Quotidian Musings

The way things are

2011-11-27T05:41:00.002-08:00

I'm up early this morning. Contemplating the way things are. Because that's what you do when it is the wee hours of the morning. And you're sick. And you have no health insurance.

The first thoughts that come to you are those of dread. Why the heck is my throat hurting so much? Is it strep? If it's strep, what am I going to do about it? I'd have to do something about it obviously. Remembering the time when I didn't do anything about it and ended up with pneumonia. Didn't have insurance then either.

This is followed by the denial phase. Of course, it isn't strep. It's just a sore throat. The aspirin makes it hurt less, so it MUST not be strep. Right? Sure, the fever got rather high yesterday, but aspirin took the edge off of that, too. It's not serious. Really, it's not.

Quickly, the dread creeps back in. But the pain woke you up, you idiot. Swallowing isn't supposed to wake you up. At this point, you must throw all your energy into heading off total panic. It'll be better in a little bit. That's right. Somehow the magic of sunrise will make it better. Everything is better in the light of day. Sure. That's it.

Then comes the balancing of fears. Which is worse? Strep throat? Going to the doctor and risking adding even one more penny to the balance sheet? At what point does the balance tip too far to recover from?

Then comes the time for counting your blessings. I'm luckier than so many. I shouldn't complain. Others have it much, much worse than I do. I have a roof over my head. Food to eat. Clothes to wear. And, dammit, a very sore throat! What am I going to do?

What am I going to do?

Then the fatalism sets in. If it continues, I'll just have to go to the doctor anyway. Risk the bill. Try to avoid a bigger bill. Nothing to be done about it. It's probably not strep anyway, right?

And I think about how 50 million of us, in a population of 311 million or so, have to go through this type of small hours calculus, or, for the small ones, have parents that must do it for us. And I wonder why, in a country that is so rich, this is acceptable? But, on some level, it is totally acceptable or we would not have one sixth of our people without health care. We wouldn't have politicians who suggest those without the basics of life are somehow just too lazy, that no circumstances could have led to this otherwise. We wouldn't have a population so fearful of their own vulnerability that they feel the need to lash out or ignore the have-nots for fear that one day they might join their ranks.

Then thoughts come full circle. There's a very good chance that it's not strep. If it continues for a couple more days, I'll figure out someway to pay the doctor and, if need be, the pharmacy. And I'll deal with whatever I have to deal with. Because that's the way things are.

Father's Day

2011-06-20T07:06:00.006-07:00

Father’s Day is not a holiday that has had much of a place in my life. My parents divorced just before my 5^th birthday and my father, quite literally, disappeared from my life for five years. We had some vague notion that he’d moved to California, but birthdays and Christmases came and went with no word. And no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care and it didn’t hurt, I never quite succeeded. I learned early that you can miss what you never had.

When my father reappeared, I felt suspicious and frightened. Totally unable to fall into a family relationship with someone I had no memory of. Despite acrimonious court dealings, I probably saw my father no more than half a dozen times before I was 17.

I survived, but it could get tough. As a young child, no other kids in my elementary school had divorced parents. This led the other children to taunt me, as if I had driven my father away all by my little self. This did not do a thing to lessen the usual child’s guilt in such cases. If only, I’d been a better little girl! Preposterous from this angle, but very real at age 5, 6, and 7.

After I became a mother, my father and I made some attempts to get to know each other. But distance and his early death ultimately made that impossible. And when he died, I mourned what I could never have more than what I had lost.

I’ve often wondered how I might have been different if I had had some sort of consistent father figure in my life. Someone to look up to, or resent, or both in turn. As it happened, there is nothing there to lean on or push against and it remains a big question mark. I’ve looked on, with both envy and relief as I witnessed my friends’ relationships with their fathers, and wistfully wondered what that would be like.

Happily, I’ve had a glimpse in the past two years. My fella came fully equipped with one regulation-sized father whom I am privileged to call Pop. It’s a new experience having someone to call by that name. I don’t expect Pop will be helping me with any skinned knees, flat bicycle tires or teenage angst, at least I hope not. But he has certainly welcomed me into the family. And, for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m able to pull back the curtain a little bit and take a peek, up close, at what a father is like. And while I’ll never have what I never had, it makes me smile to see it was real for someone else.

More Words

2011-03-06T11:49:00.005-08:00

Shortly after my mind started spinning at the manipulation of Twain’s words, a tragedy unfolded in Tucson, Arizona in which 19 people were shot with 6 killed by a deranged young man. Almost immediately mud started being flung from both ends of the political spectrum blaming the other for their inflammatory language causing the incident.

It started a discussion about the lack of civil discourse in this country, particularly in the political arena. Clearly, it is not reasonable to point the finger at anyone other than the perpetrator as being responsible for what happened. However, all the accusations flying back and forth tended to reinforce the point that our civil discourse has become ugly. It doesn’t seem that we have the option of agreeing to respectfully disagree any longer. It must escalate to an angry tone with name-calling. We can’t just believe that there are different ways of thinking about how to solve problems or even what we identify as problems. Those that we disagree with must be evil, stupid and/or unpatriotic and probably all three.

Naturally, the initial calls for civility have quickly disappeared and the nasty rhetoric is back in full swing just two months after the shootings. What is to be done? With a 24-hour news cycle broadcasting the worst of the worst in inflammatory speech, how do we avoid its influence and throw water on the flames? How do we maintain righteous indignation in the face of wrong while refraining from contributing to the uncivil discourse that is seemingly everywhere?

I’ll admit I started bristling when I was first called unpatriotic for having a different political opinion than some others. And after hearing it several dozen times, well, we won’t get into my unladylike response just now. How to defuse such things? How to opt out while maintaining one’s own integrity and remaining engaged? Clearly the media is not going to tone things down. And neither are the politicians. So that leaves the rest of us.

Perhaps a first step could be to reduce or eliminate adjectives when discussing someone with whom we disagree. No longer is that politician/commentator that stupid, lying, evil SOB. He or she is Job-title What’s-his-name and he or she did not tell the truth about X. Maybe it is time to act like Sgt. Friday on Dragnet and use “just the facts.” Naturally, there are people who don’t care what the facts are because they know better and their agenda requires that they not acknowledge any pesky little things like facts. In which case, why bother to talk to them about it any way?

Secondly, we can recognize and acknowledge that most folks on both sides of the political chasm believe that they have the best intentions to work out the best solution to a problem and they are not attempting to do evil things. Whether or not their beliefs are justified is another matter, but we need to stop assuming that the other side is acting from nefarious motives. The person who cuts your hair is not evil just because they prefer a socialist dogcatcher to one from the Bull Moose Party. I have absolutely no doubt that there are some folks that are acting from bad motives, but they are not likely to be among the people you run into on a daily basis.

You may have noticed that these two suggestions are aimed purely at how we perceive someone with whom we disagree and how we respond to them. But isn’t that truly all we can do about the situation? Resolve to not be part of the problem? Maybe, if enough people refused to play along with the status quo, it would spread like a cold until enough people caught it to ignite a spark of civility across our sadly polarized society. At the very least, it could make us, as individuals, feel calmer in our daily lives. And who knows where that might lead?

As I said earlier, words are powerful things. We should be careful how we wield them.

Words

2011-03-06T07:43:00.007-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about words recently. It started when I heard an interview on the radio with Dr. Alan Gribben, who has edited a bowdlerized version of the novels The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. (Published by New South Books) His stated purpose was to make the books more accessible to younger readers by removing every instance of the word "nigger" from the books and replacing it with the word "slave". His stated purpose is to remove barriers because the word makes younger readers uncomfortable and thus puts a barrier between them and Mark Twain's work. He also stated that teachers were reluctant to use the books in class because it contains that word. Once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I started thinking about his argument and found the whole notion of his changes objectionable.

Huckleberry Finn came under fire almost immediately. Published in 1864, by 1865 it was banned because it was "coarse". Who knows what was meant precisely, but the primary objection of the Brooklyn library in 1902 was concerned that Huck both itched and scratched and that the word "sweat" had been used rather than perspiration. Now, of course, the objections are focused on language, which reflect the cultural norms of a particular place and time in history.

In Dr. Gribben's concern for teachers being unwilling to use the book, I believe he shortchanges the profession. I'm certain that any good teacher would begin the study of the book by explaining the book's historical context. They would tell their students that the word was in the book and why Twain used it. They would talk about Mark Twain's childhood, growing up in a slave state and his witnessing of a brutal murder of a slave by a slave owner. They would talk about Twain's position on slavery and his use of sarcasm and irony. They would go on to point out that the character Jim, who is saddled with the unsavory adjective, is the most admirable character in the book. They would point out that Jim frees Huck from his ingrained prejudices and becomes free himself. So, I don't think Dr. Gribben's concerns for the teachers were justified.

Moving on to his concerns for students, particularly African American students, being uncomfortable with the word. Hopefully, their teachers would have taught them about the book before actually reading it. They would know about historical context, how the ugly bigotry and the nasty words related to it are no longer acceptable and why. They would have had discussions about ethnic/racial and all other sorts of prejudice. They would have been given ideas to look for within the characters of the book; the education and evolution of Huck, the ignorance of his father, Jim's essential dignity. Then they would begin their reading. And then, I hope that the word would still make them uncomfortable, no matter what the student's ethnicity, because it is a filthy, hateful word used by hateful people. It should make everyone uncomfortable. And if the students are too young to grasp all of that information, then they are too young to be assigned the book.

Perhaps because I am from Missouri and feel a bit proprietary about Mr. Twain or perhaps because I write a bit myself, the question is is Dr. Gribben's version of Huckleberry Finn still Mark Twain's work once he has tinkered with the objectionable adjectives? At the very least, it is something less than the original. It takes on the weight of a Cliff Notes version, a graphic novel or a condensed edition and, thus more than just a word has been lost in translation. It is not Mark Twain's book any longer. (And I swear that I can hear him cursing in the distance.) It is not just that the words Twain chose have been fiddled with, but also the tone he intended to set has been altered along with them. The people who call Jim by that word do so out of either ignorance, in Huck's case, or hatefulness and that is clearly shown in the book.

Words are powerful things and no childhood rhyme about sticks and stones can negate that. And Twain's use of the word is powerful enough that we discuss it, debate it and are made uncomfortable by it 101 years after his death. He knew what he was doing.

Resolutions and Procrastination

2011-01-02T12:37:00.005-08:00

I've been thinking about firing up the old blog again for months and kept putting it off. Why? I don't think I can answer that. I think part of the problem was the longer I left it dormant the more profound I felt the next posting should be. WARNING: This blog post is NOT going to be profound. There, now that that's out of the way, we can continue.

I'd also been thinking about New Year's Resolutions, as one does at this time of year. The more grandiose the better, right? But as I mentally listed the various steps that I could take to improve various aspects of my life, I was left with the absolute certainty that none of them would last past January 18th, if that long.

So, what to do with all these rambling thoughts? Is there a value in resolutions? They say that most people's resolutions rarely make it past February. So, why make them? For me, they seem to have value in that they let us articulate, if only to ourselves, what our highest aspirations are for ourselves. They let us visualize a better us and offer the opportunity to take some steps toward that better self. Sure, many times we don't succeed to the level we envision to begin with. But that's really not the point. Any notion that "perfection" is actually attainable is doomed to failure. However, the awareness of goals and incremental steps in their direction offers us a focus and motivation to move forward in our lives rather let them idle indefinitely.

The trick is to make resolutions realistic and not restricted. If I say that I will lose 46.5 pounds and then only lose 35 have I really failed? Sure I didn't hit a magic number, but I made measurable progress towards an overall goal. Once the sense of failure is allowed to settle in, it is far too easy to give up entirely and slide back into behavior or thinking that we have admitted to ourselves is not in our best interests.

So I propose a more realistic model. Choose an area of life that you'd like to see an improvement in and then resolve to improving it in some realistic way. Small bites, in small time periods; rather than grand gestures over long periods of time, would seem to have more chance of some sort of success.

Given that I haven't written here since last February, you might have guessed that my major bug-a-boo is procrastination. Surprised? I could get the gold on the Olympic procrastination team, if such a thing existed. This is only made worse by the fact that I am very good at working under pressure. If a task doesn't have any other challenge associated with it, then I add one by putting it off as long as possible. It certainly gets the adrenaline going, heart racing, etc. However, I'm finding that I'd much rather approach things in a more peaceful manner. Goodness knows that life hands us enough adrenaline inducing events without adding to it.

So my resolution for 2011 is to reduce my chronic procrastination. Notice I don't say eliminate, just reduce by some amount. I've been at it since I was in high school; I have no illusion that I can quit cold turkey. I will attempt to do assignments as they come in, rather than just before they're due. I will attempt to do the laundry before I'm totally out of clean clothes. I will respond in a timely manner to all communication. And I will blog in something approaching a regular manner.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Bemused

2010-02-08T19:09:00.004-08:00

Tomorrow, the 9th, I begin my second half century of life. It's a weird age to think about in the abstract. Folks tend to make a big kerfluffle about birthdays that end in zero, which seems a bit arbitrary to me. In reality a person is only one day older than the day before, but, in our youth-loving culture, the higher the number of birthdays, the closer we come to being seen as irrelevant by society.

Most of my birthdays ending in zero have been non-events. Twenty is lost in a haze of unhappiness and misdirection. Thirty was headed toward being not much of anything until it turned into thirty-and-haven't-finished-college, which made it a bit of a bummer. Forty wasn't much at the time either, but, in hindsight, I can see it as the beginning of my Great Awakening in which my life began turning into a more fulfilling direction.

