Scolding ought to be, at the very least, a misdemeanor. What a wretched way for people to treat each other. It has not happened to me recently, although there was that borderline episode...no, that wasn't a scolding. When you've had one, there is no room for uncertainty.
Worse yet is when I feel one coming over me and remind myself fiercely that, whatever it is about, it is not my job, not my business. Are we born to berate? No, I don't think so. It has to be a behavior that springs from our own sense of lack in some fashion, lack masquerading as superiority.
It comes from, as I feel it or as I've experienced its sting, the belief that we are all walking the same path at the same pace toward the same destination. Amazing that we haven't been issued uniforms, another aid in keeping us in line and doing everything properly. The more years I add to my resume, the more I understand that each of us is unique. Never before, never again will there be one identical in every sense. The old phrase, rugged individual, just lodged in my brain. Yet that is who and what we are, a party of one in every case.
If we are fortunate, if we pay attention and have a notion of who we are, we may find others of our tribe. We will not match one another in every category but we will recognize parts of ourselves in them, even if it is through acknowledging our separateness. Whether we allow it to show or not, in our way each of us is an outsider. And therein we find the source of great discomfort within our human family. If I'm doing it right and you're doing it some other curious and questionable way, how could both styles be acceptable? She served the chips in a basket and not a bowl...get over it.
Please excuse me if I'm repeating myself, but being right is not all we've been led to think it is. As a trait of which I fervently want to rid myself, the desire, the need to be right is a form of delusion. I recognize it as next-of-kin to control, the strong-arming of another to one's mind set, the bullying of an independent spirit into admitting - gasp - a mistake. It comforts me to assume that we each do the best we can at any given moment; if we could do it differently, we would. And it also gives me peace to accept that none of us is here to play the part of (to quote Homer Simpson) prank monkey to anyone else.
Scolding is abuse. I feel remorse for any I have inflicted and can only become more conscious, more aware of how shaming and inappropriate it is. Toward those who have scolded me, I never feel quite the same. It is not about holding onto resentment; it is about not being seen or valued as myself in the glory of my wide-screen me-ness. We do not want to feel small. We wish to be comfortable in our skin and in our choices. Scolding comes from judging and that is not one of the rights we've been given, however often it is practiced.
I realize I am here to learn, not to correct, not to instruct, never to condemn. There is no doubt that I will falter in those aspirations, yet awareness of shortcomings is a step toward change. It is the mind that looks at others and sets them apart. My intention is to live by my heart's guidance, letting go of any wish to be the smartest, neatest, thriftiest, sanest, most punctual, sensitive and wonderful person in the room. We can be one-of-a-kinds together.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Simply happy or happily simple
Mobility is something of an issue for me. I spent many reclusive months last year letting the steep and plentiful stairs from my apartment to the carport intimidate me. Perhaps it was time to stay in and reflect. Could have been a passing phobia. The good news is that it did pass and I now experience excitement at the thought of going out. Of the two, I'll take that over dread every time.
Yesterday was a going-out-for-n0-reason adventure. That brings us back to definitions, for your idea of an adventure and mine may be different. Remember, I have been too long in exile so anything that is elsewhere is...enough.
If things happen for a reason and I assume they do, then being cast as the shut-in gave me a sense of fondness for things that might have escaped notice. Think of George Bailey, running from one familiar and run-down location to another, bursting with delight, reveling in his previously under-appreciated life. I think it is a phrase we get to use until it is so threadbare we need some of that duct tape to hold it together: it is a wonderful life.
Being, most of the time, familiar with where my mind has been and how it works, I know I equated the notion of a wonderful life with a perfect one. Nothing with sharp and terrifying teeth at my elbow, no fabled swords dangling above my head, everything, including me, tidy and ordered, predictable and successful in all the traditional interpretations.
How relieved I am that I wasn't holding my breath waiting for THAT wonderful life to appear, though I recall disappointment when it didn't seem to be drawing any closer. Frank Capra left us a blueprint for reconstructing happiness out of the materials at hand.
