had ten minutes to put my improvements into being!  So I said:

I'd get rid of those time wasters, those procrastinators and put-er offers.  I'd delete all those people who slow down every time they see a stoplight just "in case" it turns red.  I'd eliminate drivers who forgot to signal and those talking on the phone while my green light turns red.

I'd erase "Chatty Cathy" the elegant cashier at the book store who kept me in line for 45 minutes while she chatted with each customer, and all those people who could be bought for the price of a dinner, or a new driveway.

I'd mute the loud mouths who talk too loud in public places, and not so public ones.  I'd remove those people who think they and their children are better than anyone and everyone else s.

I'd get rid of the nuts running for political office and the nutsier ones electing them. Gone would be the intolerant jerks who inhabit this world.

My ten minutes ended . . . and I was gone!

Free food

I just watched Lassie! And I am not ashamed to say that I enjoyed it very much.  Not only was it a nostalgic moment to a time I can appreciate, it was a relief from all the raucous, no plot shows of today.

I get so tired of watching crude people running around in our version of a 1900's freak show; shaved heads, tattooed skin making the illustrated man look conservative, sexual stereotypes, pumped up muscles, beer bellies, bad manners, loud, profane, everything that is disgusting in a human being being paraded around on television as a substitute for entertainment.

I guess I hope they are well paid for making such fools of themselves, because the thought that they are actually such losers is depressing, but I also wish there were more new shows with some sort of redeeming qualities.

If I wanted to watch people live badly I could just go home.  It would be free, no cable costs, and they would probably feed me too.

Instead, I pay close to a hundred dollars a month to listen to people say things that make my skin crawl.  Do they really believe that stuff?  Are they truly that shallow? 

Of course the truth is that I don't watch these shows except in passing.  I pay that hundred dollars a month to watch a few decent hours of tv a week, which isn't very bright either.

Thank goodness for shows streamed through roku boxes and my computer.  Without them I really wouldn't need this big flat screen tv.

Attention!

The more I think about life the more I am beginning to believe that everything boils down to paying attention.

The clues along the road tell me as much, or maybe more, than the sign posts.

The sound of your voice the shape of your mouth,  the way you move that look in your eye, it's all there for the seeing.

The clutter in the kitchen, the order in the basement, which flowers you plant and which you don't, say worlds about who you are.

The familiar faces of employees, their energy and eagerness to serve, the longevity of each and every one, let me know how good your company is.

The safety and cleanliness of the poorest neighborhoods, the random little parks tucked here and there, the prominent places of libraries and schools, speak to the richness of a city.

The number of mongrels standing along the road, the feral cats congregating in back alleys, the geese who flock to swim in your ponds, tell me about your people.

Some people think I can read minds, see the future, know your inner most thoughts -- but I just pay attention.

Why?

I was always the kid who had to know why.  I can't remember how many times my exasperated mother said, "Because I said so!"

I have questions.  Sometimes lots of them.  You have to be patient with me till I really know what I'm doing, because my imagination can think of more ways to do things than you might believe -- and chances are pretty good most of them are not what you are thinking of.

You say, "Bring me a stick!"  I wonder, how big, how long, how wide, what color, where from?

Once I understand?  I'm like a lab who has finally learned to fetch. 

The sticks will pile up at your feet like raindrops in a deluge.

Sparkle while you live

Sometimes I look at my life and realize it is at least half over, probably more like three quarters over and I am amazed at how quickly it has gone. 

I am also amazed at how little I've changed.  I still look at older people and wonder what it's like to have lived so long.  I still look at them and think they are wiser and more grown up than I am and I still think they really know.

Then I look at myself and realize I am older than they are!

Life is not about years.  It's about perspective and choices and a lot of luck.

Someday I, too, will fade into the universe, become one with the wind and the rain, move into the light and perhaps sparkle like a dust mote.

In the meantime I move about this earth on two faulty feet doing the best I can and wiping errant souls off my furniture.