And now it is fifty. I come to the number with neither excitement nor dread. In fact, the number has no particular meaning to me by itself. I don't know what fifty is supposed to feel like and doubt that I ever will. The only dread attached to the number fifty is the baggage that other people will attempt to attach to it and me. Of course, there is good-natured teasing about getting "old", which isn't a problem. The problems come when others assume you can't do things, like jobs, because of it. The gradual invisibility which descends on "women of a certain age." The dismissals that occur from others based on nothing but a birth-date. These are the things I am not looking forward to and plan to reject as much as possible.

It's mind-boggling how we collectively approach age. "Really? You look so much younger than that!" No matter what that is. "You're so young for your age." Whatever that might mean. And we're expected to take it as some sort of compliment. As though there is something wrong with the age that we truly are. As though they are surprised that we haven't fallen apart yet. And then there is the very real possibility of age discrimination in the work place, which is the only true downside to the number attached to our birthdays.

So, how do I approach this phenomenon? First and foremost, I refuse to let anyone categorize me as "old." Any young whippersnapper who tries to pigeonhole me is going to be sat down for a few home truths. As far as the world of work goes, I plan to omit any and all references or hints to how many birthdays I've celebrated. And, since I'm frequently told that I "don't look my age," I plan to take out stock in L'Oreal and keep those gray hairs that I've been collecting for the past quarter century well hidden.

Given that I have no idea what fifty is supposed to look or feel like, I plan to continue on in a way that suits me. And that includes becoming a bit more outrageous. Anyone who has a problem with that will be politely invited to go suck an egg.

I don't feel any different inside that I did when I was thirty-five. So I may just remain thirty-five. Okay, maybe thirty-six. Tomorrow will be the fifteenth anniversary of my thirty-sixth birthday. Given that I am blessed (or cursed) with long-lived genes, I could very well end up celebrating the fifty-fifth anniversary of my thirty-sixth birthday. And I intend to go forward as I have these past few years, grabbing all the gusto I can and having as many new experiences as possible.

"We are always the same age inside." -- Gertrude Stein.

Chasing 20 minutes

2010-02-04T14:38:00.004-08:00

I was talking with a friend a couple of weeks ago and I discovered how much internet dating and job hunting have in common. Having enjoyed(?) both endeavors, it all boils down to packaging oneself in such a way that someone reading your profile or resume will want to meet you to delve into the possibilities further. And, more likely than not, you will miss the secret words and be dismissed out of hand.

In an internet dating profile, you have one paragraph to interest the other person enough for them to even read further. Of course, if your photo doesn't fit their ideal of the 'perfect' person, then you won't even get them as far as the first paragraph in most cases. If you can get them to paragraph two, you have to pack as much information about yourself as possible into as few words as possible for them to even consider sending you a short message. Then, always mindful of the secret words that you don't know, you may write back and forth for a bit until one or the other actually suggests a cup of coffee. Then you are off for your nerve-wracking interview. It is very hard not to feel piles of rejection, even if you aren't particularly interested in the person.

I tried to remain fairly open minded in looking at profiles. Height, occupation, visuals were not show stoppers for me. I did eliminate people whose profiles indicated wildly different outlooks than mine, but I avoided only looking at the tall, dark and handsome sorts in favor of good and interesting men.

I was amazed at what sort of men cropped up and how quickly they made decisions without knowing anything about me. I'm no spring chicken, but I don't scare small children or animals either. And I clean up pretty good. One of the worst ones was a garbage collector who wanted to meet for dinner. As he walked up, I noticed he had immediately decided against spending any time getting to know me. This was confirmed when he said, "why don't we just go across the street and have coffee?" Rejection. And from a garbage man? That one hurt, even though I wasn't all that interested yet. I always figured it would take some time to get to know someone before you could be interested. Silly me. There were several who I rejected out of hand because either they began touching WAY too early, like the first 15 minutes, or their first topic of conversation was sex. Not that I'm not a fan of both things, but not with just anybody and certainly not less than 30 minutes into it.

Out of all the men I met through on-line dating, only one engaged me in conversation from the very beginning and truly wanted to get to know me as much as I wanted to get to know him. Needless to say, he is the one I am with for the long haul.

Job hunting is pretty much the same. You have one or two pages to put down all the right words on your resume so that you may be deemed worthy of an interview for a job. Of course, in all likelihood, the person who is looking at your resume is working in the human resources department, knows very little about the actual job and is scanning for 'secret words'. If the magical words aren't there, it doesn't matter how capable you are, the hiring manager will never see your resume and you won't be seriously considered for the job.

I've applied for jobs whose description did all but say "and your name must be Natalie"; I was so clearly qualified for the position. But I apparently either didn't use the right magic words or they had only posted the job because they had to, having already decided who they wanted to hire. And, in most cases these days, you never hear anything at all from the company. They don't even send out 'drop dead' letters any more.

In both dating and job hunting, your friends and family will try to lessen the rejection with platitudes. "The right job (or man) is just waiting for you." "Clearly it wasn't where you are supposed to be." "He was obviously the wrong one." "There are more fish in the sea." True, as far as they go, but not comforting. What if it (or he) isn't just waiting? What if there isn't any place where you are supposed to be? Sure are more fish in the sea, but clearly my angling skills are not up to snuff. And, after too, too many rejections, the temptation to give up is high.

It all boils down to trying to package yourself so that someone will find you worthy of 20 minutes of their time. And I wonder, how did we allow ourselves to reduced to anonymous words on either a screen or resume? And why are people willing to make snap judgments about just about everything based on so very little?

Half of a century in, it feels as though people have become more distant from each other. I don't know if that is truly the case or if it is a regional difference between where I grew up and where I have lived most of my adult life. As a kid, I knew all the neighbors for several blocks around, at least on a nodding basis. Now, I don't even know all the people in my 13 apartment building. It was even worse when I lived in California. There it took the 1989 earthquake to even get a conversation going with the folks across the hall.

It also seems as though things have sped up considerably over the years. And that fact alone has to meddle with interpersonal connections. I swear nothing makes me want to scream more than "time is money." As if money is the most important thing in the world. I've certainly met people for whom it is, but I don't think that's most of us. And if I am correct, why are most of us allowing that hurry up, abbreviated mind set to dominate how we must deal with things and people? It might be extremely difficult to go against the flow, but if enough of us tried might we not turn the tide? What might happen if we give the person more than the 20 minutes they are desperately chasing? What if we gave them 30? We'd learn more. We'd be showing more respect. And we might just slow everything down to a more human speed. Could be it would be worth it to try.

Simple connection

2009-10-27T14:09:00.005-07:00

Yesterday, I woke up with one of those migraines that make me long for the days when sucking my thumb and whimpering were an acceptable way of coping with things. Thus, I expected a day filled with a whole lot of nothing much. Once the pain killers began to take the edge off, I made myself an industrial strength, super-sized cup of tea, watched a few geese migrating and looked at some internet links that friends had sent me. Two different people had sent me a link to the same blog post. (here) I cried as I read the story and mulled over its meaning.

It is a simple story of a woman reaching out in a simple way to a total stranger. World peace is not achieved. Cancer is not cured. Nothing that the world views as grand is accomplished. And yet, something extraordinary does happen. And perhaps the tears were brought on by the very fact that it is extraordinary. Or at least much more extraordinary than it should be. I talked about it with a few folks who had read it as well. There were different reactions, as one would expect. These reactions, of course, made me consider it further.

One person was concerned about the impact her action could have had on her small children. Granted, we do tell our kids not to talk to strangers, especially strangers on the street, with very good reason. And every parent is rightly protective of them in that way. But the person seemed to miss the other side of it. What impact, indeed, might it have on her children to see their mother showing compassion to another human being on a regular basis. A very positive one, I imagine. It very well could inform how they come to view and treat others in their lives. The mother showed respect toward a stranger and, from her own need, shared what she could. Not a bad model to be putting forth.

A couple of others expressed concern as to whether or not the recipient was either really in need or was responsible for their own situation and thus, perhaps, not deserving of her compassion. This is a position that I understand. In our city, we've enacted laws about "aggressive pan-handling" because of certain people harassing others on the streets downtown. It became a big enough problem that the city government had to take steps. And, granted, we do have a number of groups of homeless kids constantly trying to beg money for coffee and puppy chow. It is no wonder that folks become tired of it. But, for me, there is another side to it. What do we do to ourselves, if we do not see and respond (in someway) to those who are around us? When we cease to recognize them as one of our own? I think we damage a part of ourselves. That part that was so alive on the kindergarten playground when another child was hurt. That cries over news stories from the other side of the world. That cannot bear the thought of a mother's loss of her child, no matter who she or her child might be. It's a part of our humanity that gets buried a bit each time we turn away from part of humanity.

And I believe that this goes far beyond street people and their obvious problems. It extends to everyone else around us with their not so obvious situations. Perhaps it is the fault of societal problems. Perhaps it is our myth of self-sufficiency. Perhaps it is nothing more than fear for our own security. Whatever it is, almost all of us pull our hearts in and shut them off from various people and situations. We believe that we cannot or should not cope with any problems other than our own. I fail miserably at it myself, but I do have two reasons why we should try to move beyond this belief.

First of all, whatever or whoever is before us is, by definition, a part of our life. We may not have invited them. We may not have asked for the event or situation or person to present themselves, but there they are awaiting a response. Certainly, our response can be to turn away. Sometimes that is possible. We can ignore the beggar, the sick, the criminal, the inconvenient, generally without overt repercussions. They (or someone just like them) will continue to be there, whether we ignore them or not. We can't fix all the problems of the world. Very true. But might we not also be able to address the small problem of this minute that stands right in front of us? And if we do not, who will? And if we do not, what does that do to us?

Secondly, every organized religion that I'm aware of (and most of the non-organized spiritualities as well) demand that we reach out to help others. The holy books and great thinkers do not suggest that it might be a good idea. They do not say, "do it if it is convenient." They do not say, "hope that someone else will come and do it." They just say do it. Whatever IT might be in the moment.

Do I follow my own ideas all of the time? Of course, not. I get wrapped up in my own worries just the same as anyone else does. I am only too aware that I cannot solve a single solitary major problem in the world and that can quite easily lead to not even wanting to acknowledge that they exist. I am frequently asked for money and, more often than not, I am unable to give even small change. And there is no way in the world that I could respond to each request that comes my way. So what's to be done?

I think the most important part of the story in the blog is not that she gave a man a hamburger. I think the important part is that she recognized their common humanity and reached out to him. Even without the sandwich, the impact would have been there just in looking at him, smiling at him, calling him "sir". Giving him the recognition of his dignity as a fellow human, a brother. Every so-called bum on the street once had a mother who cradled him. Somewhere along his path something went terribly wrong but that innocent child still is there. Every cranky old person once had a vibrant young life full of promise that has been buried by time or tragedy. Every lonely person sitting in a theater had dreams of vital connections that never came their way. And that is the person we should acknowledge, respect and, if possible, reach out to. Even if only for a moment.

Did the lady of the blog permanently change the man's life? I guess that depends on what sort of change one means. Is he still homeless? Most likely. Will he be eternally grateful for the hamburger? Probably not. But in that simple interaction, several lives were impacted by her small, kind act. The man had a small amount of dignity restored to him. The woman, with problems of her own, was able to see a connection. Her children witnessed, what I am sure will be, one of many examples of how to be with other people. Many people read the story and forwarded it through the internet. And I felt compelled to write about it. Quite an impact from a trip to McDonald's.

Misery

2009-10-08T17:33:00.008-07:00

"Most people would rather be certain they're miserable, than risk being happy." -- Robert Anthony.

I believe there is a rather large kernel of truth in this quote. I know in my own case, in the past I have let myself get bogged down in the misery at times, rather than grasp at the possibility of a happiness that may or may not have been just beyond my reach. Sometimes going so far as to doubt a happiness that is right before me offering things that I knew without doubt I craved in the deepest parts of my being. I don't believe that I am unique in this, which brings me to the inevitable question of why. Why do many of us do this to ourselves? Why do we occasionally work against our own interests? And what does it take to release ourselves from this self-imposed misery? As with so many of these issues, I believe a great deal of it can be boiled down to fear and external expectations.

How do we come to the point of embracing our miseries? I seriously doubt it is a conscious act for most of us. Perhaps it is cumulative. We have innumerable small nips and bites take away small but essential pieces of our happiness over a long period of time, until all we notice is the pain and forget the happiness or potential for happiness that once inhabited the places now filled with pain and loss.

Perhaps it comes with an awareness that risk can equally lead to much worse misery as easily as to happiness, and the fear of that outcome deters us from reaching for the potential happiness that also could come about. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.

Also, there is the risk of possible censure of family, friends or society because the happiness that calls to us falls outside acceptable norms and expectations. Perhaps our true happiness lies in running away and joining a circus. Without a doubt, others would warn against pursuing pipe dreams and not being mature or responsible. Conformity or fear of criticism frequently suppress the true desires of our hearts, sometimes to the point of killing them completely. In time, we become a self-policing organism that will not allow itself to acknowledge that the stars exist, much less reach out for them. Once this self-policing is firmly in place, we frequently don't recognize gifts of happiness that appear before us wrapped up in pretty paper and a bow. And, if we do notice it, we may be suspicious that the contents can truly be what it appears to be, thus perpetuating the all to familiar misery. In holding tight to the familiar misery, we seemingly hope to block out even deeper misery. But, of course, there is no guarantee of that either.

