Scripts and escapees

We all have our stories. The way we see ourselves and want others to see us. 

True, or not, they become the script for lives that are much more orchestrated than most of us ever believe. I don't know where these stories come from. Sometimes I think they are the twisted way we remember childhood movies, or TV shows, or perhaps books. Other times they are obviously part of a family mythology, the "This is who we are" tale of sacrifice and misery.

I watch people do the same things over and over, no matter how much they complain about them afterwards. Almost as if it is a badge of pride that they, too, are suffering like those who went before.

If it is a family trait it often comes with a form of blindness supported and encouraged by other family members. The long suffering, beleaguered person is seen in the same way he or she was seen in the family pecking order as a child. The pretty one, the dumb one, the smart one . . . some families allow no one to crawl out of the original rut. And for some reason these people don't really try either. They actually believe their life is inescapable and not of their own making.

Only outsiders ever seem to notice and since they ARE outsiders, their opinion doesn't really count, because they don't "understand." It is possible to change, but that probably requires moving far enough away that you are forced to be more creative if you want to survive. (It's hard to convince strangers that your mythology is not a choice.)

It is frustrating to be one of the escapees. Knowing that I can follow the old script and make myself an object of pity and failure, or use the same power to make myself successful and happy is very enlightening, but that doesn't mean you can take that home as a morality lesson.

Writing new scripts can be scary and the comfort of the familiar suffering is a huge security blanket.

A soulfull thought

How much is a soul worth? If you can't sell yours, what would you offer for your son's, or daughter's, or even your grandchild's?

And what would you do with a soul anyway?

Can they be collected, kept in jars, or behind glass on walls? If we own them will they love us, adore us, make us feel good?

Perhaps they can be traded like glowing Pokemon cards. Upgraded like computer programs. Refurbished like old cars. Can old souls be classic?

Is it ethical to lure a soul away with candy, or shoes, a movie, or even freedom?

Are there good souls -- and bad souls? Where do they come from? Do they have color and class? Bulk or shape? If a soul spoke to you would it have an accent, or even speak in a language you understood?

Are they each one unique like snowflakes in the wind? Or all the same like pulses of electricity pulsing through the conduits of life? Dropped back into their beginnings are they only one?

What would you give for a soul?

Anger Trumps Decency

United by a common thread --

People united by liberty and justice for all. 

Or

People united by anger, the lowest common denominator the human race has.

Do we want to live in a world where anger trumps decency?

Right here where I am

Gone is the child who wished she could say, "I remember ten years ago."

The other day I found myself saying, "My Dad and I went to see The Lion In Winter 48 years ago." And truth be told, I can actually remember some things from 64 years ago. That impresses me.

It also makes me think.

I do not feel particularly old right now. On a good day I can still do most of the things I have always done, so it is reasonable to believe that I will look back on this day the way I do on a winter morning in 1984.

On that morning I stood in our living room window and watched my two sons set off to catch the bus to school. They were so cute and sweet it made my heart ache and I wished they could be this age forever. Then I thought, "Someday I will look back and remember this day."

That was over thirty years ago. I can imagine looking back on this day in thirty years.

From that perspective I will think, "I was so young back then. Only sixty six! Imagine being that age again . . ."

There is no reason to wait until then. Right now, in this moment, I really can go back to that age, because that is where I am.

So much of life is perspective.

Rough road

You have to know something exists before you can look for it.

So many levels of understanding.

So many missed messages.

Love, hate, compassion, prejudice, empathy, narcissism . . . all speak to learned behaviors.

Some taught by example and others by ignorance, who's to say which is more problematic?

Hoping to stumble in the right direction is putting a lot of faith in something that may affect your whole life.

Happily ever after

I have often wondered why I do not particularly like "Hallmark" style movies and romance novels. I like loving people and sweet fuzzy warm things. I love the idea of hearth and home, hot baked bread and wholesome food made by loving hands.