Yesterday, I woke up in Southern California, which may have earthquakes but never blizzards. I left home without having to wear anything waterproof, slid back the seldom-enjoyed sunroof and felt that I was the luckiest woman in the world. My son came along for the ride and I drove on streets I haven't seen since last summer. Condos rose from the site of the open-late coffee shop where newsmen on the night shift could find breakfast after work. The reconfigured convention center reflected the city's substantial history so much better than the previous incarnation. The once-sagging upper story of what had been my grandparents' house was standing without supporting beams. Progress, in most cases, abounded.
The owner of our town's only - and independent - drive-through coffee stand greeted us like shipwreck survivors. A mocha-to-go on any day, let alone the edge of spring, is as fine a treat as I can imagine. While my son did an errand, I sat in the noon sun, feeling cells fill with natural Vitamin D. To use a favorite old family word, I basked. From the poem, "The Owl and the Pussycat," my parents liked to quote, "...and did nothing but basking until they were saved."
A utility worker called across a quiet street and offered to buy my car on the spot. No thank you, but I took warmth from the offer. We brought home provisions from our old neighborhood for dining nostalgia. I got into bed thinking what a fine day it had been; I woke at 3:30 and could feel the blessings running through me, mind and body.
I recognize that being happy is a choice, that it is an interior process which can flourish regardless of the outside atmosphere. The amount of universal truth remaining for me to learn cannot be calculated. That I feel almost fluent in happiness is farther along than I ever dreamed I would be.
Yesterday was a going-out-for-n0-reason adventure. That brings us back to definitions, for your idea of an adventure and mine may be different. Remember, I have been too long in exile so anything that is elsewhere is...enough.
If things happen for a reason and I assume they do, then being cast as the shut-in gave me a sense of fondness for things that might have escaped notice. Think of George Bailey, running from one familiar and run-down location to another, bursting with delight, reveling in his previously under-appreciated life. I think it is a phrase we get to use until it is so threadbare we need some of that duct tape to hold it together: it is a wonderful life.
Being, most of the time, familiar with where my mind has been and how it works, I know I equated the notion of a wonderful life with a perfect one. Nothing with sharp and terrifying teeth at my elbow, no fabled swords dangling above my head, everything, including me, tidy and ordered, predictable and successful in all the traditional interpretations.
How relieved I am that I wasn't holding my breath waiting for THAT wonderful life to appear, though I recall disappointment when it didn't seem to be drawing any closer. Frank Capra left us a blueprint for reconstructing happiness out of the materials at hand.
Yesterday, I woke up in Southern California, which may have earthquakes but never blizzards. I left home without having to wear anything waterproof, slid back the seldom-enjoyed sunroof and felt that I was the luckiest woman in the world. My son came along for the ride and I drove on streets I haven't seen since last summer. Condos rose from the site of the open-late coffee shop where newsmen on the night shift could find breakfast after work. The reconfigured convention center reflected the city's substantial history so much better than the previous incarnation. The once-sagging upper story of what had been my grandparents' house was standing without supporting beams. Progress, in most cases, abounded.
The owner of our town's only - and independent - drive-through coffee stand greeted us like shipwreck survivors. A mocha-to-go on any day, let alone the edge of spring, is as fine a treat as I can imagine. While my son did an errand, I sat in the noon sun, feeling cells fill with natural Vitamin D. To use a favorite old family word, I basked. From the poem, "The Owl and the Pussycat," my parents liked to quote, "...and did nothing but basking until they were saved."
A utility worker called across a quiet street and offered to buy my car on the spot. No thank you, but I took warmth from the offer. We brought home provisions from our old neighborhood for dining nostalgia. I got into bed thinking what a fine day it had been; I woke at 3:30 and could feel the blessings running through me, mind and body.