How do we shake off the shackles of long standing conformity, misery, pain, that restrain our hand's reaching for the possibility of finding our true bliss? I suspect it requires a conscious focusing on how we can move deliberately toward joy and release our hold on the constant niggling pains that we've allowed ourselves to claim as our own. Not an easy task, certainly. It is terribly easy to lapse back into familiar patterns. Too easy to substitute acceptance for happiness. To cling to stability rather than risk change for the sake of happiness and fulfillment. To exchange a proper public image for all out goofy joy.

As I was examining some of these questions with a friend, discussing the potential for a great happiness that had suddenly appeared in my life, she offered very wise words. "Accept it and say 'thank you'." And so I did. And so I shall. It is the only truly rational response.

"Say yes quickly, if you know, if you've known it from before the beginning of the universe." -- Rumi.

Blog anniversary

2009-08-17T16:58:00.007-07:00

One year ago today, I began this blog. Yesterday, I scanned through all of the 85 posts and reflected on the experience.

I noticed that the blog quickly evolved into something more than I thought it was going to be. I started out thinking that I'd be writing short posts that would unearth more meaning behind my daily tasks. I also thought there would be more about knitting. It started out that way, but it didn't stay that way very long. For the most part, I'm examining things that puzzle me using the filter of my own experiences. I also find myself challenging the status quo. That's right, me and Don Quixote tilting at windmills.

The length of my posts has expanded as well. Early on they were in the 300-400 word range. Now the average is 850 words with double that happening occasionally. Not that word count is important on this blog, but it is interesting. I don't know if I was being timid in the beginning or if it was just a function of the shift in focus, but it has changed.

I've learned several things through blogging this past year. First, I quit worrying about whether or not anyone was reading it. Early on I'd worry that no one was reading it if there were no comments. I installed a site meter which shows me the number of hits and sometimes the state or country it came from. I was thrilled when I realized that my blog had been read on every continent. This started out primarily through other bloggers and other people on my social networking site recommending my blog to others. Some have even embedded links to my blog from their blogs. A big thanks to those folks, especially Colin.

I worried for awhile that no comments meant that my writing was too personal and didn't carry anything that someone else could relate to. But then, I started getting e-mails and messages on social networking sites that negated that worry. Although I'm sure that some of the posts didn't speak to anyone but me.

I also learned not to pay attention to, nor feed, the trolls. I've had great exchanges with people who disagree with me and we've given each other food for thought. And those who disagreed also afforded me the opportunity to more fully explore the issue for myself and to offer a clearer explanation. I will, however, absolutely not engage with trolls who snipe from cover hurling verbal abuse. Such people have been out there since the beginning of internet exchanges and they aren't going to go away. So I ignore them in the hope that they will go find another blog or blogger to hate for awhile.

Being the Queen of Why, I naturally considered why I began the blog and, more importantly, why I continue it. I honestly can't remember exactly why I decided to start. I have a vague notion that it was fueled by a desire to put more discipline into my writing with a hope of eventually establishing myself as a writer. But even that seems to be a part of why I kept at it more than why I launched it. Whatever the reason, my journal hasn't seen a lot of business since I began the blog. Where I used to fill up two journals a year, the current one has been going for more than a year and has room for more.

And the why of why I keep at it is even more elusive to me. I know that I enjoy it. I know that I'm very happy with the brief and not so brief contacts with others that have happened. It has given me more discipline in my writing and has helped me move closer to the goal of putting 'author' on a business card. I've also learned not to force a posting if it just seems not to want to come. I guess ultimately I continue with it because it continues to give me things to learn. It gives me a place to flesh out ideas that are swirling through my mind. It has given, for the most part, pleasant interactions with people I most likely would have never had contact with. Not writing has never been an option for me. I've done it since I was a child and I'm not likely to stop before I stop breathing. I've never done it in a public way before this year, so, in a sense, it is teaching me a bit about being courageous. And the exploration will continue.

Thank you for reading.

Star Trek

2009-08-11T12:10:00.004-07:00

I'm a little bit of a Star Trek geek. I don't have a pair of Spock ears nor have I studied Klingon grammar, but I do enjoy the various renditions of Star Trek that have appeared over the years. I even have some favorite episodes, although I generally call them 'that episode where X happened', rather than the title of the episode. And given a choice, Star Trek the Next Generation is my favorite. Why in the world am I telling you all of this? Well, it just so happened that my all-time favorite episode was on last night and I was happy at the prospect of seeing it again. This, naturally, made me start thinking about what it was that I liked about it.

My favorite episode of Star Trek the Next Generation (STTNG) is called Darmock. In this episode, Captain Picard encounters a race of people who speak in metaphors, metaphors that make no sense at all to our heroes. Great frustration ensues on both sides. Then the other captain, Dathan, beams himself and Picard down to the nearest planet. There they must join together to conquer a beast that would very much like to kill them both. To make a long story short, the two captains begin to communicate through their joint struggle for survival. Dathan, in the end, dies in the effort. To me, it is not just a story about cooperation, but also about the importance of truly listening and trying to communicate.

Obviously, it's extreme to risk death in order to communicate, but the various steps that were shown could be quite valuable in more mundane settings. They started out simply acknowledging that they did not understand each other. This, of course, led to some very hard work in listening, asking questions and looking for areas of agreement. Perhaps the Star Trek universe has the advantage in that there are so many different cultures and languages that no one makes too many assumptions about what the other is trying to get across. We who share a common language, rightly or wrongly, expect that the other person will understand clearly what we mean. This is probably inevitable to a great extent, but the addition of clarifying questions would go a long way towards fully understanding. After all, we all bring different experiences and/or different cultures to every situation we are in. We can't always assume we are speaking the same language in every sense of the word. Our words may be the same, but our understanding of them can be quite different.

Another aspect of their communication style is the fact that they shared stories with each other. This required a type of listening that did not mandate an immediate response. In this way, the listener had no other job than to listen and to try to understand. Any response prior to the end of the story would have been inappropriate if not downright rude. In the episode, the only thing the 'listener' said was, "Tell me more." This 'help me understand you' approach shows respect for the speaker and a real desire to truly connect with them. If we were to include a bit more of this approach in communicating with those around us, I'm willing to bet that the incidences of hurt feelings and anger would be reduced. It would be a good experiment to try in any event.

There was also very little to distract them from their attempt to communicate, except of course for that pesky beast. But aside from the fighting, the rest of the time they had nothing more pressing or distracting pulling at them. I have little doubt that our hectic, busy lives interfere in our efforts to connect and truly communicate with others. While it is true that it would be impossible to spend the time and effort necessary for that level of communication with absolutely everyone, there are times when I believe it is absolutely mandatory to try, especially with those who matter to us most. I have been fortunate to know a few people who truly want to do that level of listening. They are so restful to be around, partly because you can trust that they are engaged in the process every bit as much as you are. There isn't quite as much pressure on the speaker to cast about for multiple ways of communicating the same point. There is trust that any miscommunication will be dealt with with clarifying questions rather than angry accusations.

There also was little on the agenda for those two characters beyond communicating and surviving. Neither one of them was scanning each word or phrase for something to disagree with or to use against the other one. So much of our supposed listening devolves into plotting out our responses. How could I possibly listen to you if I am trying to come up with a witty remark or looking for someway to puncture your ideas? In work situations, the quick response is expected and there is very little room for communication beyond facts and figures. And I think that this need for speed bleeds over into our personal relationships, where it really doesn't belong. I doubt that this is intentional on anyone's part, but it happens far too often for it to be good for us.

In the Star Trek episode, an opening was made for a connection with another race and Captain Picard personally was touched by his connection with Dathan and his efforts. In real life, I think we could do a lot worse than creating openings between people and connecting on an emotional level. And in real life, we could also deepen and strengthen bonds with those around us. We could do a lot worse.

Escaping the heat.

2009-07-30T10:07:00.015-07:00

Yesterday was one of those days that made me wish that I was a better writer, a better poet. In the middle of a freakishly abnormal heat wave, I decided to drive over to the coast rather than melt and whine at home. It's only about 90 miles to the ocean. So close that I wonder why I don't go more often. I took off early in the morning with no plan other than to drive west until I saw the Pacific.

Not far past the outskirts of the metro area, one starts climbing the hills that lead into the Coastal Range. The range is small, as mountain ranges go. The summit is only about 1600 feet. But it is beautiful. With a few gaping exceptions. Sailing past the farmland that lies just below them, I felt my spirit lift as the trees began to close in behind and over the car. Frequently when driving in the hills here, it resembles nothing so much as entering a leafy green tunnel with the branches joining over the road allowing only random patches of sunlight to land directly on the road. I don't know that it was actually cooler there, but it certainly gives the mental impression of feeling cooler. Whether it is the unrelenting green or the sense of being sheltered by all of those trees, I do not know, but it never fails to improve my outlook.

What never fails to dampen my elevated mood are the clear cut areas. Driving through forests here always carries the possibility of coming across those areas leased to lumber companies, which have stripped entire mountainsides of everything taller than two feet in height. The devastation is sickening with stumps and branches strewn every which way and, all too frequently, no seedlings planted to replace what has been taken. The feeling is one of witnessing violence and there are no words adequate to describe it. Sometimes the companies leave a thin line of trees near the road in a futile attempt to mask what has happened beyond them. I know all of the 'rational' arguments about jobs and the need for lumber, but it leaves such scars. I don't get physically ill at the sight as I used to, but it still mutes the shine of an otherwise perfect day.

About an hour out from the city, deep into the mountains, there is a restaurant that we always stop at. Discovered it when the kids were little. It isn't a great gourmet place, it is a funky place modeled on a logging camp motif. (I know, ironic after the last paragraph.) The food is good and the feeders outside of the windows provide a variety of birds to watch while you wait. It's hard to imagine driving this way to the beach without stopping there. It's just part of the package.

Finally, I come out of the mountains and almost immediately there is the Pacific. Or rather, there should have been the Pacific. There were low-lying clouds covering the entire coastline. With no particular destination in mind, beyond not going to the usual places, I turned left to see what would present itself. Only occasionally did the sun power through to reveal blue ocean below. And I noticed that it is quite unnerving to drive down the coast highway, on the edge of cliffs that should be overlooking the ocean, and only see thick clouds below. On curves especially, it felt as though one wrong move and I could fall off the edge of the world entirely. There are many 'Scenic Outlook' sites along the coast and every one of them yielded a wide vista of clouds and nothing else. So I kept driving south.

I sped past all of the beaches and towns that I had stopped at before, still not sure where I was going to end up. The tiny little harbor towns seem much more appealing driving through them than they probably are to live in, but my fantasy of having a place by the ocean was running rampant. Little places like Garibaldi and Hebo which basically have one street, one grocery, one theater, etc. let one imagine a simpler and, perhaps, more real type of existence. Never mind the certainty that the reality might drive one quite mad.

When I had had just about enough driving for one sitting, I saw a sign that read "Nestucca Beach, next right." So right I went and drove the 3 or 4 miles to the beach. While there were occasional splashes of sunlight peeking through the clouds on the highway, down by the ocean there were none. The fog was so thick that the sun was nothing more than a hazy little ball overhead.

I walked about a mile up the beach and did a little people watching. Since it was 65 degrees on a weekday, there weren't too many people to watch which is why the ones who were there caught my attention. I wondered about the two teenage girls lying on towels in swimsuits attempting to get a tan. They must have been freezing. I watched a couple of chocolate Labs dashing into the water chasing a stick, which they then proceeded to carry together down the beach. I don't believe I've ever seen two dogs carrying opposite ends of a stick before, but it seemed like usual behavior for those two. There were a few intrepid souls in wet suits with boogie boards braving the frigid water. My favorite was a grandmother with a toddler. The toddler was running for all he was worth, collecting rocks and passing them on to his grandmother. Then, when she had enough, he would take them one at a time and attempt to throw them into the water. More often than not, he missed the ocean.

The beach itself was littered with the remains of the gulls' breakfast. Crab had been on the menu and I had to watch my step for a ways so that I didn't step on shells and pincers. There were also tire tracks despite the fact that I was far past the sign that said motor vehicles were not allowed on the beach. All the usual beach debris could be found, partial shells, bits of seaweed and the odd cigarette butt.

As I walked, I noticed that the tide was coming in, so I picked a spot and planted myself, waiting for it to come to me. I gazed out watching the variations of the waves tumbling in for the better part of an hour before the ocean caught me. The water was slate gray with only the white bubbles at the top of the waves relieving the color. I watched the near approach of the water for awhile until my focus shifted to the furthest waves I could see coming in. They couldn't have been more than a thousand yards away, the visibility was so short. Those tunnels of water collapsing in on themselves gave the barest glint of green near their crests before resolving back to gray. I continued to look outward, waiting for the water to reach me, with a fairly blank mind. Just watching. Just noticing. Once or twice, my mind skipped back to other times, other beaches, other companions, but for the most part it was just me, the ocean and nothing more. Or rather, nothing less.

At long last, the water reached out and slapped me. Nothing quite prepares one for the first touch of the cold water. It came up and captured my feet up to my ankles before it pulled back. It must have been undecided about wanting to play because it took another 10 minutes before another wave was brave enough to reach me again. I shifted my focus to the place where the water was striking and wondered with each new wave if this one would be the one that really got me. Childish musings perhaps, almost as if I was daring it to tag me. As the water became more consistent in its approach, I planted my feet more firmly, braced for the big one. No truly big ones arrived, at least not while I stood there. But I did enjoy standing in the low surf, comparing and contrasting the sensations.

After awhile, the grandmother and child came back up the beach. Their adventure apparently over because now the child was being carried. Too much excitement for one day, most likely. A woman bounced past, walking her collie. And one of the guys in the wetsuits had had enough and made his way past me and away. I walked back down the beach, more slowly than I had walked up it and made the climb over the dune that would lead back to my car.