Sacred sacredness

What if there was a sacred place where nothing ugly could be spoken of, felt, or thought?

It would be open to anyone at anytime, but any violation would mean immediate expulsion.

No righteous indignation, or conscientious complaining allowed.  The need to "fix," defend, or change anyone's life taboo.  All ugly stories and tales of gross misconduct must be set aside before entering.  Absolute tolerance of anyone who managed to stay there a constant.

The sacredness would be endemic to all people.  Any thought of excluding anyone would result in automatic self exclusion. 

A place so intoxicatingly peaceful, filled with beautiful minds and overwhelming love -- and yet probably only accessible for seconds at a time for most of us.

Justifications

People know better than to walk too close to a fire.  They are aware of the danger when walking too close to the edge of a very narrow path over an abyss.

Riding a bicycle down a traffic choked street seldom seems like a good idea.

Steering clear of dangerous places seems like a no brainer.

Unless that dangerous place happens to be a human being whose presence we crave for some misbegotten reason.  Then there is a tendency to come up with all sorts of justifications for our behavior.

Worth

Who am I ?

Am I a pocketful of money?  Bills, or small change?

Am I years of wisdom?  A need to control?

Am I the color of my hair, or worth my weight in something?

Am I somebody who might interest me?

How much of me would I want to know about?

How much would I care about?
 
Am I all smoke and mirrors? 

Who am I fooling?  Me, or you?

Maybe I am exactly what I seem.

What is that?

Strange

I was madly transcribing today while, in the background, a horror movie was running not always so quietly and the effect was pretty amazing.

The tension of the story, accompanied by this almost appropriate soundtrack, built up and up and up.

Soon, I found myself sitting on the edge of my chair, a feeling of nerves gelling in the pit of my stomach, completely lost in both dread and anticipation.

Some people might think that having a television on while transcribing would be distracting, but I, perhaps because I grew up in a large family where there were always a dozen things going on at once, find it forces me to focus more intently on what I am doing.  Otherwise, I either tire quickly, or find my mind wandering.

It was a strange experience, one I have never had before.

Centering

I woke up late this morning.  Gone was the pre-morning dusky dimness, the foggy promise of things to come, the chilly leftovers from last night.  Instead I saw pools of sunlight basking in deep shadows, green trees dripping in fascinating shapes and weeds highlighted so that they appeared to be intentional gardens.

As beautiful as formal gardens are, and I do love them, I really love the wildness of nature's hand when she's allowed to do her own thing.

I have moved many times during the past twelve years; from city to city and city to country.  I have lived so deep in the country that the sound of a human voice was a novelty that would immediately draw me out into the yard.  And I have lived so close to my neighbors that I heard their most intimate moments from the pillows I lay my head on.

Here I seem to have found a blissful compromise.  I live surrounded by people, but they exist mostly outside the tiny maze of hallways leading to the parking lot.  If I am sitting on my porch, the occasional person comes by, but mostly I have a private little garden no one feels the need to manicure in the midst of a large manicured place.

Here I feel as if I am in the center.

Touched

Imagine a day, long ago, before television, or radio, or telephones.  A day before automobiles when people lived in smaller places because they couldn't go that far that fast.

Entertainment began at home and even there it was mostly done while doing something else -- something "useful,"  like baking bread, or washing dishes, plowing fields or weeding gardens!  Singing was as natural to man as it was to birds.  Everybody sang.

No one believed you had to be one of the few who got paid for it, or took lessons at it, or did anything much at all -- except sang because you wanted to. 

Growing up, the local grocery store belonged to a man from Italy.  Through the years he kept bringing family members over to work in it.  The thing I remember most were the men singing opera as they cut meat, or Italian love songs as they stocked shelves.  My doctor sang as he walked down the hallway of his office, or the hospital, what a great way to announce his coming.  My friend's children played instruments or sang while she washed the dishes.