I was driving my car out to do some walking in the woods yesterday when it occurred to me that if a gorgeous older man in my age range were to show an interest in me I would panic. I would love to talk to him about subjects of mutual interest. I wouldn't mind sharing meals while we did this talking, but if the idea of working towards a situation where we might attempt to weave our lives together came into being I would be terrified and no longer interested in maintaining a relationship with him.

It is definitely not physical intimacy that scares me. It is emotional intimacy.

Close relationships often seem to include passive aggressive people with sarcastic looks, scathing comments, angry silences, and so called "truthful" revelations. All of which can knock me off kilter and wound me more than a fist to the face. If I ever chose to live with someone again I would need the constancy of a person who actually realizes who I am before speaking.

Love is at its best when you can let it go knowing it will always come back.

Happily ever after is not having to worry that the one I love is jealous, or angry, or wanting to deceive me in any way. It is simply being who I am and knowing it is enough and always will be.

Home

"You are so beautiful -- to meeee."

You could take that in so many ways! Not all of them complimentary, even though it is probably meant to be.

Most of the people I know tend to think of people as all this, or all that. Whatever "that" is. We like people who make us feel good -- about ourselves, or them, or both. And because of that, relationships become symbiotic exchanges of emotionally nutritional vibes.

The real angels among us are those who are not blind to the selfish, petty, obsessive compulsive, idiosyncrasies that hover in our corners -- and love us any way. They are rarer than you might think.

Most people want to be that way. Hope to be that way. Think they are that way until push comes to shove.  Then things get more complicated.

When they don't?

You are truly home.

Towards the ads

Flipping through television channels I realize that getting through bad, sad, or mad times seems to be the favored form of entertainment. Short "a" followed by "d" must be one of the saddest sounds in the American language, yet we find millions of ways to capitalize on it.

I looked up the Latin meaning of ad and it said, "toward."

I tried to imagine what the "s" might mean if I was going toward it in sad, or "b" in bad, "m" in mad, etc. I even tried looking up the etymology of these words and they are dark, so, perhaps human beings have always leaned towards the dark side.

Of course our second biggest past-time seems to be buying things. In the future we may turn this "ad" around to mean towards the ad, which is, of course, toward selling us something to buy!

Let's go shopping and ease our sadness, madness, and perhaps badness.

Skipping towards the ad. Breaking for the ad. Making for the ad.

That certainly gives mad another aspect.

 

Coping

Coping skills begin the day we first realize we have something to say about our own lives. Mom takes away our pacifier and we find our thumbs or fingers.

I hear about people who drink, or smoke, or do drugs, or eat, or drive fast cars. There are people who lose themselves in nearly every sort of thing there is and the only reason, or maybe the main reason is that it helps them get through the day.

As a child I wrote. Then I took what I wrote and hid it away where I thought no one could find it. Later on I rearranged my furniture when I couldn't rearrange my life. I still use both of those coping skills to deal with this process called living where so many things turn out to be beyond my control.

I write and rewrite the way it is in my head. I rearrange the finite things in my world to open the door for the infinite.

Change is the sister of hope and brother of possibilities. In our fragile human lives the energy to not give up and cave in is the first step towards survival.

Harper Lee

It's fun to have your six minutes of fame, even if it comes second hand through your best friend and Bestest gives me lots of that.

As a life long reader of books I am in awe of the people who write them, and sometimes the people within them.

As a professor of southern literature, Bestest was called up to voice his thoughts and opinions when Harper Lee's "Go Set A Watchman" came out last year. We both loved "To Kill A Mockingbird" as do millions of people world wide and a chance to read a second novel by that book's author was a real treat.

Today we were talking on the phone when he heard that Harper Lee died in her sleep this morning. It was a moment of profound sadness for many reasons.  A truly wonderful human being, one who wasn't afraid to say what she thought and say it in a way that captivated the world, died today.