I half thought that I'd go in search of another place, but I found that I was done for the day. I got all of the sand off my feet and pointed the car back towards the highway. I always tell myself when I go to the beach that I'm going to stop and get some saltwater taffy. And, as usual, this time I didn't do it either. I apparently like the idea of taffy more than I actually like taffy. So I brought no physical souvenirs from the excursion, unless I can count a sunburnt nose and aching calf muscles from the climb up the dune. Yet, somehow, it feels as though this particular day will be with me for quite some time.

Assumptions and labels

2009-07-19T14:07:00.009-07:00

If you ever want to see the entertaining sight of steam coming out of my ears, start slapping some labels on me. It never fails to get me hot under the collar and has ever since I was quite young. Whether it is a good label or a bad label, it almost never fails to chafe. I've known this about myself for a very long time, but I never parsed out the reasons why. It always leads to assumptions, which frequently are incorrect and can in turn lead to very unwelcome outcomes.

My first memories around this came from when I was 5 or 6 years old. I was introduced to someone, who leaned over and talked to me as if I were the village idiot simply because of my age. I don't remember who it was or what they said precisely, but I do remember fuming at the way I had been patronized. I'm sure that I couldn't have described it then beyond the fact that I didn't like being treated like a baby, but I clearly remember feeling insulted. Now the person obviously hadn't planned to insult me. It would have never occurred to them that it was even possible. They were merely acting out of their assumptions based on the label 'little girl' that I was carrying at the time. The same sort of things have happened throughout my life as the label has changed from 'girl' to 'young woman' to just plain 'female.' Depending on what assumptions are attached to the labels, my resultant response has ranged from slight annoyance to extreme irritation, especially if it has led to my being disregarded because of them.

At a slightly different angle, I find that I bristle when confronted with the assumption that I don't know my own mind or mean what I say. For the life of me, I can't figure out what purpose this might serve. In fact, I can't see anything but difficulties arising from that. Real fireworks can be seen whenever I hear the words, "you don't mean that." Given that I generally don't say things that I don't mean, this feels like it has to be some sort of self-serving position taken by the speaker. (Don't want to assume that, however.) This one rose up again recently when I decided to stop seeing someone. I meant what I said about not wanting to see him any more the first time I said it. And every time I repeated it for almost 5 months. And it makes me wonder why some people assume that 'A' means 'B' when 'A' is the only thing that has consistently been said. It seems like a sort of deliberate miscommunication, which kind of boggles the mind. It's difficult enough to communicate without making it more so.

I think my allergic reaction to labels increased in adulthood because of all the assumptions that were hung on labels that I more or less had accepted. I ran headlong into one of those right after I got married. All the people that I had hung out with, went to movies with, or just did regular things with, all assumed that I was no longer available. It blew my mind. I was immediately dropped from standing invitations and I had to chase folks down to clear up the matter. Apparently, I was supposed to be fused to my husband and not do anything on my own. This only increased once my sons were born. I had apparently disappeared and could not have a separate identity. That was an extremely difficult labeling assumption to dodge and, at times, I let myself get buried under it, which was truly unfair to everyone. Similar labels and assumptions came attached to my choice in jobs, education and spirituality. And they almost always missed the mark. The labels were too broad and the assumptions too all-encompassing to have any real meaning.

I have no clear idea why most of us, if not all, compartmentalize others based on assumptions. Perhaps it is nothing more than a sorting function in our brains to help us make a semblance of order out of the overwhelming possibilities that exist in our world. But the outcome of it can move well beyond the realm of irritation and cause real damage to our relationships and unnecessary stress in our lives. This can happen based on the labels we attach to others, or based on how we connect assumptions between different people. If one of our parents employed disapproving silences to control our behavior, we might assume that similar silences mean the same thing in other relationships. If someone in our past abused our trust with lies, we might assume that either no one is to be trusted or perhaps that everyone lies. If we have been manipulated in the past, we may believe that others are trying to do it to us again. The examples could go on and on. And how sad that is for all parties involved.

But what's to be done about it? I suspect a lot of it is done unconsciously, based on past experiences. And I imagine that a portion of that is done out of self-preservation and fear of repeating a bad experience. Perhaps the only thing we can try to do is to slow down and consider those around us, recognizing that they are unique in our experience. By being slow to assume, we don't need to risk ourselves unnecessarily, merely allow enough time for the other to reveal themselves in more depth, which in its turn could allow for more depth in the relationship we have with them. If we look at each new person with an active curiosity as to who they are, rather than quickly labeling and pigeonholing them, we open up new possibilities. And if we look at older relationships without the filter of assumptions, we give others the opportunity to reveal pleasant surprises about themselves. And, should we find things that we'd rather not see in them, at least we have a firmer basis for any decision we make.

"Assumptions are the termites of relationships." -- Henry Winkler.

Contentment

2009-07-16T13:07:00.013-07:00

Back when I was in undergraduate school, after we had solved all the problems of the world over lunch, several of us had quasi-serious discussions about which book we would memorize if books were banned a la Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. I had no trouble at all deciding on which one; Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. It has been a favorite of mine for a long time and I still go back and re-read it every few years.

I do have my issues with Jane. I was thoroughly disgusted with her for abandoning Rochester the way she did, but I eventually gave her a pass on that, partly because she did eventually return and partly because of the mores of the time. I preferred to think that she would have behaved differently if she lived later than the 19th century. In my latest re-reading of the book, however, I came across something that made me want to shake her until her teeth rattled. When little Adele asks her if they will be happy, she replies that they will work hard and be content. What the...? What an insipid thing to say to the child! I was outraged! I was livid! I know, I know, over-reaction. Acknowledging that it had more to do with me than with what Ms. Bronte wrote in her book, I gave it some thought.

I found dozens of quotes advocating contentment as a noble goal for life and I even agreed with a few. The quotations that cautioned about wanting more and more things seemed to parallel my views. I've never been inclined to focus on the acquisition of things. It always seemed like it took too much effort away from other things that I was interested in. But the other quotes annoyed me. They generally came from religious or political sources and they seemed to attribute a high sense of virtue to contentment that I simply cannot see. It was as if they were promoting contentment as the opiate of the masses.

To my mind, this sort of contentment equals settling for less. Jane offered Adele contentment as a goal and not the happiness that she desired. It is true that neither Adele nor anyone else has a guarantee of each and every happiness they desire. But by eliminating the possibility of reaching for some of the more important, life-enhancing things that are available, it seems to me that even contentment is not possible. Contentment may end up being the end result, but as an all encompassing goal, it seems terribly inadequate.

It also seems as though it requires a certain amount of self-deception a la the fox in Aesop's fable. The fox wanted the grapes and tried everything he could think of to get them. When he failed, he walked away having decided that the grapes were probably sour and he didn't want them anyway. Our society reinforces this view on all sides. We tell others that what they wanted isn't worth it, or wouldn't make them happy, or that it is the wrong thing to want. When the fact of the matter is someone else simply doesn't know if it is worth it or not to you. And, at one time or another, most people agree and stop striving for whatever it is. The pressure is exerted to do what is 'acceptable' and 'reasonable' until we frequently relax into a vanilla pudding type of existence and give up on our fondest dreams, hopes and desires.

After having been a big fan of the vanilla pudding club when I was younger, I find that I've lost my taste for it entirely. Not only did I not reach for other flavors, I barely acknowledged their existence. And in that way, I committed what I consider to be the most unforgivable of sins; I wasted a lot of time and did not live my life. I don't plan on making the same mistakes in the future. I'll be trying every unusual flavor that crosses my path. I'll be reaching for every scrap of joy that life offers. And I'll be doing so without the overly excessive concern I had for society's approval that I had in my youth. I'll have to pick another book and heroine than Jane Eyre. She's been reduced to a cautionary tale for me. I'm going to be browsing on the adventure shelves for something else entirely.

"Be happy while you're living; for you're a long time dead." -- Scottish proverb

Frogging

2009-07-11T13:53:00.016-07:00

As most knitters know, 'frogging' is when you rip out what you have been working on. It can happen when you discover a very obvious mistake in the work. It can be an admission of defeat. Or it can be simply because your tastes or interests have changed and you wish to do something entirely different. Whatever the reason, knitters are generally reluctant to do it. I've been known to abandon a project for a year before succumbing to the need to frog it. And, after having frogged half of a sweater the other evening, I found myself wondering not just about frogging knitting, but the role that frogging has in other areas of life.

As I sat there unraveling the knitting and winding the yarn back into a ball, I began to think about the reluctance to do it. This sweater had been sitting for months with a huge mistake staring at me from near the beginning. I've known for all those months that it would have to be frogged, but I still dragged my feet about actually doing it. Why?

One possibility might be that I had invested so much time in the knitting that I felt like I had wasted time and effort which could only be redeemed by the myth that I would eventually fix the mistake and finish the sweater. It was as if only the outcome could justify the process it took to get to that point in the sweater. This seemed a bit wobbly to my thinking. Don't get me wrong; I like a successful outcome just as much as the next one. But I also enjoy the process while it is happening. I don't tend to focus on finishing an item until I'm about three quarters done and my mind has started mapping out the next thing. The hundreds of thousands of stitches made over hours and hours are not somehow less enjoyable when an anticipated outcome doesn't come about. This applies to other areas of our lives. Careers, relationships, personal goals, anything we aimed for does not lose its authenticity or value when we release it in favor of something else. It was valuable while it was valuable and that doesn't change when the goal changes.

Similarly, there is sometimes a sense of failure. We have missed the mark of the original goal and therefore must be less than what we thought we were. This too seems wrong somehow. There are lessons to be learned in the process that could very well be valuable on the next project. We might have learned a new way to do something. We might have learned that we never want to use a particular technique again. We may even have learned the difficult lesson of walking away because it no longer suits us. There doesn't seem to be any virtue in continuing to the end of some project simply because it was started. Our society, of course, frowns on this attitude whether in the micro or the macro. But rather than failure, there is a wisdom in not continuing with things for no other reason than we started them.

Another possibility is that it simply does not suit us for some reason. Our tastes change. Our needs change. Heck, even our sizes change. If we discover half way through the sweater that something about it no longer suits us, where is the virtue in finishing it? If it is finished, the result would be a sweater that we will never wear. Wouldn't it be better to reclaim the basic materials and turn it into something else?

Obviously, society condemns frogging when it moves beyond the realm of knitting. No one wants to be labeled a quitter/failure/what-have-you. Which is probably why knitters are reluctant to frog a project. But society condemns all sorts of things for the sake of enforcing conformity. There is a need to examine that condemnation. Generalized norms do not take into account individualized needs or interests. There is no accommodation for living in the moment and responding to what appears before us. Seemingly once something is begun, it must be continued no matter what. The yarn that I recovered from the frogged sweater is happily becoming a different sweater with a different design. And other things that I have frogged from my life are being knitted into much better things as well. How much richer our lives might be if we learned to frog as needed.

The problem with hope.

2009-06-29T17:19:00.005-07:00

Or perhaps it is more a problem with the inconsistent approach we have toward the notion of hope. We, by turns, tell people that they have to have hope and not to get their hopes up. The various and sundry sayings on the topic run the gamut of 'there is no such thing' to 'you can't live without it.' So which is it? Or is it both? Or neither?

I considered the possibility that the difference between not getting your hopes up and having to have hope might lie in the situations that they are used. This didn't seem to work out, however.

We seem to say 'don't get your hopes up' in situations where there actually IS some small possibility that whatever we are hoping for could happen. It might not be probable or likely, but it is not totally impossible. I think we see this frequently in situations with children. It is almost parental code for 'it ain't gonna happen.' It serves to delay likely disappointment, but not much else. The person who says it probably feels fairly certain that the let-down will be coming, but doesn't want to voice the bad news yet. If the hope is that an absent parent will finally, finally come to visit or that Santa will bring a pony, the adult on the spot has a strong idea that neither one is going to happen. So what is accomplished by delaying the disappointment until the non-arrival of the parent or the pony? It could be that the adult also harbors a tiny hope that they will not have to disappoint the child. It could be that they want to protect the child from the inevitable sadness. It could be that they want to delay their own sadness in seeing the sadness of the child until the last moment. But I wonder if it really serves anyone to do so.

The same holds true when adults use it with each other. Perhaps the one saying it has seen the other person face too much disappointment and can't bear the notion that they will be flattened by disappointment yet again.

On the other hand, when things look as if they are irretrievably hopeless, we tell the person that they 'have to have hope.' "There is always hope." Etc. etc. Even when we know for a fact that there is not always hope, the semblance of hope must be maintained. In fact, the more desperate a situation looks, the more we insist that there is hope. A cure may be found. It is only temporary. It's probably not as bad as it looks. It is always said as an attempt to cheer someone up. But absent any evidence that it might be true, it frequently falls flat.

We also are skeptical of anyone who seems to maintain hope in the face of improbable odds. At the very least, we might consider them to be desperate. In the extreme, they are simple or deluded. A perpetual Pollyanna is not taken very seriously.

So what the heck is going on here? I'm not certain by any stretch of the imagination, but the most obvious possibility is that it is a vital survival mechanism. What would happen to someone who truly had no hope? There is at least some chance that they would give up and be able to release the pain of disappointment. If there is no hope, then there is no expectation and it would make the pain of disappointment less. But I think that would only be true of a minority of people. And the effort to reduce pain would also reduce joy.

