Anticipation. Checking each day's mail for the CD I ordered last week from the Sounds True catalog. It is music - classical pieces as they describe it - which promotes vitality, strength, robust health. As I am in the early days of self-rehabilitation to return myself to greater mobility, and the CD was on sale, I made the leap.
This Friday, January 15, is expected by some to bring positive changes through the convergence of a new moon, a solar exlipse and the planet Mercury, my unnamed co-conspirator in matters of communication, which is due to go, as they call it, direct. I'm unclear (ah, poor communication!) how long it has been retrograde and even with that in force, much information HAS reached me, although the outgoing messages may have been garbled or lost.
While healing and change truly are interior processes, they have allies on the outside. Depending on your belief system, these may be anything from herbs or self-help lectures to Divine or astral influences, helping hands that lift us to the next plateau. The other night I was singing - to the best of my ability - "Mr Tambourine Man" while doing the dishes and HAD to hear it before I went to sleep. Among my blessings is my son who now has on CDs much of what I once had on vinyl. He found for me a Dylan compilation and I not only got to "...dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea..." but select other tracks and envision building that "...ladder to the stars" where I could "... step on every rung."
Which bring me back to what must be January's (or this century's) theme, Dream Big. Or just Dream, all sizes available. In my hometown there was what we used to call a character (one of many...they seemed to feel safe in their unusualness in Pasadena of a certain era). This gentleman always carried a briefcase, walked with a foreward slant as thought heading into a gale and inhabited a Queen Anne Victorian, through the windows of which could be seen newspapers and magazine piled, we assumed, to the ceilings.
Upon his passing, documents came to light - such as what he always carried in the briefcase - that indicated he had come from great wealth, elsewhere, and his family supported him in comfort with the understanding that he never return home. My parents said such persons were called remittance men. We found that his most treasured, protected papers, far from being any correspondence with relatives or bankers, were blueprints, plans, as they were labeled, for a Yacht for his Personal Use. It could be that, at one time, the money was there for such a grandiose undertaking, but at my house we thought it more likely that he had spent what money there was to have the drawings made, to take the first step in the direction of that particularly ambitious and unlikely dream.
I have been fooled (deluded by self and by others) before and likely will again, no matter what The Who have to say about it. Yet I sense that seedling which may grow into enhanced vigor, stamina, freedom from ills and aches and why would music not be the vehicle for its sprouting? I have half-wished throughout my life for a cow that I could trade for magic beans as Jack did, free then to climb the stalk - toward the stars - and take my chances on what I might find.
Among the pebbles of wisdom I have gathered - my pockets rattle with them - is the absolute knowledge that I will survive being disappointed. It brings with it an unmatchable freedom, the luxury to dream, to imagine, to anticipate, to risk, to not mind being a fool who sometimes blurts out her truth when its impact will be indelible. In our days here on Earth we have survived much greater traumas; take a chance and always hope for the good outcome.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The backsliding side of the street
The Puritan Ethic has a lot to answer for. Its framework seems too narrow to accommodate normal human experience yet on a subliminal - or conscious - level it is our yardstick and I know that I have shrunk from too many washings, too much real life, to measure up. If I had continued to accept an unmeetable expectation of ever-perfect as my goal and purpose, I would not be here to write today.
Among my most beloved family and friends (and my own character) there is backsliding, procrastination, less-than-wonderful credit, avoidance, faith that sometimes feels thin as onionskin, and a lot of laughing. We are liable to read rather than do the chores NOW, fall into a nap that replenishes better than prescription pain medication while reading, some (no names, please) have been known to spray heaps of Redi-Whip onto low-fat cookies and slip into the intoxication of moderate excess. Many of these innocent moments have been followed by guilt and the mental equivalent of a self-Inquisition, and not the Python's kind...the comfy chair, the soft cushions...more along the lines of the truncheon.
In talking some stink about the Puritan Ethic, what I oppose is a sweeping notion of rigid behavioral rules, the ones pertaining to small, personal shortcomings, not large and felonious transgressions. And the ease with which American children of a certain age and circumstance fell for it all. Among the hundreds of bits of knowledge collected from 12-step programs, one of my favorites is the simple explanation that all of us in those rooms were not bad people becoming good but ill people becoming well...or as I might rewrite it for palatability today, stubborn people becoming willing...willing to forgive, willing to let go, willing to make room for our common human experiences and what they do to us.