He has been inundated with phone calls, questions and interviews all day and although part of me is very proud that he is the one so many people turned to, I am feeling a loss I know will not be filled by anyone else in quite the same way. This is one link to fame I would willingly have given up and so would he.

We can continue to talk about her and Atticus Finch, but unless she has hidden away other manuscripts, our chance to know more about him, or his creator, will depend on people like Bestest who can talk about them with more authority than most and who have a love for them that is pretty much relegated to those of us who love good books.

As a avid lover of the movie, "To Kill A Mockingbird," as a woman who loved the way Harper Lee lived, and as a reader who gobbled up every word she allowed in print, I am sad to see Harper Lee leave this world.

Vote

The idea that your vote doesn't matter is hogwash. No one should tell you who to vote for. If you are old enough to vote you should do it, or understand that your opinion on most things is invalid.

The only people who have anything to gain by you not voting are the people who don't believe what you do. Simply voting is the most passive, safest way in the world to stand up for yourself.

Be sure you are voting for what you really believe and not just something that assuages your anger. It might feel good to kick the dog when you've had a rotten day, but if he is your dog you're going to have vet bills (and probably a sad conscience) later on.

Don't vote for someone who's going to come out and kick your dog either. (Or anyone else s dog.)

And if you don't have a dog, remember that your mother, or cousin Louie, or grandchild might have one someday.

Most of us are not as rich, or important, or powerful, or perfect as we would like to think.

So vote accordingly.

Small and miniature

It has been easy for me to downsize my living space. 

Quality over quantity is the byword. I like nice clothes and good food, and wouldn't really mind having a top notch apartment in a fantastic place. If money were no object, but it is.

Too much of anything becomes a burden to me. I'm not the kid who wanted a hundred dolls. The 1960's Barbie with her superbly made, elegant clothes was my perfect toy. The dollhouse I made out of an old crate that could be decorated and redecorated was a big part of that.

Today I find many ways to redecorate and rearrange a 425 square foot apartment. Having a few pieces of nice, easily moved furniture is right up my tree.

I still have toys and those toys make small living easier and more fun. A bunch of exquisite miniature furniture offers up endless ways of creating and recreating living spaces even if I don't live in them.

Is spring sprung?

I heard something strange while walking the other night.

It was nearly nine o'clock, very dark and very cold, but I heard birds! I am used to hearing geese, the occasional duck and crows, but I heard cardinals!

Cardinals are not all that unusual in the winter around here, but they are unusual at night and I haven't heard, or seen, hardly any small birds in months.

I haven't been able to walk since then. I did something to my knee again and have had to stay off it, but today I went out to run some errands and there were birds everywhere. I saw cardinals, starlings, even robins.

Forget the groundhog. 

The real harbingers of spring are robins (and the buds on the tulip magnolia outside my window.)

Spring may not be sprung yet, but it's got to be close.

Pat Conroy

I have seen The Prince of Tides and loved it, but I didn't discover Pat Conroy's books until this year when a friend spoke at his 70th birthday in Beaufort, South Carolina.

Since then I have been devouring his words, so hearing that he has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer is terrible.

Books are almost always better than the movies that follow them, but I wasn't prepared for how much better Conroy's are.

His stories are hard. They are heart breakers told in a way that makes them a feast for the soul. I've been trying to decide what exactly it is that makes him so extraordinary. For one thing he is brutally truthful, insanely insightful, and those things come together in a rich vocabulary that draws me right in. I don't just read his words; I feel them, taste them, see them as if I am right there.

He says he will fight hard. I believe him. I cannot imagine losing such a great writer right after I find him.

Love

Love is ephemeral. It doesn't have viscosity. It can't be measured, or weighed. There is no comparing it. It can't be placed on a chart showing losses or gains.

Loving more than one thing does not diminish the love available for others. If it is diminished in some way, that little part wasn't love, but something else.