Even at my most cynical and at the lowest points of my life, there has always remained just a tiny seed of hope that whatever pain or loss was going on would somehow be lessened in the future. It may not, in fact, happen, but being able to anticipate potential improvement in the future can remove enough of the edge of the current pain to carry on into the future. It could be self-delusion or a coping mechanism, but it also could be an innate survival tool. Even if it is delusional, a reasonable amount of hope cannot hurt us in the short term and may help us make it through to a better place.

"Never deprive someone of hope...it may be all they have." -- Anonymous.

Missing the Obvious

2009-06-22T13:14:00.015-07:00

Spring came late to Portland this year. And as I've done every spring since I moved to my current home, I've eagerly watched for the camellia bush outside my kitchen window to bloom. Since it is on the north side of the building, it is usually the last to bloom. So as its sisters on the south side burst into lovely colors and smells, I stepped up watching for 'my' camellia to bloom. As the month passed, there were absolutely no flowers on it. It must have been trimmed at the wrong time last year, because there was not a single bud on the entire plant. I kept watching and watching, no camellias. I was so focused on the camellias that I almost missed out entirely on the azalea that is planted right next to it. It wasn't until the roses started rioting across the back fence that I turned my attention away from the camellia and its lack of flowers this year.

And this in turn made me consider what else I have missed while focused too closely on something else. The short answer is that I'll probably never know for certain. But it bears some examination so as to reduce the occurrence of it in the future. Like most people, I've spent the majority of my adulthood wrapped up in whatever task/person/event demanded my attention at the time, to the point of shutting out even the idea that other things could or should merit some of my attention as well.

I've been a master at missing the obvious most of my life. If I had a dollar for every time someone said, "it's as plain as the nose on your face," or "if it had been a snake, it would have bit you," I'd never need to work a day in my life. And that is not counting the times I have heard, "how could you not know?" I was always too busy trying to be a good daughter/mother/wife/friend to even recognize other possibilities that would have enriched my life if I'd but welcomed them in. There are a few huge ones that come to mind and I'm sure there must be dozens of others.

And don't get me started on the more subtle possibilities that I have let pass me by. They must number in the hundreds, if not thousands. I'm fairly blind as far as subtle things going on in my own life, my own possibilities. Which is odd because I tend to recognize the subtleties that occur for other people around me. The standard joke with me is that I wouldn't catch a hint if it hit me upside the head with a two-by-four. I suspect this might be a by-product of focusing on one thing and missing another. But part of it must be due to my preference for directness. So, what's to be done?

I'm happy to report that I've gotten better about noticing/recognizing some things that come into my life unexpectedly. I'm not to the level of awareness that I hope to achieve, however. And I don't think it is necessary to throw the baby of specific focus out with the bathwater in trying to open myself up to more possibilities and realities. The trick must lie in balancing the two, the question is how. I suspect that it demands a shifting of focus, a more deliberate observation of what is happening both around me and within me. Not focusing on the forest or the trees, but on both in a constant moving back and forth. It requires considerable discipline to avoid sleepwalking through life, to live deliberately and wide awake.

My long observation of the camellia wasn't for naught, however. For the first time since I have been watching it, I noticed that a song sparrow kept hopping along my window sill. And as the weather grew warmer, I saw that she was using the sill as a launching pad into the bush. Once it was warm enough to open the windows, there were delightful baby bird noises coming from it. So, my focus may have been misdirected for awhile, but there were rewards anyway. As there always seem to be, if we but recognize them.

Cravings

2009-06-11T18:42:00.014-07:00

Not too long ago, I was in a conversation with a few women. And as happens among women who have given birth, we were swapping 'war stories' about our experiences. The amusing part was when we told our various craving stories. Pregnant women are notorious for craving odd things to eat. There didn't seem to be any sort of particular pattern, each of us just wanted to eat some strange things at times before our children were born. None of us were the classic pickles and ice cream cravers. In fact, I was a bit smug that before my second son was born I was strictly scarfing down raw cauliflower. We won't get into my craving for Jack in the Box tacos with the first one.

The conventional wisdom, whether it is supported by science or not I don't know, is that if one is craving something specific then it is something that you need. If you want a banana, maybe you need more potassium in your diet. If you want a dill pickle, perhaps you need sodium. I can't hazard a guess at what I might have needed from those dreadful tacos, but with healthier choices, I imagine that there could be something to the benefits of those cravings. Just so long as a craving doesn't turn itself into an addiction, there doesn't seem to be any problem in responding to it. A scoop of ice cream is fine, a half a gallon is something else entirely.

This led me to think about non-food related cravings and what they might spring from. If we carry the analogy further, surely they also reflect some sort of need that the person has. We all remember (or perhaps were) the kid in grade school who would do anything to try to be accepted by the other kids. Maybe they were a bit socially inept, perhaps they wore the 'wrong' shoes, or they were just not part of the 'in' crowd. For whatever reason, they felt incredibly isolated and generally mocked by others. Pity was the best they could hope for. But what was really going on here? Was it something worthy of pity or contempt? Not really. For whatever reason they craved connection and, some how, others found them to be unworthy of it. As they got older, they most likely just gave up and hid the need deep within themselves. Some might have even taken the 'sour grapes' tactic and decided that they never wanted it in the first place. My question is, inevitably, why? Why were they mocked for what is a natural desire?

If we look at the food cravings, they are usually met with smiles and good humor. Ha ha ha, you wanted pickles and ice cream. But there isn't any contempt as there seems to be with various cravings for human contact. In fact, even expressing them is considered to be unacceptable. Almost as if it is some sort of weakness to have human needs and admit it. And it truly has me befuddled. What is the possible risk or danger here, to either side of the equation? Nope, can't come up with anything.

Many, many years ago, I worked in the hospital wing of a very large convent. One of the sister's minds had slipped well away from the accomplished, intelligent woman that she had been earlier in her life. She spent her days yelling at little boys who weren't there and crying. Her answer, when asked why she was crying, was always the same. "No one loves me." All of her accomplishments in life disappeared in the face of unrelieved loneliness. No doubt, she had felt the loneliness for many years, but given the nature of her commitment, she probably never voiced it. And, while there was no large scale solution to her past, most of the aides could calm her merely by assuring her that they loved her.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, I used to have a next door neighbor in her 80s. She was a crusty old bird who always spoke her mind and the devil could take the hindmost. She'd been widowed, one of her sons had died, even her dog had been killed. But there was no lingering sadness or isolation in her daily life. She took to summoning me over and telling me we were going to have tea. And so we did. It never occurred to me to turn her down. She was obviously living her life on her own terms and would not sit around hoping for company, she demanded it. I think, however, that she was more of the exception than the rule.

And I wonder why. It is almost as if we have some sort of shame around asking for what we need from others. Or perhaps it is a loss of face concerning the fact that whatever it is we crave has not been given to us and we suspect that we are, therefore, not worthy of it. Could it be that those childhood traumas still inform our adult needs? Or is there some sort of tacit agreement between everyone that such things can only come as a gift and the request somehow negates that. On yet another hand, perhaps the asking carries an assumption of a demand on someone else. Or.......I don't know exactly what all else.

More importantly, how does one live truly from one's essential self, if an effort has to be maintained to deny parts of that core? How do we respond to people in our lives with cravings that we may or may not be able to answer? How do we understand them? Maybe those with cravings should feel free to ask for what they need. Maybe those hearing the request should wonder how long the person has been hungry and make them a small snack. After all, there is not anything to criticize in the cravings we all have.

Random goodness

2009-06-06T17:42:00.004-07:00

Whatever can happen to anyone can happen to me." -- Muriel Rukeyser.

My first thought when I read this was that it applied to negative outcomes. We read about plane crashes, natural disasters, illnesses and think 'there but for the grace of God, go I." We collectively and openly recognize that life has a random quality that makes everyone of us vulnerable. Whether it be a large natural disaster or a smaller personal catastrophe, something negative can and most assuredly will happen to everyone at some point. We try not to obsess about it; we try to prepare for it. But there is no way to avoid whatever it is from coming to us, whether 'it' is anything from a minor disappointment up to death. This is so patently obvious that there really isn't much to explore about it.

The other face of this coin bears some looking at, however. We tend to overlook the possibility of good things coming to us just as surely as the bad ones do. I wonder why this seems less the case than it's negative counterpart. When we hear of someone else's good fortune, we can feel glad for them, especially if they are close to us. Frequently, however, we feel envy. And if their good fortune involves something we'd hope to have for ourselves, the envy can expand to very ugly proportions.

Why is this? I think it comes from a combination of things. Partly it is a result of deep-seated cultural ideas about the 'haves' and 'have nots.' And partly, I think it comes from a collective sense of scarcity that reaches into our psyches beyond material needs.

The Calvinism of the Puritan colonists on this continent left a mark of predestination imprinted on our collective memories. What you had in the way of material goods was an illustration of where you stood in God's opinion. Wealthy folks obviously deserved what they had and poorer people obviously deserved to have nothing. On the face of it, especially put this baldly, we would reject this notion. But there still seems to be a tinge of it remaining in our subconscious, at least among those who are seen to have more than the usual share of benefits. This, and other historic cultural traits such as regal and clerical hierarchies, leave a deep rift between the favored few and the teeming masses.

With the end of monarchies and state established religion, we did not escape the structure or the belief that everyone has his or her place. Here in the United States, and perhaps other places, we are fed the dizzying notion that anyone can succeed in whatever they choose if only they work hard enough. But, like our Puritan ancestors, we also look down on those who fail to do so, assuming that they just haven't worked hard enough to merit the better things. I think this provides us some mental insulation from the notion that there is a random element to success as well as to failure. The good things in our life must be dependent solely on our efforts or they could disappear. It has also been used to oppress various parts of the population, but that it another topic entirely.

The other problem tends to lie in a deep-seated belief that there is scarcity in everything. It is as if, if you have something there is not going to be enough for me to have the same thing. And to safeguard our futures, we must continue to stock pile more and more, leaving less for others. Or so the thinking goes. But is this notion of scarcity true? I doubt it. I think the problem lies more with the fact that we seem to have collectively lost the concept of having enough. There is a huge industry whose sole job is to convince us to buy more and more stuff and generate perceived needs. And constant bombardment of their messages simply has to have a huge influence or else they wouldn't continue to do it. Many years ago I read a book by (I think) Alan Watts. In it he wrote about how our culture had substituted amount for quality in our property. And I think this also applies to the more intangible parts of life. We can't be happy for others' successes because, on some level, we think it means that they have somehow taken the success that we wanted to have.

But whatever reason lies beneath our understanding, we do not seem to believe that random, unexpected joys can come to us just as surely as tragedies. We seem to only see the lacks in our lives rather than the abundances. There are those fortunate souls who do revel in the joys rather than the pains, but for many of us there is the perpetual 'yeah, but' quality to our appreciation of what is in our lives. I got X, but I really wanted X+Y and therefore, I can't fully enjoy the X that I do have. Perhaps this is human nature. Maybe it is the motivation for human beings to continue reaching forward in our evolution. It could also be something else entirely. No matter what it is, I think we would better serve ourselves by finding some way of shifting our focus more towards the good we have, rather than dwelling on the tragic.

I'm not certain how to do this and, like most things, it probably needs to be different for everyone. Some folks are list makers, some reflective and still others make resolutions to change things about themselves and their outlooks. But no matter how it might be implemented, I feel certain that we could enhance our daily lives by living in hopeful anticipation of the random goodness rather than dreading the random arrival of tragedies.

Sharing Happiness

2009-05-25T12:43:00.005-07:00

"An unshared happiness is not happiness." -- Boris Pasternak.

Not being an absolutist, I'm reluctant to agree with Pasternak totally. There is, however, a germ of truth in this that I wish to explore.

It is certainly possible to be quietly happy about some things and feel no need to find company to share them with. The things that give this kind of happiness vary from person to person. For me, it tends to happen most often with what seems to be small in the grand scheme of things. When I finish making something with my hands, I do not need to show it to all and sundry in order to savor the satisfaction and gentle happiness that I feel. I can hold the finished sock, shawl or dress and smile all by myself before I move on to the next thing. And for quite awhile after it is completed, it will generate the same little joy whenever I use it.

Another experience where this occurs for me is when I am walking among the trees. Many times I not only do not need to share the connection and happiness I feel in this experience, I do not want to. There is a depth of feeling within me at those times that defy the ability to share. Or, at least, I've yet to find anyone to share it with whose presence would not detract from the feelings it generates within me. I wonder if the experience would be enhanced or merely take on a different feeling if I ever were to find someone to share it with. But, for now at least, it is a stand alone joy that is not diminished by being solitary.

The ocean, on the other hand, absolutely demands a companion for me to feel the greatest happiness. There is an overwhelming power generated by the ocean that requires that the experience be shared. I feel that I cannot hold it alone. And, while I realize no two people will experience it in the same way, the feeling is so vast that another silent witness makes it easier to find the depths of joy and awe that it can give.

There are also some events and accomplishments that are, somehow, lessened without the sharing of them. Sometimes these are the milestones in our lives. Large or small, joyful celebrations are not as joyful without friends or family to share them with. Other times, it is the recognition of achievement or the difficult challenge met that generates such a bubbling up of happiness that we must tell everyone dear to us about it. And, absent dear ones, we will stop mere acquaintances or total strangers and tell them because we cannot contain the feeling within ourselves. The efforts or hopes that we've held closely to our hearts erupt and overflow when they are realized. It's the feeling of someone about to become a parent who tells everyone about the coming baby. It is the person who has struggled to achieve a dream who is finally able to say, "I did it!"