I recognize that being happy is a choice, that it is an interior process which can flourish regardless of the outside atmosphere. The amount of universal truth remaining for me to learn cannot be calculated. That I feel almost fluent in happiness is farther along than I ever dreamed I would be.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Outside the lines
In the foothills above Pasadena, hiking trails either slope or climb quickly, delivering adventurers to nature's version of quiet - songbirds, raptors, running streams. A reverie, not quite a dream, during the night took me to a long-ago afternoon in the headland of the Arroyo Seco; it must have been spring for the water ran clear and fast from bank to bank. We crossed it on rocks as we found them for it was too deep to wade.
The picture I retrieved was of a moment when the stream paused, fallen limbs created a pool before the run-off picked up speed once more. On the grainy bottom, amid pebbles and spotty plant life, a coral-colored salamander or newt lay in the shade. It was bright and warm of hue, an element of fire that shone its small light upward through the dimness. I remember surprise at discovering the amphibian; that land spends most of the year with few options for a water-lover to dampen its skin.
Soon that memory shifted to another, yet the day had been returned to me, filling my cells with the information they absorbed, afoot for a only and hour or so with my father and brother, just out of view of neighborhoods, roads and outward signs of civilization. It did not feel random, the gift of moments from a much earlier time. Was there a message and, if so, would I be able to decode it?
As I considered the pieces, collectively or sequestered as their separate parts, I made the hasty leap to a dismissive attitude I often have regarding dreams: it was an entertainment, an amusement, just an anonymous offering my brain decided to bring forth. Yet as I also find with dreams, the awareness of journey was strong. When your senses tell you that you've gone to a place other than where you began your sleep, believe them.
Operating on the assumption that our first sincere take is the true one, I found myself thinking of hidden jewels: the half-dream, the salamander on that day, all the clips from all the years that hold blessings unacknowledged. I had asked for inspiration and illumination yesterday and here was a story, breathed in my direction like a dandelion wish. A barrier had fallen, a path had been cleared. Having lived more of my life than not with a mind that selectively offered grim and discouraging thoughts or images, what a reversal of fortune to be shown the peaceful and lovely.
I will pay attention today to the ghosts that stop by, willing myself to embrace scenes from the shadowbox past. I will welcome the unexplained and know it is here for a reason. The gleam on the creek bed may be fool's gold, yet if what matters is the glow it casts and not its worth at the assay office, I'd say the effort has been rewarded.
The picture I retrieved was of a moment when the stream paused, fallen limbs created a pool before the run-off picked up speed once more. On the grainy bottom, amid pebbles and spotty plant life, a coral-colored salamander or newt lay in the shade. It was bright and warm of hue, an element of fire that shone its small light upward through the dimness. I remember surprise at discovering the amphibian; that land spends most of the year with few options for a water-lover to dampen its skin.
Soon that memory shifted to another, yet the day had been returned to me, filling my cells with the information they absorbed, afoot for a only and hour or so with my father and brother, just out of view of neighborhoods, roads and outward signs of civilization. It did not feel random, the gift of moments from a much earlier time. Was there a message and, if so, would I be able to decode it?
As I considered the pieces, collectively or sequestered as their separate parts, I made the hasty leap to a dismissive attitude I often have regarding dreams: it was an entertainment, an amusement, just an anonymous offering my brain decided to bring forth. Yet as I also find with dreams, the awareness of journey was strong. When your senses tell you that you've gone to a place other than where you began your sleep, believe them.
Operating on the assumption that our first sincere take is the true one, I found myself thinking of hidden jewels: the half-dream, the salamander on that day, all the clips from all the years that hold blessings unacknowledged. I had asked for inspiration and illumination yesterday and here was a story, breathed in my direction like a dandelion wish. A barrier had fallen, a path had been cleared. Having lived more of my life than not with a mind that selectively offered grim and discouraging thoughts or images, what a reversal of fortune to be shown the peaceful and lovely.