It is not a museum piece that becomes more valuable if it is exclusive. It is not a prize or a trophy. 

It's complicated. It is honestly easier to talk about what love is not than what it is, because what is it?

Perhaps it is the breath of God, or perhaps it is the voice of creation coming into being. Maybe it is one of nature's elements we haven't identified yet.

I don't know.

I only know that the presence of it in any way, shape, or form, is empowering and sweet.

The most powerful thing

Jealousy has been a problem most of my life.

What I didn't understand was that it is okay to feel jealous. Feelings come when we are in pain and fear causes pain.

Unfortunately a problem like jealousy can be a big problem, one that has many reverberations.

No one ever taught me about it when I was a child, or even an adult. It has been brushed off, treated as ridiculous and simply labeled as bad.

And then, one day a few years ago, a very wise person recognized my jealousy and saw how it came about and why and told me how to handle it.

It is a feeling and feelings are natural, but you don't need to be afraid . . .

And then that person proceeded to tell me why there was no need to feel jealous.  

Not in a nasty way, or mean spirited way, but in the kindest, most loving way possible.

And I have never looked or felt the same way about jealousy again. I simply recognize what it is and why I feel it and let it go. Knowing that even one person loves you for who you are, exactly the way you are, is the most powerful thing!

Something

The three grand essentials of happiness are: Something to do, someone to love, and something to hope for.

 This quote is attributed to Allan K. Chalmers, Joseph Addison and George Washington Burnap,but no matter who said it, it rings true.

As important as it is to be able to pay the bills, stay warm and have enough to eat, once I get past that, I need to feel something.

Something to do can be as simple as a hobby, or volunteering, or a job that pays. It needs to be enjoyable, or feel worthwhile.

Something to love really resonates with me. Love is one of those emotions that feeds the giver so much more than the recipient and I really don't think it matters what is loved, a dog, a friend, a child, a yard, even money, if you love it it feeds you.

Hope is the icing on the cake and perhaps the hardest one to come by if you are older, or poor, or sick. It is also a strangely complicated diverse thing. I think of it as something to look forward to, which can be as simple as knowing someone will call me, or waiting for a new book to come out, or being excited about doing something. Whatever it is, causes an upsurge of feeling that breaks the monotony of living.

Something, as generic as it sounds, is all that stands between joy and despair. A simple little something makes a person get out of bed rather than contemplate never getting up.

Hearts vs.Heads

My generation has been accused of selling out.

I can see why that appears to be true and is true is some ways, but I think this election is a pretty good gauge of where our hearts are.

In the sixties we wanted to make love not war, which was a trite over simplification of people who didn't want to support our country's economy with bombs and napalm and the deaths of innocent children running screaming down streets as their bodies burned them alive.

Some of us went on to become wall street gurus, Las Vegas pimps and emirs of America. There is always a layer of greed and self serving people in any country, but we haven't lost those whose hearts are still other centered.

The people lining up around Bernie Sanders remember that ALL people have inalienable rights. It is important to remember that there is no sin in making money or living comfortably. ALL of us should have the opportunity to do those things. Education should be a real priority -- for all people.

One tenth of one percent cannot be the base for a whole country. Even the poorest of the poor should have a voice, as should those all the way in between. Heads are an important part of a strong country, but hearts cannot be ruled out either.

We do not want to become the countries our people escaped from.

The nightmare

I talk to the stepmother I never had and she points out the cracks in our home. They are huge, some so deep I could put my whole hand in them. Great stucco and beam walls, full of texture, rippling down into the foundation, redolent of all the travail this house has gone through.

We go to bed secure in the heaviness of the house, because there is no choice.

Then, in the deepest, darkest, part of the night I hear it and I am terrified.

It's vibrations rock my bed, roll over my room like an ominous voice from the past without words. I tell myself it is only a sound, but I feel it. I feel this sound that comes from the left and moves over me without touching me.

Not once, or twice, but again and again and I am scared!