I wonder if there is any real difference in the types of happiness, beyond the circle it finds its voice in. Some might argue that it is better to feel the fullness of joys within ourselves, not needing to share it. Perhaps even suggesting that exuberance is unnecessary to joy. Other might agree with Pasternak that sharing is necessary to the fullness of happiness. I feel that there is no duality to happiness; it is a both/and rather than an either/or proposition. There is quite simply no right or wrong way to be happy or to express it.

Society imposes unspoken expectations and restrictions on the level the expression of joy may take. These tend to be based on the perceived value of the experience and the age of the person experiencing it. In fact, if people do not express an 'appropriate' response to a happy event, they can be condemned either as unfeeling or childish. If anyone much older than 5 years old becomes too thrilled at the sight of a daisy, they will most likely be seen as a simpleton. If someone fails to celebrate anything at the same level as those around them, they are seen as unfeeling and perhaps depressed. Society demands conformity even in expressions of happiness. How sad.

The challenge in expressing happiness, as in most other things, is to give it our own authentic voice and the devil take the hindmost for what others think about it.

Cemeteries

2009-05-20T11:36:00.008-07:00

You may think I'm odd, and you wouldn't be the first, but I love to walk through cemeteries. By walking I do not mean taking a casual stroll and enjoying the breeze through the trees. I mean spending hours tramping up and down looking at the tombstones. It isn't out of a sense of morbid fascination with death. Rather it is a fascination with people. When I go to a cemetery, I don't so much see markers and tombs, I wonder about the people who were laid to rest beneath them.

A dear friend and I have been exploring the older cemeteries in the area. The oldest cemeteries here only go back to the mid-1800s and, thus, are relatively new as cemeteries go. There are local notables from the founding of Oregon in the pioneer cemeteries, even a few folks that are known further afield. Those are interesting to search for. But I much prefer wandering among the unknown, lesser lights and speculating about their lives. And, on occasion, I'll do research on my findings, if the tombstone provides an interesting tidbit to follow up on.

Several years ago, I was on a kick of reading about the so-called Wild West and noticed that Wyatt Earp's brother Virgil was buried here in Portland. That piqued my curiosity. How in the world did he end up way up here? I researched Mr. Earp to a fare-thee-well and made a mental note to track down his grave someday. Much later the topic came up, somehow, and I babbled on about it as I am wont to do when I learn something that fascinates me. My friend suggested that we go find him and we were off within a few weeks. And find him we did, in the largest cemetery in the area. We had to walk all over the place looking for him on a hot day. We had a general idea of where to go, but if we hadn't stopped at the cemetery offices, we would have never found him. Now the gravestone wasn't all that interesting, but it was kind of neat that we found it. During however many hours we spent there, we found many interesting names which led to some reflection, some confusion and some research. All in all, a very worthwhile trip. So worthwhile, in fact, that we planned on another one.

Next we traipsed up to a smaller, old cemetery in Vancouver, Washington. We weren't hunting up anyone in particular, but we do keep track of which date on the stones is the oldest. Now into a comfortable routine of poking around, clearing off moss and looking for interesting things, we wandered around for a couple of hours. I had the find of the day not long before we were planning to leave. I almost walked on a nondescript stone that was flush to the ground. On it read: Edward Gallagher, (dates) and "executed by legal hanging." I made note of it for further research. My friend and I then spent a little while wondering if there had been any 'illegal hangings" up there. I found out later that day that we'd found the only person to be executed in Vancouver. His attorney attempted an insanity defense, and truth to tell the records certainly read like Mr. Gallagher had some screws loose. But such a defense was pretty hard to establish back in 1890 and he was executed about 8 months after the murder had been committed. Alright, I'll admit that one did grab the less noble parts of my curiosity, but it was fascinating.

Most recently we investigated one of the pioneer cemeteries here in town. It was beautiful with over a thousand trees and dated back to 1846. It houses the resting places of most of the families whose names grace the streets around town. The place was so interesting that we were surprised when we realized that we'd been there for four hours. We found children and their families, a madam and a prostitute, firemen, Masons and Odd Fellows, new Russian graves and old Japanese ones. Every bit of it provoking speculation. There is the corner where the Chinese workers from the turn of the century "used to" be buried. There had been a government building erected over it and when the building was razed, they discovered that there were still many graves there. There is an entire section of tombstones written in Japanese. And, being me, I can't stop wondering how Seizo Furukawa, aged 22 came to be buried here in 1900. I also find myself smiling when I think about the big stone with the proud name James Gray Flowerdew. He just HAD to be a very nice gentleman with a name like that. Or, at least, that's what I want to believe.

For me, the cemeteries are the historical record for the average person. I want to recognize them and learn about them. When I read the stones, I give voice to names that have not been spoken in 100 years. I make note of the interesting epitaphs and touch history with a small 'h', connecting with those who have gone before. I notice the contrast of recent stones nestled up beside stones that are 100 years old and wonder what I think about that. Does it mar the historical continuity? Or is it just a reflection of the reality of it making no difference to the dead who they lie beside?

Oddly enough, all this tromping about doesn't make me dwell on death itself. But rather on life. And although I don't much care what happens to my body when I'm no longer using it, when the time comes I very much hope someone puts up a stone. I kind of like the idea of someone reading my name a hundred years hence and wondering about me for a moment.

The explorations will continue with Pere Lachaise in Paris definitely on the agenda. And while the people and the people who knew them are long gone, their names have been heard and may turn up in one of my stories someday.

Socialized health care.

2009-05-18T14:44:00.019-07:00

"Every reasonable human being should be a moderate socialist." -- Thomas Mann.

As I was out running errands today, I saw two different anti-socialism bumper stickers. Living in a state that has occasionally been called the People's Republic of Oregon, I found that a bit surprising. Sure, I'd heard the word socialism thrown around during the last election, generally by folks who seemed to be equating it with Soviet style communism. And there has been some noise about not wanting to be like Europe with its social democracies. But I'm skeptical that those tossing the word around and labeling it as "EVIL" really understand the economic and political concepts behind the word. I'm beginning to believe that the term has become merely a synonym for "whatever we don't like" for some people.

There are at least 5 different definitions of the word socialism in the dictionary, ranging from the Marxist transition phase of society to the idea of state socialism where major industries remain privately owned with some legislation aimed to benefit working people. A moderate socialism would seem to fall into the later definition.

One of the first things I learned in philosophy class was to define what the terms mean before you engage in a debate over them. Currently, I think a lot of the hue and cry over socialism arises from people using more than one definition for the word, thus making it impossible to exchange ideas. A simplistic example might be the use of the word 'bad' in slang. In some circles 'bad' means good. And if someone from one of those circles were talking to someone who believes that the word 'bad' means bad, there would be a total lack of communication even if they basically agreed on the worth of whatever was being described. Thus, I believe that part of the disagreement arises from talking about different things. If one person equates socialism with the former Soviet Union and another understands it as basic societal safeguards for citizens, they are not talking about the same thing and argument is useless for both sides. But that is not all of it.

Some people seem to equate democracy with capitalism. There is nothing at all in our constitution that links the two concepts. According to the Merriam-Webster on-line dictionary capitalism is "an economic system characterized by private or corporate ownership of capital goods, by investments that are determined by private decision, and by prices, production, and the distribution of goods that are determined mainly by competition in a free market." It is an economic system not a political system. And, given the instability it has given to so many 'regular' people, I can't help but wonder why many folks hold onto it with such religious fervor. It doesn't seem to offer much for those outside of the ownership and investment groups. And I believe that we'll wait a very long time if we are waiting for the tender mercies of the corporations to help us out.

From what I can tell, much of the hysteria has arisen over the possibility of health care for everyone in this country. This truly confuses me. I have a very difficult time imagining what the downside of that might be. We currently have somewhere around 47 million people without any health care at all. This is not because we have 47 million lazy and good-for-nothing fellow citizens. For most of them it is because insurance and medical treatments are far too expensive in this country. A study by Harvard University found that 50% of all bankruptcies in this country are directly due to medical expenses even among people with some level of insurance coverage. Having the prices of services (and everything else) being determined by a free market, as with strict capitalism, results in hardship and unnecessary suffering, which eventually will undermine everyone's well-being.

So what would be a possible downside? Less money for the for-profit health care corporations? Somehow that doesn't seem too awful compared to a family who must go without basic preventative medicine simply because they can't afford it. Smaller profits for individual doctors? I don't know that that is terrible either given that my personal physician says she would welcome a universal system with open arms. Having patients who can not afford vital treatments because of a lack of coverage seems much worse to her. An increase in personal income taxes? Perhaps, but given that approximately 54% of our government expenditures are going towards military spending, might it not be better to divert a small portion of that for the health care of our citizens?

Obviously, I can't answer that for everyone and not everyone is interested in exploring it very deeply. As one of those who can't afford to get sick, I know that I would prefer that it work that way.

"The forces in a capitalist society, if left unchecked, tend to make the rich richer and the poor poorer." -- Jawaharlal Nehru.

Waiting

2009-05-12T11:56:00.013-07:00

I used to believe that I was bad at waiting. I'd joke that patience was a virtue that I did not have. But that wasn't true. I'd simply equated not liking certain kinds of waiting with an inability to do so. As it happens, I am very good at some types of waiting. Other types not so much at all.

From the time I was a child, I disliked waiting for "surprises." It felt like I was being taunted every time I was told there was something wonderful coming, but that I couldn't know what it was and I'd have to wait three weeks to find out. Either the long lead up doomed the pleasurable outcome because of the embellishments that time gave to the surprise or it wasn't worth the big build up to begin with. It was frequently disappointing and I began to dread the wind up to birthdays and Christmas. Excessive anticipation killed the surprises and I came to dislike that sort of waiting. I still do. I'd rather a pleasant surprise come to me out of the blue without the advance notice.

In the more mundane sorts of waiting, I am fairly unflappable. Traffic jams, supermarket lines, doctors' offices, do not faze me in the slightest. They are the sort of every day waiting scenarios that are predictable and only surprising in their absence. And by their very predictability, I am able to head them off at the pass and react calmly because I have been able to plan for waiting activities to fill the space. Thus there is no sense of wasted time.

There is the process type of waiting that only wears thin near the completion of whatever it is one is waiting for. The last half of my last semester in undergraduate school was sheer hell. I knew that I wasn't going to learn much of anything in the remaining weeks and figured they should just give me my degree and let me get on with my life. I was already done, despite still having time to put in. There was a similar sensation towards the end of my first pregnancy. By eight and a half months, I wanted to be finished and went a bit nutsy when the pregnancy extended three weeks beyond the expected due date. I wanted to move onto the mother stage and I desperately wanted my body back. I manage to wait through those sorts of things, because really what choice does one have? But as a known completion approaches, the patience in waiting begins to wear thin.

There is a kind of waiting where one not only can manage to wait just fine, but also to hope that the waiting can be extended. When a bad outcome is certain, such as with a death or a final parting from someone dear to us, each moment of waiting becomes filled with the experience of a savoring of the other person's presence that we would stretch out endlessly, if only we could.

As I've gotten older, most types of waiting have become easier to live through. I've learned not to load expectations onto anticipation. I've learned not to focus so much on the completion of something while I'm still in the process of it. But there is one sort of waiting that I haven't yet mastered and wonder if I ever will.

I have a great deal of difficulty living through the waiting when I do not know if or when an expected or hoped for outcome will occur; the sort of waiting that appears to be without end and which can lead to feelings of hopelessness. This can occur with both good things and bad things. The waiting by the phone for news from a hospital. The waiting to find out if hard work will result in success. The waiting for hopes and dreams to come to fruition. The waiting without any sort of control over a result. Perhaps that is a waiting that I will learn to do more easily over time, but at this point in my life it feels more like a releasing or giving up than waiting.

And now I wonder if it is really a question of waiting. The frustrations may arise more out of a lack of control in a situation than passing time. Might I not get more frustrated in traffic if I am in a hurry or if it is an emergency? Might I not get less frustrated if I were able to release all imagined control over outcomes? Is it about waiting at all? I am beginning to believe that it isn't, but rather about circumstances and what is more important to an individual in any given moment.

Toothpaste

2009-05-11T18:25:00.007-07:00

Have you ever noticed how complicated shopping can be? Recently, I spent far too much time trying to find a tube of toothpaste, only to be thoroughly thwarted in my efforts to find a plain old tube of Crest. There was tartar control, mint, tartar control with whiteners, sensitive, sensitive with whiteners, cherry cream and citrus splash, but no plain old regular flavored Crest. This got me to thinking about a couple of things. Why do we perceive a need for all of these variations on a theme and why do we feel frustration when "our" regular brand is missing?

Back when I was a kid, there were few brands of tooth paste, with only Crest and Colgate holding any prominence on the shelves. There were also some older folks who still used just baking soda. The big innovation came when they introduced mint varieties. And that was pretty much it for toothpaste.

At some point, someone at either a toothpaste company or advertising agency decided there was money in having a dizzying array of toothpastes on the market. And they must have been right because more keep appearing and are, obviously, being sold. The question is was there a need or was it only the marketing that made us think there was a need? It maybe a chicken and egg sort of question. There must be something in us that craves variety or these things would gather dust on the shelf. What might that be?

We could speculate that, as a species, we survived because of our ability to eat a wide variety of foods, and perhaps that is why we crave differences. But then again, that might apply only to food. Maybe the ad men are more clever than we suspect and the craving is purely manufactured and has been for so long that it is at the point of our being unaware of how we are being manipulated to go after the "new and improved." It could be a combination of these things or something else entirely. But whatever it is, we support many enterprises because of our perceived need for variety.