I will pay attention today to the ghosts that stop by, willing myself to embrace scenes from the shadowbox past. I will welcome the unexplained and know it is here for a reason. The gleam on the creek bed may be fool's gold, yet if what matters is the glow it casts and not its worth at the assay office, I'd say the effort has been rewarded.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Is this really about boxes?
The number of monophasics who dwell among us may be shockingly underestimated. I am one, a creature who - before the grating "multi-tasking" insinuated itself into the vocabulary - could do it all, or at least most of it. Family, paying job, volunteer work, study, social life, creativity - previously I could think several thoughts simultaneously. No longer. I cannot actively listen to anything and write at the same time. And when writing started calling to me, insistently and often, around the end of last year, I chose to pay attention.
As a result, chores remain undone and one of the chores is dealing with all the boxes that have come indoors since before Christmas.
Our apartment building has one dumpster, emptied three times a week, serving 22 units which have a tenant turnover that is not frequent but results in a lot of discards. It is wise to throw things away as soon as the empty bin is returned from the street. ( I will mention that the trash area is down two flights of stairs, through half the carport and around a corner, in case that helps explain why things weren't dealt with as soon as they arrived.) So we have reasoned over the years that flattening cardboard cartons is the neighborly thing to do; empty boxes needlessly usurp valuable disposal space. Which brings us to this rainy Saturday, a fresh roll of duct tape and lots of brown, corrugated cardboard.
I have found that in any box assortment I will be able to salvage sides that lend themselves to artwork. So the first step is deconstruction. After removing the choicer cuts, what remains is folded and flattened and restrained into as small a depth as possible, hence the duct tape. You might think the hunt for usable art material would encourage addressing this business in what they call a timely fashion. In most other people that would probably be true. What I did not reveal was that, in addition to being able to do only one thing at a time, I also tend to procrastinate. When they hold the Frittering Olympics, I hope my mind and calendar will be clear.
So collapsing and compacting boxes is what awaits me today, yet here I am writing. There is no thunder at the moment - carpe diem - and I wanted to see what I could accomplish before it returns. An electrical storm is no danger in box compressing, as it can be in using a computer, or so I rationalize. The door to the studio is blocked by these interlopers for which we have no space. I can barely reach the copier without shifting the discards, then putting them back when I'm done. What they say is true: we can be our own worst enemies.
In a world of tsunamis, famine, war, disease and, at minimum, hundreds of thousands of things that matter, could I have chosen a more trivial topic? Yes. This really isn't about the boxes; it is about how we give our energy and intention to what matters most, or we do if we want to move forward along what I can only call our path. There will always be tasks that need doing and they will be addressed. But when intuition or a higher wisdom speaks in nearly audible tones, we ignore that direction at our peril. By doing just one thing at a time, I take just one step at a time, never knowing where it will lead. I believe we each have a destiny, we are parts of a greater plan, and when we are fortunate enough to have even a shard of information about what our place in it may be, I know what action I will choose.
As a result, chores remain undone and one of the chores is dealing with all the boxes that have come indoors since before Christmas.
Our apartment building has one dumpster, emptied three times a week, serving 22 units which have a tenant turnover that is not frequent but results in a lot of discards. It is wise to throw things away as soon as the empty bin is returned from the street. ( I will mention that the trash area is down two flights of stairs, through half the carport and around a corner, in case that helps explain why things weren't dealt with as soon as they arrived.) So we have reasoned over the years that flattening cardboard cartons is the neighborly thing to do; empty boxes needlessly usurp valuable disposal space. Which brings us to this rainy Saturday, a fresh roll of duct tape and lots of brown, corrugated cardboard.
I have found that in any box assortment I will be able to salvage sides that lend themselves to artwork. So the first step is deconstruction. After removing the choicer cuts, what remains is folded and flattened and restrained into as small a depth as possible, hence the duct tape. You might think the hunt for usable art material would encourage addressing this business in what they call a timely fashion. In most other people that would probably be true. What I did not reveal was that, in addition to being able to do only one thing at a time, I also tend to procrastinate. When they hold the Frittering Olympics, I hope my mind and calendar will be clear.