Growing up human but with Puritan expectations buzzing just off-stage, it is easy to become hypercritical and unloving of ourselves and others. I am coming to a place of peace with my backsliding, napping, forgetful, yet compassionate, encouraging and hopeful self. I have become an adherent and advocate of the non-ordinary standards by which a real life must be measured.
The world is filled with focused, intentional and hard-working souls who will always do it, whatever IT is, much better than I, based on those clearly understood restrictions. You will find me, with my friend, Ferdinand the Bull, in the field, appreciating the flowers. And somehow what HAS to be done will be. There is always a way.
Among my most beloved family and friends (and my own character) there is backsliding, procrastination, less-than-wonderful credit, avoidance, faith that sometimes feels thin as onionskin, and a lot of laughing. We are liable to read rather than do the chores NOW, fall into a nap that replenishes better than prescription pain medication while reading, some (no names, please) have been known to spray heaps of Redi-Whip onto low-fat cookies and slip into the intoxication of moderate excess. Many of these innocent moments have been followed by guilt and the mental equivalent of a self-Inquisition, and not the Python's kind...the comfy chair, the soft cushions...more along the lines of the truncheon.
In talking some stink about the Puritan Ethic, what I oppose is a sweeping notion of rigid behavioral rules, the ones pertaining to small, personal shortcomings, not large and felonious transgressions. And the ease with which American children of a certain age and circumstance fell for it all. Among the hundreds of bits of knowledge collected from 12-step programs, one of my favorites is the simple explanation that all of us in those rooms were not bad people becoming good but ill people becoming well...or as I might rewrite it for palatability today, stubborn people becoming willing...willing to forgive, willing to let go, willing to make room for our common human experiences and what they do to us.
Growing up human but with Puritan expectations buzzing just off-stage, it is easy to become hypercritical and unloving of ourselves and others. I am coming to a place of peace with my backsliding, napping, forgetful, yet compassionate, encouraging and hopeful self. I have become an adherent and advocate of the non-ordinary standards by which a real life must be measured.
The world is filled with focused, intentional and hard-working souls who will always do it, whatever IT is, much better than I, based on those clearly understood restrictions. You will find me, with my friend, Ferdinand the Bull, in the field, appreciating the flowers. And somehow what HAS to be done will be. There is always a way.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Small pleasures
Winter mornings bring joy in the form of sun all across the south-facing windows of our long apartment. Well before the sun rises, we are treated to - or bombarded by - the flock of wild parrots (see documentary film, THE WILD PARROTS OF TELEGRAPH HILL for reference, although I don't believe ours have ever been tamed) who consider the trees and skies of South Pasadena home. I would describe their cries as shrieks and they seem to have perfected the ability to make their signature noise in unison. What a racket. By the time I have prepared breakfast they are settled in the leafless tree across the street or are rehearsing for their circus acts by swinging upside down on the dried fronds of palms which line our block.
The same sun warming my bedroom and the chair in front of the computer hits the greener fronds with a gloss almost metallic in its sheen. While I have a lifelong friend who truly resides in paradise on the island of Molokai, I feel amply blessed by our version of suburban heaven on a continent held fiercely by winter. I spent one winter away from California in an East Coast city not all-that cold - except for the morning I was apartment hunting and the temperature was 3. My face, even with scarf swathing, was immobilized. What I know of myself is that, despite those DAR roots and several generations which migrated from Illinois, Michigan, Massachusetts and Finland, I am a California girl. By now I KNOW I'm past the point of adapting to icy sidewalks and windshield scraping, though I remember the first snowfall in my wintery home, the way it took a few minutes to notice that every sound had been hushed while we heated turnovers and filled the kitchen with the scent of apples and cinnamon.
Today there is a mild breeze, the fronds sway but any rustling is overpowered by traffic several blocks away. Squirrels sprint up and down the trunks and venture across the utility lines for unseen prizes. Beyond the rooftops and through the trees I see inbound jets on the landing path for the Los Angeles airport. Depending on wind direction, even flights from the west pass within our view as they turn around to make a final approach from the east.