Today, singers are mostly those people who get paid to gussy up their costumes and prance around a stage for money.  They are usually good, I can't deny that, but there are lots of other good singers and musicians out there who only perform while working, or for friends and family, or even just for themselves because it feels good, or makes the work less onerous.

These people touch me a million times more than those who are paid for it in money.

Stories of the night

In my dream I am trekking through a mountainous Arctic wasteland pursued by two hunters, or mountain men.  Clothed in furs with frosty beards, they carry big rifles and are always just a few miles behind me. They are not the only problem.  There are huge black grizzly bears lurking behind tall fir trees on this mountain and we need to avoid stirring them up.

I have a traveling companion, a mentor, and he indicates that we are close to our goal, but then I see that the bears are starting to close in. Too many bears in one place is unnatural.  I realize that the hunters called them, to close in on me, and I begin to feel both trapped and hopeless.

That is when I see it, the mansion of "Him," like some giant adult Teletubby place.  We hurry towards it. 

The house is huge, white, full of sloping, curving hallways and we almost slide through it, but "He" is not there.  Instead, the bears have taken over.  Like large wild pets they lurk in the most unlikely places.  We finally come across a young woman with a mop of white blond curls.  She is wearing a short sleeved red man's shirt that buttons down the front, baggy shorts and boots over a sturdy, almost childlike frame.  She is his sister.

We ask if we can talk to "Him" and she says she will see.  A day and a night pass and we are hungry, but afraid to look for the kitchen because of the bears.  When we are finally forced to look for it, we run into her and she accuses us of nosing around the house.  I stand before the refrigerator feeling embarrassed but hungry.  She tells us "He" will be right outside the kitchen door before dawn in the morning if we really want to see him.

The next morning we work our way towards the meeting place, but bears and the threat of bears makes it slow and cumbersome.  We can see the meeting place from afar many times, but not really get to it.  Once we think we get a glimpse of him waiting there for us, but by the time we actually make our way down, he is gone.

By now we are exhausted and take refuge on top of a corrugated metal roof on top of four tree-like poles.  It is built in one of the rooms, like a tropical shed inside an arctic house, but high up off the ground.

She comes the next morning, accusatory and sulky.  Where were we.  "He" said we didn't come.  I try to explain, but it doesn't seem to make any difference.  Then the mentor says, "I think she IS HIM."

Suddenly I realize he is right and, because I have been barefoot through this whole ordeal, borrow his suede leather boots, and swing myself down using one of the trees that support the roof.  I think she will be impressed that I am so athletic, but instead she looks at my boots with disdain.

"They aren't really mine," I explain.  "They are really too small for me."

Thunder fills the air . . .

And I wake up.

Flying free

Accepting me for just who I am is not easy.  I always want to be better, more focused, perfect!

It's an ongoing problem, one I know is futile.  I am happier when I don't think about it.

Part of me wants to be out front, center stage, raking in admiration and awe.  The other part wants to walk through life unnoticed, protected by the shadows that hide my flaws.

I spend a lot of energy and angst trying to deal with all this. 

Hyper-vigilant - I can pull off the me I find tolerable, but it is wearing and comes at a cost.  Striving for perfection does not really bring out my better side.  I become cranky, moody, picky beyond belief.  Nothing really pleases me, or makes me happy after a while.

Laid back and open is so scary I really only feel safe with one person and even then I have moments of fear.  I weigh in so far below where my beloved role models seem to be that my self esteem is as fragile as the gossamer wings of a butterfly on a hot summer's day.  With that one person I am more relaxed and freer than I have been my whole life -- I am happy.

Part of me knows that if this is true, then I should give up all the pretensions and just be the happy me, but my darker side says if I do this something very bad will eventually happen.

So . . . life becomes a continuous struggle where I find myself flying high and free and then panic, much like someone afraid to swim in deep water, and force myself to land before I fail.

Lately I've been flying longer than usual.