I try to call for my mother, but I am afraid to make my own sound and I am tired -- so tired, but fear overcomes everything and I cry out, "Mom!" with my eyes closed and my body huddling under my quilts.

"Mom! Mom! Mom!" Knowing she must hear me and wake up. Knowing she will appear in my doorway soon to tell me that it is only a dream, it is okay.

But she doesn't. I hear my own voice and open my eyes. I am in a strange place, a strange body and I am still afraid . . .

for a few moments and then I realize that it was only a nightmare, that I am not at home and my mother died thirty years ago and the real nightmare is a mind that conjures up experiences like this to entertain itself at night.

Mind management

It was one of those days.

I started off by waking up shouting for help after bad dreams.

I ran a bunch of errands and forgot my debit card number at the grocery store so I had to go home, get it and go back for my groceries.

I made soup, but somehow made more than usual and had to go buy containers to freeze some of it.

I didn't check email, or facebook, or my computer all day, so when I finally went on at ten tonight I realized I had missed so much. I found myself on the telephone calling hotels and discovering they were all booked months ahead.

In the end I accomplished everything I needed to. The groceries are home and put away. The picture is in its frame. The shoes are in the closet and I just found a room at a good hotel near where I am going.

Now if i could just muster the courage to go to sleep, but my dreams have been the stuff of horror movies for the past three days.  Funny how I can handle the real world better than the one in my mind.

Decisions

The reason is . . .

It's not always easy to know what the reason is.

Sometimes it really was that little boy coming out of the apartment with his father.

And sometimes it is only that I am coming down with something and didn't, don't, feel good.

Knowing why I changed my mind really wouldn't make any difference, but I do wonder.

Every decision is a chain reaction. The ripples spread out over the day . . . and week . . . and year.

The question

I walked into my apartment Thursday and looked around.

I felt no connection to anything for a moment.

Everything I have is relatively new. The oldest is probably six years old. It is all just stuff.

I could replace it given enough money with no qualms at all. (Wait, I do have a few pictures and collectibles, but they all sit on top of my cupboards. I would miss these.)

Sometimes I have the feeling I have out lived myself. My children are raised. I am retired. I do some things that are useful, but most of my life is easily changed.

It is a strange feeling to look around at my "stuff" and think, is this me?

Back handed love

I grew up on the set of Eden. Our world was perfect love in all its sterile glory. The members of our family, in order to preserve that tranquility, lived by a closely scripted set of rules and rituals that governed nearly everything.

My mother's role was the perfect southern woman with bit parts doing comic relief where she played the long suffering daughter, or a redneck hick from a small town.  My father was the worthy pedagogue, the absent minded professor, the dutiful son. He took care of bringing in whatever money there was. She took care of everything else.

The cues were different depending on who was home.  "Man in the house" meant we ate in the dining room. My father never ate in the kitchen unless he ate alone. He had an assigned chair, an office and a hobby. He wore night shirts and little pointed hats to sleep in until he fell asleep smoking in his white satin night shirt and nearly burned the house down.

My mother ironed everything and mowed the grass with a hand mower because my father felt women were too delicate for power mowers. She had bizarre little hobbies to keep from going stark raving mad and was constantly "inventing" something that never quite worked. Including cutting down my grandmother's clothing for me and convincing me that I was stylish beyond the pale, meaning I often looked like a small mannequin dressed for burial. To make sure this elevated state was perpetuated, she typed our term papers, drew our pictures, did our math and sometimes even did our research. I'm sure my fourth grade teacher never doubted that report with the exquisite cover was mine when held up to my art project labeled, "messy pasting."

Both my parents were frustrated musicians who lived out their dreams by urging us to study instruments they had dreamed of playing. Outwardly  encouraging, they approached this very differently. My father critiqued my playing like a concert master training little Mozarts and my mother ridiculed my style because it was not her signature big band, or ragtime.