As the sun rises and sets, frequent high-level clouds grow pink and orange, then vanish leaving the sky its clear winter blue or impenetrable shade of night. The nearby high school athletic field is well-lit for runners, walkers or any team sport in season. One film shoot at the school brought a glowing orb that hovered over the neighborhood creating night-for-day. On the Fourth of July we have fireworks outside our windows, Wednesdays bring band practice and random mornings present the drum line and what we take to be the marimba...or could it be a xylophone? In football season we learn what has been chosen as THE tune of the year...and I'm happy to report it is no longer "Eye of the Tiger."
Warmth, wildlife, commerce and music, just beyond the window. It is a good day.
The same sun warming my bedroom and the chair in front of the computer hits the greener fronds with a gloss almost metallic in its sheen. While I have a lifelong friend who truly resides in paradise on the island of Molokai, I feel amply blessed by our version of suburban heaven on a continent held fiercely by winter. I spent one winter away from California in an East Coast city not all-that cold - except for the morning I was apartment hunting and the temperature was 3. My face, even with scarf swathing, was immobilized. What I know of myself is that, despite those DAR roots and several generations which migrated from Illinois, Michigan, Massachusetts and Finland, I am a California girl. By now I KNOW I'm past the point of adapting to icy sidewalks and windshield scraping, though I remember the first snowfall in my wintery home, the way it took a few minutes to notice that every sound had been hushed while we heated turnovers and filled the kitchen with the scent of apples and cinnamon.
Today there is a mild breeze, the fronds sway but any rustling is overpowered by traffic several blocks away. Squirrels sprint up and down the trunks and venture across the utility lines for unseen prizes. Beyond the rooftops and through the trees I see inbound jets on the landing path for the Los Angeles airport. Depending on wind direction, even flights from the west pass within our view as they turn around to make a final approach from the east.
As the sun rises and sets, frequent high-level clouds grow pink and orange, then vanish leaving the sky its clear winter blue or impenetrable shade of night. The nearby high school athletic field is well-lit for runners, walkers or any team sport in season. One film shoot at the school brought a glowing orb that hovered over the neighborhood creating night-for-day. On the Fourth of July we have fireworks outside our windows, Wednesdays bring band practice and random mornings present the drum line and what we take to be the marimba...or could it be a xylophone? In football season we learn what has been chosen as THE tune of the year...and I'm happy to report it is no longer "Eye of the Tiger."
Warmth, wildlife, commerce and music, just beyond the window. It is a good day.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Snits, feuds, huffs and sulks
This isn't a New Year's resolution. Those have never worked to my satisfaction. Quite the opposite, as they gave me something else to feel was left uncompleted. This is more of a - until I think of something else to call it - grown-up realization. How much of our lives have we wasted having hurt feelings?
With a commitment to painful self-monitoring, I have set the intention of letting go of the inadvertent (or intentional) perceived slights that we all encounter regularly. I don't want to be a baby. Feuds baffle me, snits and silences - and huffs - don't factor into my life view. Time is short. Energy is very likely finite. Our wits may be gone at any moment, and so may we. Let's say there are only two choices: harmony or disharmony. One nourishes the spirit, keeps the heart younger and healthier and the other puts stress on all our organs and systems and kicks our auto-immune response around the block. Not to say messes with our sleep and digestion.
But more importantly, choosing to live disharmoniously through small-mindedness, self-involvement, the false notion that we are somehow the center of the known universe, unmet childish needs or the simple greed of always wanting more than anyone else, creates a ripple of unhappiness that spreads among the people we know, people we care about. It takes us away from living in contentment, not so very easily found to begin with and something to be protected and treasured. Two sources in my life introduced me to the phrase "butt-hurt" within the past 12 months. I swear I'd never heard it before but look around and you'll notice that it has reached epidemic proportions. And I get to talk about this because I'm telling on myself here as one who desires to end unattractive behavior. If someone doesn't call me back, I trust they have a reason. A disparaging remark about something I feel is important is not worth a confrontation and not worth the energy it takes to mope around feeling out of sorts. We each see from our own perspective but are capable of a generosity of spirit which honors another point of view. It isn't necessary to agree; it is greatly helpful to make room for other ways of being, doing, thinking or saying.