So collapsing and compacting boxes is what awaits me today, yet here I am writing. There is no thunder at the moment - carpe diem - and I wanted to see what I could accomplish before it returns. An electrical storm is no danger in box compressing, as it can be in using a computer, or so I rationalize. The door to the studio is blocked by these interlopers for which we have no space. I can barely reach the copier without shifting the discards, then putting them back when I'm done. What they say is true: we can be our own worst enemies.
In a world of tsunamis, famine, war, disease and, at minimum, hundreds of thousands of things that matter, could I have chosen a more trivial topic? Yes. This really isn't about the boxes; it is about how we give our energy and intention to what matters most, or we do if we want to move forward along what I can only call our path. There will always be tasks that need doing and they will be addressed. But when intuition or a higher wisdom speaks in nearly audible tones, we ignore that direction at our peril. By doing just one thing at a time, I take just one step at a time, never knowing where it will lead. I believe we each have a destiny, we are parts of a greater plan, and when we are fortunate enough to have even a shard of information about what our place in it may be, I know what action I will choose.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
TONIGHT WE RIDE
During our pre-school years my cousin Sharon and I each lived for periods of time with our grandparents. Their home was a sun-filled, stucco California airplane bungalow with a wide wrap-around porch, deep lot, hydrangeas, dining room with built-in everything including a drop-front desk, a Gingham Dog and Calico Cat cream-and-sugar set in the breakfast room, monitor-top refrigerator and an basement where the washing machine was kept.
It had been at least 20 years since Sharon and I had seen each other or been in touch at all when we met again at a small family reunion our Aunt Nancy held to celebrate a visit from her last sibling, Mary Ellen. Sharon and I began to e-mail each other and discovered we shared a sense of humor, political leaning and life-long adoration of our grandparents.
Factual history and folklore combined in the roots of our grandparents' stories. Gertrude, our grandmother, was from Boston, from a lineage that reached back to the revolution. We grew up hearing that her mother had donated all the heirlooms in her possession to a museum in Massachusetts in exchange for having a portion of the building named for her. Charles, or Charlie, was our grandfather and we knew he had been a hero in World War I and two different scenarios explained his extreme sensitivity to the sun. The first was that it resulted from being mustard gassed in France (which did leave him with tuberculosis for which he was treated throughout his life). The second, the popularly-held explanation, was that he had been severely sunburned (he was Finnish, very fair-skinned to start with) when riding with General Pershing in pursuit of Pancho Villa. The two had met on a troop ship to the front in Europe, our grandmother a recent graduate of nursing school in Boston. Both stayed active as members of the American Legion throughout their lives and are buried in a San Diego veterans' cemetery, a choice piece of ocean-view real estate they would have enjoyed.
One night five or six years ago, I woke up having fallen asleep with the tv on. Letterman was on, his last - musical - guest having just started his song. I came in on the words "Pancho Villa," then "Black Jack Pershing" and I thought, "Grandpa." Having, at that time, the ability to record and replay, when the song ended I took it back to the beginning. Yes, that was Paul on the accordion and yes, Tom Russell's song was a tale from our genetic history. It was also, in my later interpretation, a sort of Cormac McCarthy novel set to music.
I did not call Sharon in the middle of the night, shrieking the names of Villa and Pershing and our grandfather. I waited until the next morning. She had recorded the show and could play back the song and we squealed and laughed together in recognition. We learned that Tom Russell would be appearing soon in concert in my area and she treated us to tickets. The night of the performance, as he autographed CDs during intermission, Mr. Russell was very polite as we "oh my Godded" our family tale, how his music, something which appeals to me in its own right, told a piece of our collective story. During the intervening years, Sharon had a chance to play the song for our aunt and one of her daughters. As they drove to Solvang, she started the CD and there was Grandpa, unnamed rider in a musical adventure. I imagine the volume up, maybe the windows open. It IS that kind of song, whether one of your relatives was among the horsemen or not.