Everyone outside our home was ludicrous and fodder for building our egos and reminding us that we were "better than." Everyone inside our home learned, quickly, to stay within the confines of our roles so that peace was the facade that lay gently over the passive aggressive hostility we breathed in and breathed out.

I never heard an argument, debate, or difference of opinion between my parents.  I'm not sure I even knew they ever made decisions. Our world simply happened, as if by magic the next move, or meal, or project was simply written into the script and performed discreetly and without comment.

My father and I would sit for hours after dinner discussing ideas, but never anything personal. Personal was considered crass. We did not discuss, money, religion, sex, or personal.

I came out of this insulated existence believing that this was the way all people lived and I married believing that all people were innately reasonable, calm, co-dependent people. (Who occasionally threw chairs and glasses and backhanded their children so that a stunning blow on the nose brought up fond memories of mama on bad days.)

I loved my family and I know they loved me, and one really good thing I brought out of that love was resilience, a way to find happiness within myself and the things I loved, no matter what else was going on in my world.

The past

The horror of the past is that it cannot be undone.

The blessing of the past is that it is a peek into a piece of reality whose ramifications are already apparent.

The past is the foundation of the future but what the contractors, engineers and designers do with it is a matter of choice based on desire.

The American Dream

Amber waves of grain broken by the emergence of a new tower of Babel highlight a country starting to redefine itself as the haves and have-nots. Language is no longer a way to communicate but obfuscate so that the have-nots do not realize they are being disenfranchised.

In an age where education is being reduced to statistics that are easily measured and can be manipulated to mean almost anything, it becomes terrifyingly necessary to really teach people to think.

The times they are a changing - in what could be irreversible ways.

The grass roots of a country underneath those amber waves are being fertilized by anger and despair.

Desperate for sanity; starving for the simple chance to strive for the American Dream; frustrated beyond endurance; Americans are seeing their country portrayed like some third world place where a bunch of petty dictators are trying to wrest control from - each other and the people.

Can liberty and justice for all prevail? Is there enough honesty and empathy and strength to save us from ourselves?

Rooster complexes

I have feelings about things that I am always reluctant to voice for fear that they will be misunderstood as a condemnation of people I actually like very much.

Looking at pictures on facebook, at the way people drive, at the things our culture seems to take as the ultimate in recreation, often makes me feel like I am on the outside looking in.

I honestly do not understand why being able to push your foot down on a gas pedal is considered a laudable feat.

Studied nonchalance, like driving while slumped in the car seat, or shuffling down the street striking poses, feels contrived to me.

The idea that catching fish and watching them gasp as they suffocate, or shooting animals and seeing them collapse in agony is fun befuddles me.

It seems that many of our so called "recreational activities" are based on an older culture where these skills helped us survive. In the past they were a necessary part of living. Now we do them and post pictures of ourselves with big ghoulish grins on our faces.

Folks are conditioned to do foolish things, believing they are signs of skill levels that really only exist in minds desperate for attention. Things once ogled in National Geographic as aboriginal are now part of a counter culture that makes people pierce all parts of their bodies, tattoo their skins and paint their faces in solidarity with all the other "unique" people.

It makes no sense to me, but I suppose that is what fashion is about -- senseless attempts to do, be, or sell things in order to stay active.

The less we need to work to survive, the more powerless we feel, the more time we devote to achieving "made up" goals and while there is nothing inherently wrong with this, it really isn't all that extraordinary either.

Architecture

Nothing is quite as satisfying to look at as well proportioned architectural details.

Stability . . . balance . . . art in three dimensions that is both beautiful and useful.

Basic arches and triangles, simple rectangles and circles made up of the former.

It is math meets science meets art meets a human mind that assimilates all three with such ease it probably doesn't even realize what is happening.

These things alone are pleasurable, but add in one more beautifully made piece of art, a human being whose face evokes love and good will and you have created an aesthetically perfect photo.

At least for me.