In my first job I worked with a woman who was born in the Netherlands and who had a phrase much like our "make a mountain out of a molehill" but to my imagination, much more vivid. It was, as she said it, "To make from a fly an elephant." I wish for myself and for everyone I know that we let the small stuff go, that we let go of any need for an extra helping of attention, the creepy-feeling need to make someone else feel less-than by making our response to their...whatever...so distruptive and so big. We all get it wrong, oh, pretty much every day, say things we wish we hadn't to people we love and just trip over ourselves like in those nightmares about a junior high dance. Not everyone is going to love us, there may be some who cannot even tolerate us. We will survive it.
I may call this posting back, edit it into oblivion, find a better way of saying what I mean since I believe we all possess the desire to be understood. As universal as the feeling may be, the realization of it is illusive. Some people will undersand us somewhat, a few, perhaps, a bit more, many, not at all and what does it matter? I assume that mostly we do our best...if we had better we would have brought that to the picnic and tomorrow we just may HAVE better, but for now, this is it, for me and for you. Even though it makes me go "ewwww," it really is time to grow up. There are some things that just don't look good after about the age of 14.
With a commitment to painful self-monitoring, I have set the intention of letting go of the inadvertent (or intentional) perceived slights that we all encounter regularly. I don't want to be a baby. Feuds baffle me, snits and silences - and huffs - don't factor into my life view. Time is short. Energy is very likely finite. Our wits may be gone at any moment, and so may we. Let's say there are only two choices: harmony or disharmony. One nourishes the spirit, keeps the heart younger and healthier and the other puts stress on all our organs and systems and kicks our auto-immune response around the block. Not to say messes with our sleep and digestion.
But more importantly, choosing to live disharmoniously through small-mindedness, self-involvement, the false notion that we are somehow the center of the known universe, unmet childish needs or the simple greed of always wanting more than anyone else, creates a ripple of unhappiness that spreads among the people we know, people we care about. It takes us away from living in contentment, not so very easily found to begin with and something to be protected and treasured. Two sources in my life introduced me to the phrase "butt-hurt" within the past 12 months. I swear I'd never heard it before but look around and you'll notice that it has reached epidemic proportions. And I get to talk about this because I'm telling on myself here as one who desires to end unattractive behavior. If someone doesn't call me back, I trust they have a reason. A disparaging remark about something I feel is important is not worth a confrontation and not worth the energy it takes to mope around feeling out of sorts. We each see from our own perspective but are capable of a generosity of spirit which honors another point of view. It isn't necessary to agree; it is greatly helpful to make room for other ways of being, doing, thinking or saying.
In my first job I worked with a woman who was born in the Netherlands and who had a phrase much like our "make a mountain out of a molehill" but to my imagination, much more vivid. It was, as she said it, "To make from a fly an elephant." I wish for myself and for everyone I know that we let the small stuff go, that we let go of any need for an extra helping of attention, the creepy-feeling need to make someone else feel less-than by making our response to their...whatever...so distruptive and so big. We all get it wrong, oh, pretty much every day, say things we wish we hadn't to people we love and just trip over ourselves like in those nightmares about a junior high dance. Not everyone is going to love us, there may be some who cannot even tolerate us. We will survive it.
I may call this posting back, edit it into oblivion, find a better way of saying what I mean since I believe we all possess the desire to be understood. As universal as the feeling may be, the realization of it is illusive. Some people will undersand us somewhat, a few, perhaps, a bit more, many, not at all and what does it matter? I assume that mostly we do our best...if we had better we would have brought that to the picnic and tomorrow we just may HAVE better, but for now, this is it, for me and for you. Even though it makes me go "ewwww," it really is time to grow up. There are some things that just don't look good after about the age of 14.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
I go home for Christmas
(for my sister Laurie and all the Christmases we've shared)
On Christmas Eve I revisit other years, other places. Tonight was an authentic Kelly marathon of Charlie Brown, the Grinch and a Los Angeles interpretation of the holiday season, written and directed by Shane Black, called KISS, KISS, BANG, BANG. Robert Downey, Jr. I rest my case. You might call us semi-traditionalists.
Most often I replay scenes from my childhood, though the reveries may veer into last-minute wrapping marathons his father and I shared when our son was wearing footed pajamas.
Tonight I see my younger sister and me; we have gotten into our bunk beds, too excited to sleep even for a minute - or so we believe - and our bedroom door is closed since it opens right onto the living room, site of the tree, the fireplace, Santa and the presents. Five years separate us, which can be a vast gulf when one is 10 and the other 5, but on Christmas Eve we are just girls, filled with wonder and anticipation. Our brother's room is in another part of the house...too far for whispering. I wonder if it was a bit lonely for him, especially on those nights. I will remember to ask him.