Sharon resides in my mind and heart today having just come through a setback in her cancer treatment, from which I believe she will rally. Nancy has been gone for several years, Grandma and Grandpa for decades. Bless Tom Russell, a fine singer/musician/songwriter and his lively, serendipitous performance for the delight he has given all in the family who have heard him, for keeping our legends alive. We come from remarkable bravery, Sharon and I, resilience is our legacy. We have rides that await us. I'll keep the horses watered until then.
It had been at least 20 years since Sharon and I had seen each other or been in touch at all when we met again at a small family reunion our Aunt Nancy held to celebrate a visit from her last sibling, Mary Ellen. Sharon and I began to e-mail each other and discovered we shared a sense of humor, political leaning and life-long adoration of our grandparents.
Factual history and folklore combined in the roots of our grandparents' stories. Gertrude, our grandmother, was from Boston, from a lineage that reached back to the revolution. We grew up hearing that her mother had donated all the heirlooms in her possession to a museum in Massachusetts in exchange for having a portion of the building named for her. Charles, or Charlie, was our grandfather and we knew he had been a hero in World War I and two different scenarios explained his extreme sensitivity to the sun. The first was that it resulted from being mustard gassed in France (which did leave him with tuberculosis for which he was treated throughout his life). The second, the popularly-held explanation, was that he had been severely sunburned (he was Finnish, very fair-skinned to start with) when riding with General Pershing in pursuit of Pancho Villa. The two had met on a troop ship to the front in Europe, our grandmother a recent graduate of nursing school in Boston. Both stayed active as members of the American Legion throughout their lives and are buried in a San Diego veterans' cemetery, a choice piece of ocean-view real estate they would have enjoyed.
One night five or six years ago, I woke up having fallen asleep with the tv on. Letterman was on, his last - musical - guest having just started his song. I came in on the words "Pancho Villa," then "Black Jack Pershing" and I thought, "Grandpa." Having, at that time, the ability to record and replay, when the song ended I took it back to the beginning. Yes, that was Paul on the accordion and yes, Tom Russell's song was a tale from our genetic history. It was also, in my later interpretation, a sort of Cormac McCarthy novel set to music.
I did not call Sharon in the middle of the night, shrieking the names of Villa and Pershing and our grandfather. I waited until the next morning. She had recorded the show and could play back the song and we squealed and laughed together in recognition. We learned that Tom Russell would be appearing soon in concert in my area and she treated us to tickets. The night of the performance, as he autographed CDs during intermission, Mr. Russell was very polite as we "oh my Godded" our family tale, how his music, something which appeals to me in its own right, told a piece of our collective story. During the intervening years, Sharon had a chance to play the song for our aunt and one of her daughters. As they drove to Solvang, she started the CD and there was Grandpa, unnamed rider in a musical adventure. I imagine the volume up, maybe the windows open. It IS that kind of song, whether one of your relatives was among the horsemen or not.
Sharon resides in my mind and heart today having just come through a setback in her cancer treatment, from which I believe she will rally. Nancy has been gone for several years, Grandma and Grandpa for decades. Bless Tom Russell, a fine singer/musician/songwriter and his lively, serendipitous performance for the delight he has given all in the family who have heard him, for keeping our legends alive. We come from remarkable bravery, Sharon and I, resilience is our legacy. We have rides that await us. I'll keep the horses watered until then.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Let the sun shine
Sunny Monday. Additional mail art sent to the Postmarked 2010 exhibit and auction. Thanks for the comments about finally posting an image. Think about old dogs and new tricks.For friends in Cleveland - and points east - my wish for electricity that stays on, the warmth of sunshine on your face and a glorious, early spring.
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