The other side of the question involves our reluctance to change our selection once we establish our personal preferences. After my fruitless search, I finally succumbed to buying a tube of Citrus Splash Crest and am committed to using this tube. At least twice a day for many weeks to come, I will have to brace myself for this less than wonderful toothpaste experience. So why I wonder does someone who is flexible on many, many things have a semi-serious issue with the flavor of toothpaste? And for that matter, any other slight shift that may come our way?

I guess that I could muse on the merits of one flavor over another, but I think it is something more than just a toothpaste issue. I suppose it could be a matter of familiarity or comfort. Perhaps it comes from our having to make large adjustments throughout life to the point that we don't like to deal with it on the small daily matters. Who knows what we will have to deal with outside of our doors, so we want no surprises or innovations in the brushing of our teeth. I know a cloistered nun who once told me that it wasn't desirable to have surprises at the dinner table. Maybe we are all like that on different issues. Changes in the little things in our daily routine upset us because we rely on the small things for essential stability. We may not be able to control the market or employment or interactions with others, but we should be able to rely on our toothpaste or coffee or what have you.

I'm hoping it is not a sign of limping into a new career as a curmudgeon. There's probably nothing more disconcerting to me than the idea of becoming a person of a certain age who rails against change and all those young whippersnappers. I think it is rather a sign of trying to find security for ourselves, things that remain stable despite the shakiness of many things in our lives. It's not earth shattering or of terribly high importance either, and I'm certain that it varies for everyone of us. And if clinging to the small securities gives us small comfort, perhaps it is a really good thing. But I do still wonder about it. And I plan to hunt for another tube of plain old Crest when the time comes for a new tube.

Interpretations

2009-04-28T13:41:00.039-07:00

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill
Where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.

-- Jalaluddin Rumi.

A friend gave me a copy of this poem several years when I was on the cusp of a major change in my life. She'd seen me going back and forth; making up my mind and then trying to talk myself out of it for many months. It was a timely gift and it has hovered in the back of my mind ever since. It held great meaning for me then and, as time has gone on, it continues to, but the meaning has shifted for me a couple of times.

Originally, it reminded me not to go backwards and to awaken to new possibilities. The repeated line of "don't go back to sleep" became a kind of mantra for me during that time. Later on, when I was wrestling with an internal change, the line "you must ask for what you really want" became very important and it still reminds me of things I sometimes forget. And then, more recently, the concluding line of "the door is round and open" has moved into my consciousness as an invitation to move actively towards those things that I want in my life.

I fully realize that Rumi's poetry is primarily mystical, but interpretation is in the eye of the beholder. There are other poems of his that do touch me on a spiritual level, but this one speaks to an approach to everyday life for me. And the meaning shifts as I evolve.

It seems to be a given that this applies to any text with which we find meaningful. For those following an organized religion, I'm certain that their holy books must act this way as the individual progresses through life. Whether it be the Bible, the Torah, the Qur'an or the Gita, a person's understanding must change as he grows older and views them through the lens of different experiences. This is not limited to accepted texts, any writing that is meaningful to the individual can hold such a place in their life.

It is in the varying interpretations that problems arise, or rather in the rigidity of some interpretations. When we believe that what has meaning in our lives must be universalized to everyone else, it can only lead to conflict. All Christians hold the Bible as their sacred and most meaningful text and yet there is a plethora of differing interpretations that has resulted in who-knows-how-many different denominations. I imagine something similar must be going on in other religions that have had splits within the group.

Many adherents of the various interpretations and sects truly have considered their beliefs and the understanding of their texts. Others, however, may be just following tradition or the preaching of someone else rather than asking themselves what has meaning for them. And some must hold on to the rightness of their understandings with anger and violence toward anyone who disagrees. This is evident in the intra-religious conflicts throughout history. It is very rare for people to split from an established group without a great deal of conflict or violence from one side or the other, if not both. It is also obvious in the conflicts between totally different religions. As long as people must have the market cornered on The Truth, mutual respect is impossible. Perhaps it is just the human condition to do this, but it is ironic in the extreme and terribly sad. Many seem incapable of recognizing that most people are following whatever light has been given them and respect the effort. There is no need for absolute agreement because every person is living a different life and, therefore, has different understandings about how to do that and understand it.

It could be that I am quite odd, but I've come to accept the shifting sands of meaning and approach them with a measure of curiosity. Certainly, I go through periods of comfortably toddling along with little thought or self-examination. Inevitably, however, something new will pop-up in my awareness and require that I give it attention. It may stick with me or I may reject it, but it is unavoidable that it will come. The only consideration is what to do about it when it happens.

Transitions

2009-04-23T16:14:00.012-07:00

There is a dichotomy in how many of us deal with change in our lives and within ourselves. On the one hand, we seem to be always looking forward to the next goal, the next stage. From the time we begin thinking in terms of what we will do or be when we grow up through all the milestones of life that we eagerly reach for from year to year, we seem to embrace the changes as a gate to arriving at what we think will be a more fulfilling place in our lives.

And yet, on another level, we cling to the security of what we know, what is comfortable, the semblance of stability. Depending on the circumstances, we waver between eagerly anticipating transitions and being fearful of them. Naturally, not all changes are pleasant or welcomed, but change in one form or another is inevitable. It is one of the few constants of our existence.

The abruptness and unexpectedness of unplanned changes in our lives accounts for at least part of the fear we have of transitions. We want to believe that we can control or stop the transitions that come to us. We want predictability in our unpredictable lives.

No less disruptive are the internal shifts that we all go through. I am generally quite surprised when something that had been little more than a vague idea hovering on the edges of my awareness takes root and establishes itself as a guiding principal in my life, altering both my understanding and my behavior. At any given moment, most of us are quite sure of what we believe, what we do not believe, what we will do and what we will never do. When these internal transitions take place it can shake up all or part of what we think we are sure of, about life and about ourselves.

These types of shifts can be quashed if a person chooses to ignore their advent. When we do this, however, we are actively rejecting an opportunity to explore ourselves more fully. Some of this may be due to fear, but I also think there is a reluctance to let go of what had been sure and certain to us. Contentment is a very comfortable place to operate from, particularly given the outside forces that bombard us constantly. And there is nothing wrong with that. Sometimes we are simply unable to take the risk.

These internal shifts often appear abrupt to those witnessing them from the outside, but they are actually very gradual, beginning in some deeply buried reaction or thought. Their emergence is slow, like a seedling pushing up through the soil. It has been germinating unseen long before we are actively aware of it. And even when it breaks through, it may be too small to see or as yet too unformed to be recognizable for what it is. Therefore, when we do recognize it fully, it is deeply set within us, despite having a feeling of shooting up from nothing. We have the option of totally uprooting it, if that is what we wish to do. But we risk leaving a hole in some essential part of ourselves that may not be able to be filled with something else.

If only we were able to live into the changes that appear. If only we could respond with curiosity rather than fear, a sense of acceptance rather than rejection, a sense of adventure rather than reluctance. I don't know that it would make major changes any easier to adapt to, but it might. Perhaps such an approach would help us glean more from the experience. Perhaps we could find a security in the changing. Perhaps it would help us to grow into more authentic versions of ourselves.

Judging

2009-04-18T17:17:00.016-07:00

"Make no judgments where you have no compassion." -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Like millions of people around the world, I became aware of Susan Boyle this past week. Given that I avoid anything involving Simon Cowell or reality television shows, it was highly unlikely that I would have stumbled across the video of her singing but for the fact that four different people sent me links to it within a day and a half. All of which carried subject lines related to "You have got to see this!" And they were right.

The first time I watched it, I felt a mild horror at how both the audience and the judges were openly mocking her, laughing at her and patronizing her. This feeling changed to absolute delight when she opened her mouth to sing and put them all to shame. And over all, I shed a few happy, hopeful tears for her, for others like her, and perhaps for myself.

As the phenomenon spread, I saw and heard many comments about not judging a book by its cover or cheering for an underdog. All of which had an element of truth to them. Yet most of these same comments prefaced themselves with unflattering descriptions of her physical appearance. All of this got me thinking.

One of the things I wondered about first was why in the world these people in the theater thought they were behaving in an acceptable manner? Perhaps it was related to a mob mentality in some way. One smirk leading to another making it somehow all right to laugh out loud at her. I believe that most of these same people would never do anything like that were they to meet Ms. Boyle face-to-face, alone, in another setting. Had they crossed paths with her at the grocery store, whatever opinion they might form about her, it would never occur to most people to share it in such a brutal way.

I imagine that there were others in that audience who did not mock her, but they probably pitied the poor woman who had such naivete as to think she should be on that stage. I also feel very certain that no one sat up straight and leaned forward in their seats in anticipation of what she might do. I don't believe that I would have, had I been there. To everyone's eternal credit, they very quickly recognized their error and proceeded to cheer much louder than they had jeered.

Many of the comments that I heard and read bemoaned the fact of societal emphasis on the superficialities of appearance and age. They also suggested that Susan had put an end to all of that. To me, that was too much hyperbole for what had occurred. I have no doubt that some of the people who were there will give more thought to their responses to others, at least for a little while. But to suggest that society as a whole will be changing its attitudes based on this one pleasant lady with a beautiful voice is not realistic. These attitudes didn't embed themselves overnight and they won't be dislodged that quickly either.

There were comments from people who clearly identified with her due to their age or appearance or unrealized dreams. And I felt moved beyond words in recognizing what a large number of people marginalize themselves because society and its standards have led them to lose hope. And then by the opposite realization that society as a whole has also short changed itself by suppressing the contributions of those who do not fit the preferred standard. That suppression must be quite large since so few of us look like the airbrushed "perfection" of entertainers. And I wondered at how much we have all missed out on.

I would have liked to have seen an acknowledgment of her courage and her confidence in her own gifts in the comments I read. Long before anyone else became aware of her, she knew precisely what her age was, how she looked and that many would dismiss her because of those things. It takes a great deal of courage to put oneself out there. How much harder must it be when one is pelted with constant messages from the culture that you don't quite rate? When she sang, she became one with her voice and the song, quickly lifting everyone to a place where only the music mattered. No doubt, she has taken herself to that same place over the years and, perhaps, it is from that place that her confidence sprang.

She is a very talented woman who has bucked the odds against her and deserves the accolades that she is getting. And while I don't believe that she has turned the tide of the petty criteria that society frequently applies to people, I do believe she has given us more than just the gift of her music. It is entirely possible that someone who was very judgmental about others will think twice and reconsider before criticizing. And it may be that someone else out there, who hasn't dared to step forward and claim their own dreams, will be empowered to try to reach for them again. And in those ways, Susan Boyle has given gifts beyond that of her talent. There is no way of knowing if that will be the case, but I certainly hope it is.

Rugged individualism

2009-04-12T12:30:00.007-07:00

Despite the fact that the United States is a relatively young country, we still have myths about ourselves and our history just like any other culture. George Washington cut down a cherry tree. Betsy Ross sewed the first flag. The Pilgrims and the Indians were great friends. And on and on. Everyone knows that the Wild West was just like a John Wayne movie. And everyone equally believes in the virtue of being a rugged individualist. Most of these myths are harmless. After all what does it matter if Washington ever lied or not. But the last one, the rugged individualist can and does cause harm to some people.

I imagine that this myth could have come about as a way to make virtue of the fact that opening up new territories required some unique skill sets in order to survive and one of those would have definitely been self-sufficiency. When there are not too many humans in the neighborhood, you had better be able to take care of yourself. But how did this evolve into some sort of universalized virtue given that it really only applies in a select set of circumstances? One has to be self-sufficient only when one is isolated, otherwise all humans are interdependent with the other people in their lives.

Throughout our lives we are dependent, to one degree or another, on those around us. And we are fooling ourselves if we believe this is not the case. As children, we are dependent on others for everything in our lives. As we mature, the amounts and types of connections we have shift to accommodate our situation and needs, but we are never totally independent. There are some souls who consider themselves loners, but even they are not as independent as they might think. This gives rise to feelings of pity in most of us for the person that isolates themselves. In extreme cases, we begin to suspect a possible mental health issue in them.

However, we have an inconsistency in our understanding of individualism versus interdependence. Certainly, we think those who withdraw to be not quite right in some way. On the other hand, some in our society also cast aspersions on some for being "too needy." Often when those so labeled are only normally needy. It is as if we are somehow afraid that another person's open need of something will require a response from us. I think that this carries through to the contempt that some people show to anyone who is down on their luck or buried in a mess. More often than not, someone will blame the person who is unemployed for his unemployment whether or not they know if it was avoidable. If someone's finances have taken a hit, it must be their own fault, rather than the economy, our society, an illness or who-knows-what else.

I think that it is quite likely that this is spurred by personal fear. If someone openly acknowledges their own vulnerability, it makes us frightened of our own vulnerabilities. If I can blame your catastrophe on you, then I can feel a bit more secure that it won't happen to me. This is because I can be certain that I would choose differently than you and am thus safe from a similar catastrophe. It isn't a reasonable assumption to make in many cases, but we cling to it nonetheless.

The cold hard fact of the matter is that none of us can make it on our own. More than any other time in history, we are dependent on strangers for our daily needs. Since the industrial revolution, we have become less and less independently viable. Our food comes from who-knows-where. Our businesses are so interconnected that the failure of one component could lead to disruptions in the life of someone on the other side of the planet. And if we believe that we should make it all on our own, we are surely courting disaster. It is truly the case that if we wish to make it through whatever life hurls at us, we must support and be connected to others. For in doing that, we are not only helping them, we are helping ourselves.

In the dark

2009-04-06T15:17:00.009-07:00

"Character is what you are in the dark." -- Anonymous.