Eventually we gave in to a light, reluctant sleep and awoke to find that our stockings had been left at the feet of our beds. Whichever of us woke first let the other one know that Santa HAD been there and in the dark, being as quiet as we could while describing every surprise we pulled out, we explored toys and sampled candy.
I think of her tonight, several thousand miles away. We have only shared one Christmas - and no Christmas Eves - in the past 20-plus years, yet under our tree sits, as her gift tag describes it, "the most beautiful purse I ever saw" and hints of the creams and potions for our aging skins which it contains. Over the decades she has unearthed objects of amazement; the jointed, handcrafted rat with the sweet potato-shaped nose and articulated tail, the flea market photo album and post card collection. This year's flowered purse reminds me of a stocking already laid at my feet and I feel how much I miss her, I miss our girl selves and even our grown sisterly exchanges in the days when Joseph Magnin existed and had its annual collection of figural gift boxes. There is a mixed sense of curiosity, longing, gratitude and loss as I look at the lovely presents she has sent, yet know that, given the chance, I might trade them all to be those young dream believers again.
May all your Christmas wishes come true while absent loved ones nestle in your hearts. And do not doubt this: the magic endures and we are part of it.
On Christmas Eve I revisit other years, other places. Tonight was an authentic Kelly marathon of Charlie Brown, the Grinch and a Los Angeles interpretation of the holiday season, written and directed by Shane Black, called KISS, KISS, BANG, BANG. Robert Downey, Jr. I rest my case. You might call us semi-traditionalists.
Most often I replay scenes from my childhood, though the reveries may veer into last-minute wrapping marathons his father and I shared when our son was wearing footed pajamas.
Tonight I see my younger sister and me; we have gotten into our bunk beds, too excited to sleep even for a minute - or so we believe - and our bedroom door is closed since it opens right onto the living room, site of the tree, the fireplace, Santa and the presents. Five years separate us, which can be a vast gulf when one is 10 and the other 5, but on Christmas Eve we are just girls, filled with wonder and anticipation. Our brother's room is in another part of the house...too far for whispering. I wonder if it was a bit lonely for him, especially on those nights. I will remember to ask him.
Eventually we gave in to a light, reluctant sleep and awoke to find that our stockings had been left at the feet of our beds. Whichever of us woke first let the other one know that Santa HAD been there and in the dark, being as quiet as we could while describing every surprise we pulled out, we explored toys and sampled candy.
I think of her tonight, several thousand miles away. We have only shared one Christmas - and no Christmas Eves - in the past 20-plus years, yet under our tree sits, as her gift tag describes it, "the most beautiful purse I ever saw" and hints of the creams and potions for our aging skins which it contains. Over the decades she has unearthed objects of amazement; the jointed, handcrafted rat with the sweet potato-shaped nose and articulated tail, the flea market photo album and post card collection. This year's flowered purse reminds me of a stocking already laid at my feet and I feel how much I miss her, I miss our girl selves and even our grown sisterly exchanges in the days when Joseph Magnin existed and had its annual collection of figural gift boxes. There is a mixed sense of curiosity, longing, gratitude and loss as I look at the lovely presents she has sent, yet know that, given the chance, I might trade them all to be those young dream believers again.
May all your Christmas wishes come true while absent loved ones nestle in your hearts. And do not doubt this: the magic endures and we are part of it.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
You are so beautiful
Have I told you lately that I love you? Have you told anyone lately that you love them? We are the instruments of blessings for one another or as my Sunday morning television companion, one-man pep rally, Pastor Joel Osteen, says, we need to speak favor over each other. To which I add we also would do well to speak favor over ourselves. Those critical, fault-finding voices which hatch inside our minds are not our friends; the words they parrot (for they had to come from somewhere) were not spoken by friends or those who could see and cherish our good, the occasional poor choice and human frailties notwithstanding.
It is from Pastor Osteen that I learned the notion of speaking favor over someone as a way to catch God's ear and enlist Divine support for all of us with aspirations - for success, for the willingness to try, for a way of seeing our lives as works-in-progress rather than failures. Which is to say everyone, each being a worthy candidate for blessing and the future promise we came here to fulfill.
In his telling of the process, Pastor Osteen extends our power to bless to all whom we encounter. The kind word, the compliment, the appreciation, taking the time to find what is splendid, pleasing, noble and magnificent - on a grand or more modest scale - lets it be known that this person IS blessed, is treasured and seen not only for who they are but who they may become.
To think that each of us has the power to shape or direct the life, or lives, of those around us is humbling and daunting. It calls for mindfulness, attention to our words and intentions; it is responsibility and gift. Will we accept this assignment, gravitas on a daily schedule, or will we disbelieve, disregard the fact that we have been called to be a messenger of empowerment and love?
Revisiting my past, there were voices that spoke only favor over me, grandparents who attended every dance recital, hired me to paint Christmas scenes on their picture windows every December, who took my child self with them most everywhere, from Veterans' picnics to beach vacations. There were other voices as well which spoke faint praise only conditionally, which raged and found fault, spoke sarcasm or no words at all. The difference between them may not actually haunt, but each cell still holds the memory of the effect.
Whose praises will you sing today, whose beaming face will fill your eyes and heart as you speak your delight at their simple existence? In addition to lessons from Pastor Osteen, I have also learned from other sources that the over-spending of time in regret and recrimination is to fall into the past, sink beneath the shame of critical voices, self-applied. Whatever we may have neglected up to this minute, whatever words we long to undo, our only real choice is to let that all go and start anew here, where we stand.
As I accept this mantle, for I know it to be true, I silently, for the moment, compose a list of names and attributes, bringers of gifts and grace, illumination and encouragement, love without requirements, humor and generosity and knowing, that have placed me here. My wish is to acknowledge that nourishment with gratitude and reciprocation while being alert for the openings where my words may make the difference. For today, may favor be our only language and love our only song.
It is from Pastor Osteen that I learned the notion of speaking favor over someone as a way to catch God's ear and enlist Divine support for all of us with aspirations - for success, for the willingness to try, for a way of seeing our lives as works-in-progress rather than failures. Which is to say everyone, each being a worthy candidate for blessing and the future promise we came here to fulfill.
In his telling of the process, Pastor Osteen extends our power to bless to all whom we encounter. The kind word, the compliment, the appreciation, taking the time to find what is splendid, pleasing, noble and magnificent - on a grand or more modest scale - lets it be known that this person IS blessed, is treasured and seen not only for who they are but who they may become.
To think that each of us has the power to shape or direct the life, or lives, of those around us is humbling and daunting. It calls for mindfulness, attention to our words and intentions; it is responsibility and gift. Will we accept this assignment, gravitas on a daily schedule, or will we disbelieve, disregard the fact that we have been called to be a messenger of empowerment and love?
Revisiting my past, there were voices that spoke only favor over me, grandparents who attended every dance recital, hired me to paint Christmas scenes on their picture windows every December, who took my child self with them most everywhere, from Veterans' picnics to beach vacations. There were other voices as well which spoke faint praise only conditionally, which raged and found fault, spoke sarcasm or no words at all. The difference between them may not actually haunt, but each cell still holds the memory of the effect.
Whose praises will you sing today, whose beaming face will fill your eyes and heart as you speak your delight at their simple existence? In addition to lessons from Pastor Osteen, I have also learned from other sources that the over-spending of time in regret and recrimination is to fall into the past, sink beneath the shame of critical voices, self-applied. Whatever we may have neglected up to this minute, whatever words we long to undo, our only real choice is to let that all go and start anew here, where we stand.
As I accept this mantle, for I know it to be true, I silently, for the moment, compose a list of names and attributes, bringers of gifts and grace, illumination and encouragement, love without requirements, humor and generosity and knowing, that have placed me here. My wish is to acknowledge that nourishment with gratitude and reciprocation while being alert for the openings where my words may make the difference. For today, may favor be our only language and love our only song.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
To teach imagination is to teach everything
(for my brother Mike on his birthday)
Even Einstein told us that imagination is more important than knowledge. How do we know where one begins, leaving the other to follow? I know as well as I know anything that without imagination we might still be cave-dwellers or fishermen terrified of the Earth's flatness. In a not very original comparison, imagination feels like flinging open the school doors and letting everyone run free, trusting they will find their place, acquire the information they need to reach their destination, realize there are no walls and no limits.
To dream BIG is an adventure. If the lands we seek are only in our minds, what of it? The realms of Tolkien or Baum or Bradbury may not exist on any maps, still they are as real to us as the corner drugstore in our hometown, much more real than what we may have had presented to us as the system's version of history - pick an era. If our brains were skyscrapers, imagination would be housed on the top floor. Not difficult to reach - there are express elevators - but easily missed because gravity or the status quo or someone's expectations or fears kept us from venturing that far from what we thought we knew. Mary Chapin Carpenter has a song called "Heroes and Heroines," in which she tells of risk-takers, people who are unfamiliar with the word impossible, and speaks of our American pioneers, choosing "...a life that's never safe and dry..." and I found those words resonated for me as epitomizing reasons why we may wish to stay uninformed, unenlightened. Imagination carries the possibility of risk and reward. Yet staying put has never been a guarantee of that safe, dry life, for I don't believe it exists. Fiction has given us examples that appear in everyday language, like falling down the rabbit hole, finding the entrance to Narnia or the road to Oz. Rod Serling's introduction to "Twilight Zone" episodes mentions imagination, in almost the same breath as he speaks of worlds "...as vast as space and as timeless as infinity."
Two of the three children in our family had imaginary friends and the third sibling lived a vicarious life through a sizable stuffed bear who had a flourishing literary career. I spent years writing dialogue in my head and wondering why, when the people around me spoke, they never used the words I'd prepared for them. Our parents followed creative paths, yet were not wildly outside any norms for their time. I no longer believe in ordinary as an inevitable state; I believe we each possess the capacity for the exceptional. One may choose ordinary but I don't think anyone who wishes to escape can really be stopped. In our minds we discover there are no limits, no walls too high, no thorn hedges too impenetrable, no world which could not exist if we gave it breath and light.
Dream huge. Stare out the window and let your thoughts run everywhere. Let the dam burst, the gargoyles take flight and twin suns rise in the morning. We are so much more than we know, unfettered, unhampered by time. We are the stories and the tellers, we are enormous, we are endless, heart-breakingly beautiful, fierce and wise. We will never be small again.
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| From the blog of Carolina Georgatou. |
To dream BIG is an adventure. If the lands we seek are only in our minds, what of it? The realms of Tolkien or Baum or Bradbury may not exist on any maps, still they are as real to us as the corner drugstore in our hometown, much more real than what we may have had presented to us as the system's version of history - pick an era. If our brains were skyscrapers, imagination would be housed on the top floor. Not difficult to reach - there are express elevators - but easily missed because gravity or the status quo or someone's expectations or fears kept us from venturing that far from what we thought we knew. Mary Chapin Carpenter has a song called "Heroes and Heroines," in which she tells of risk-takers, people who are unfamiliar with the word impossible, and speaks of our American pioneers, choosing "...a life that's never safe and dry..." and I found those words resonated for me as epitomizing reasons why we may wish to stay uninformed, unenlightened. Imagination carries the possibility of risk and reward. Yet staying put has never been a guarantee of that safe, dry life, for I don't believe it exists. Fiction has given us examples that appear in everyday language, like falling down the rabbit hole, finding the entrance to Narnia or the road to Oz. Rod Serling's introduction to "Twilight Zone" episodes mentions imagination, in almost the same breath as he speaks of worlds "...as vast as space and as timeless as infinity."
Two of the three children in our family had imaginary friends and the third sibling lived a vicarious life through a sizable stuffed bear who had a flourishing literary career. I spent years writing dialogue in my head and wondering why, when the people around me spoke, they never used the words I'd prepared for them. Our parents followed creative paths, yet were not wildly outside any norms for their time. I no longer believe in ordinary as an inevitable state; I believe we each possess the capacity for the exceptional. One may choose ordinary but I don't think anyone who wishes to escape can really be stopped. In our minds we discover there are no limits, no walls too high, no thorn hedges too impenetrable, no world which could not exist if we gave it breath and light.
Dream huge. Stare out the window and let your thoughts run everywhere. Let the dam burst, the gargoyles take flight and twin suns rise in the morning. We are so much more than we know, unfettered, unhampered by time. We are the stories and the tellers, we are enormous, we are endless, heart-breakingly beautiful, fierce and wise. We will never be small again.
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