I've tried in vain to discover who first said this, but whoever it was showed keen insight. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to apply to a wide variety of situations.

During the day, many of us put on a mask that reflects the expectations of others. We hide elements of our thoughts, motivations, desires and emotions in an attempt to present an acceptable face in our jobs and our relationships. And in this hiding we are, to some extent, denying essential parts of ourselves. This is precisely what society expects from us and we comply. In fact, it rarely occurs to us not to fulfill these expectations.

In our jobs, we are expected to present an appearance of having virtually no personal lives and to strictly limit our expressions of feelings and opinions. This makes business go more smoothly, perhaps. But what does it do to the individual who must suppress parts of themselves?

In our relationships, the amount of masking we do is dependent on the nature of the relationship. With our more casual friendships, we disguise ourselves in much the same way as we do in our work life, to the end that we reveal very little of our true nature. We are pleasant to most everyone despite any unpleasantness that may be going on just beneath the surface. We also hide our joys and dreams, not revealing ourselves.

Within families, we hide how we feel from each other and, frequently, we hide what goes on in the family from the outside world. We never admit to having an aunt who drinks, or a father who is abusive or an uncle that the kids have to avoid. We hide the hurt another family member's words give us. And the place that should be our haven becomes another place of deception. With our children, we hide our fears and vulnerabilities, our humanity. With our mates, we will swallow disagreement until it chokes us to avoid conflict. In all of these cases, there are times when it is more prudent to keep quiet about a given situation.

I wonder, however, what it costs us as individuals if we feel we must frequently hide or even deny essential parts of ourselves. How long until who we really are disappears under a giant mound of expectations?

We can't ever suppress ourselves permanently. No matter how much we bow down to the god Conformity, late at night, when sleep eludes us, we inevitably meet our true selves and can no longer deny who or what we are. Every fear in our lives comes clamoring for attention and we can no longer deny the fears. Every hope that seems impractical or imprudent, whispers that we should try. Every desire we believe we shouldn't have stirs up anew with longing. And the specter of who we appear to be crashes into who we truly are and the winner of that battle will determine how we live through the next day.

Most of us will automatically don our acceptable masks again in the morning. But what have we done to ourselves when we do? What happens to the self we've denied?

Hair

2009-04-05T13:17:00.009-07:00

After my recent disastrous haircut, I've found myself noticing things about hair or the lack thereof. Hair can be used as a statement, a reflection of self-image, or a passing fad. It can be a source of derision or a source of sensual pleasure. Maybe all of the above at various times.

I've never used a hair style to make a statement, unless I'm making a statement by not making a statement. And when I see people using their hair that way, I generally find it mildly amusing. Never having been inclined to dye my hair green or pink, I can only imagine what sort of statement is intended there. Perhaps that they are unique? But how unique is it when so many people are doing it together? There is also most likely a "hey, look at me" element to it as well. My favorite instance of this occurred when I saw a young man on the train with a tall, rainbow-colored mohawk. He got angry at the glances he was getting and yelled, "What are you looking at?" I thought then that styling one's hair like a prismatic rooster's comb was a funny way to avoid notice.

The fads come and go with regularity. When I was very young, it seemed as if all the women were trying to copy Jackie Kennedy's hairdo, massive amounts of hairspray included. Then, as I got older, the hair icons shifted from Farah Fawcett to Dorothy Hamill to Princess Diana to Jennifer Aniston. I don't know how much this was due to imitation as flattery and how much to following a trend. Or maybe it was something else. I managed to avoid the most popular trends, not so much by design, but because I went through long periods of time when I didn't cut my hair at all.

Haircuts seem to be used to reflect an image of ourselves, especially as regards our employment. For "serious" occupations or in situations when we wish to be taken seriously, short hair seems to be an unspoken requirement for both sexes. Of all the attorneys I've worked with none of them have had interesting or nonstandard haircuts. Well, there was one guy going with a Ben Franklin look, but he had the professional chops to get away with it. Women have a bit more latitude simply because they can put long hair up so that it appears controlled and, therefore, more serious.

Those with less expectations in their work have more freedom to choose hairstyles, but I've noticed that most tend toward the practical side as well. Of course, artists and other creative sorts can get away with trying absolutely anything in hairstyles and usually do. I think that falls into both the self-image and statement making categories.

The lack of hair can also fall into several of the categories as well. Some young men with full heads of hair make a statement by shaving their heads. Having grown up in a family where most of the men went prematurely bald, I never gave baldness much thought. But, in thinking back on it, there must have been some teasing going on because the men generally beat people to the punch with self-deprecating jokes on themselves. On the one hand, I think this may have lessened over time. On the other hand, there are lots of commercials selling hair replacement treatments, so I might just be out of that loop these days. Currently, the most derision is heaped on the dreaded comb-over and bad toupees. Perhaps because they tend to convey a bit of desperation in their adherents.

The most overlooked aspect of hair is the sensual. Females may notice it more than males, or perhaps the men just notice it differently. I first noticed it back when I was too young to know what the word sensual even meant. Way back then, we were still being taught that you had to brush your hair 100 strokes a day. This was supposed to make it healthy. It started out with our mothers brushing our hair. Then, later on, all of the little long-haired girls would take turns brushing each others' hair, just because it felt so good. The rhythmic strokes of the brush and the wonderful sensations on one's scalp were hypnotic and mildly addictive. Some girls even used their recess time brushing and brushing each others' hair. The practice disappeared as we got older, although I experienced a brief flashback to it a few years back on a weekend away with some friends. The guys with us had no idea what they'd been missing out on.

Most of the time, these sensations only arise during grooming at the hands of another, like getting a shampoo at a salon. It seems to be a bit like not being able to tickle yourself, someone else must do it. There is potential for it to expand, particularly in relationships. Touching someone's hair is an extremely intimate act. As adults, we may at times touch a child's hair to straighten it or pat them on the head. But there are only a very limited number of cases where it is permissible between adults. Most likely this is because we are unknowingly acknowledging its intimacy and sensuality. So, for those in relationships, take full advantage of the possibilities at hand. As for the rest of us, I think it is past time for an old-fashioned slumber party. I'll bring my brush.

Eavesdropping

2009-03-26T12:12:00.009-07:00

I frequently spend time writing in a coffee shop or a pub. I generally do this when I become too distracted by everything at home. After all, I could do chores or knit or sew or read instead of my daily writing.

Most of the time, because I tend to go in the off hours, the cafe or pub is very quiet and I have the space virtually to myself. But there are those occasions where someone feels the need to speak just a smidgen too loudly about topics that would be better kept quiet or private. Naturally, I shamelessly listen in while appearing to be gazing into space in search of inspiration.

I have heard a couple of older gentlemen compare their nocturnal bathroom habits. I have heard all sorts of reprehensible bigotry expressed. I've heard way too much from young ladies about what they and their boyfriends are up to. And my most recent favorite was a clutch of little old ladies at a nearby table sharing their health difficulties. Who would have known that there were so many gory details to be related about getting one's toenails clipped!

I find some of my eavesdropping to be amusing. Other times I listen in total disbelief at what people will discuss in a public space. And I save up some of the tidbits for later writing projects. All of which makes me wonder whether these folks are assuming that people can't hear them or if they truly have no boundaries. Perhaps they are expecting others to have manners that they seemingly lack themselves.

Some people seem to believe that their physical bubble is somehow also an audio bubble which keeps other people from hearing what they are talking about. Similar to the way some folks think they are invisible in their cars, they think they have a cone of silence between themselves and everyone except the person to whom they are talking.
Or, maybe, they don't realize just how loudly they are talking -- too much life or too much iPod music having nibbled away at their hearing. Then again, it might just be that they permanently misplaced their manners. Perhaps it is different reasons for different people, but whatever it is it seems to be widespread and expanding.

One of the most annoying aspects of this baring it all in public frequently involves a cell phone. Many people seem to be constitutionally unable to lower their voice while talking on their cell phones in public. This is a nuisance because I really don't want to hear about the latest business deal you are making, or having to take your dog to the vet, or the ugly breakup you had with whoever it was that you were sleeping with last. I figure those topics are private business and can't for the life of me understand why anyone would loudly share the details with me. It's not that I don't find human behavior fascinating, because I do; I just don't care to hear a lot about it over food and drink.

I know, I know, one is supposed to ignore, or pretend to ignore, what is said at nearby tables. And I would, given half the chance. I'm a big fan of privacy. But in these cases, the people involved seem determined to make that extremely difficult if not impossible to do. Just a lowering of the volume would go a long way towards keeping your business to yourself. Or, even better, wait until you are in a private place to discuss private matters. And it isn't as though I'm making negative judgments on whatever is going on in someone's life, because I'm not. In fact, while it is distracting, it is also quite amusing sometimes. I just didn't come into the establishment hoping to know that much about strangers.

I realize there's nothing to be done about it. But if anyone ever hears me discussing my toenails, or God knows what else, in a public space please put me out of my, and everyone else's, misery.

Passing

2009-03-21T16:57:00.004-07:00

"No man is an island... any man's death diminishes me for I am involved in mankind...Therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." -- John Donne, Meditation XVII.

In general, I agree with John Donne's thoughts here, although I probably understand it in a different way than he did. It seems evident to me that all life is connected in some way, and to varying degrees. Whether it be humans' connections to the various animals who are serving as the canaries in our mine of global warming or the common experiences of all people around the world, everything is connected and has some effect on everything else. Perhaps more than some, I tend to feel that connection deeply. I regularly go on news boycotts because I feel overwhelmed by the pain and tragedy it presents. I feel empathy when anyone dies. I've even been known to cry for strangers, and some fictional characters. So it came as a bit of a shock when I had to acknowledge that I had a few exceptions to that sense of connection.

Yesterday word came of the death of a person that I used to be related to. This person had disliked, maybe even hated, me almost from the minute we met. There was seemingly nothing I could do to win her over, so in time I simply withdrew. I learned later that her hatred for me continued for decades, long after there was no tie between us. But when I was told that she had died, I felt absolutely nothing. I wasn't happy that she had died nor was I sad about it. There was just a void where any feeling might have been.

This was only mildly shocking because I had an even more extreme case of it years earlier. Then it concerned a family member who was chronically abusive and actively looked for ways to harm her nearest relatives. When she died, the only way to describe my feelings would be a huge "Who Cares?' The only pain that I felt then was the horror of acknowledging just how terribly she had treated me and others.

In both cases, I managed to say all of the expected things and resist giving voice to what I was thinking about the individual. But I also couldn't help but analyze this seeming disjoint between how I thought I was and these glaring exceptions. It is a testament to my personal growth that I didn't feel that there was something wrong with me for not feeling sorrow. And I didn't try to force myself to feel something that I didn't feel. I was more curious about whether these examples were the exceptions that proved the rule or if many people respond in a similar way, but it goes unexpressed because we aren't supposed to speak ill of the dead, no matter what.

I also wondered a little bit if I have provoked the same lack of connection in others. And I am certain that there are a few other people, who used to mean something in my life, for whom I will feel nothing when they pass. And when it happens, I will say the appropriate meaningless words so that no one knows that I feel nothing. But now I know that it does not indicate something lacking in me. And as long as I don't tap dance on their graves, that is all right.

Both/And

2009-03-15T16:36:00.013-07:00

Recently, I took one of those silly quizzes that purported to tell me where I should live. And, while I'm skeptical that a 10-question long quiz could be accurate, it did hit fairly close to the mark. But the questions it asked seemed to imply that everyone was a certain type with, seemingly, very little fluctuation possible. Either one is an outdoorsy person or a bookworm, a sophisticate or a hick, a city girl or a country girl. This just seemed wrong to me. It seemed so one dimensional and so wrong. I am, at the very least, two types depending on my mood. I appear to be more of a both/and than an either/or type of person. Or perhaps I just want it all.

I was born in a fairly large city with all the usual cultural perks available. I don't remember the first time I went to the art museum, a legacy handed down to me from a grandfather who never even went to high school. And, if memory serves, there that the admission was free. It must have been, since we could have scarcely afforded to pay for it as often as we went. I also had access to Russian ballet, back when it was Soviet ballet, on three separate occasions. And both the open air theater and the symphony had free tickets on a first come basis. I definitely ran in circles that most of my friends in the suburbs never did, which probably made me seem to be even more of an odd fish to many of them.

At the museum, I soaked in the one Rembrandt and the French impressionist collection. And, since I was a kid, I also had a morbid fascination for the mummy. At the symphony, I fell in love with Faure's Requiem and Vaughn Williams A Sea Symphony. At the theater, I had my life permanently altered by Richard Kiley's portrayal of Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha. And there were other numerous performances of greater or less quality. And after decades of having these preferences suppressed, I hunger for it: the plays, the musical performances, the ballet and the museums.

I also truly appreciate the variety of cuisines available in large cities. Here in the moderately large city where I currently live, I can, with very little trouble find good Greek, Indian, Japanese, Mexican and Italian restaurants. Sadly, no Turkish food, but still a very good selection. We also have excellent ethnic bakeries and wonderful little privately owned coffee shops.

In addition to the cultural and food outlets are the people. Whenever I've been in large cities, it is as though the diversity and throbbing pulse of the people from a myriad of places and backgrounds enlivens the place as nothing else can. I've generally found myself in an international community and feel somehow strange when I am constantly in the company of more "conventional" folks. I've known musicians, writers, a composer, some artists and people from every continent on earth. My life has been enriched in some way by each one of them.

Now, lest I start to sound like some sort of elitist snob, which no one from the Midwest is supposed to do, let me turn to the appeal of living in the country. From the time I was quite young my ultimate escape and the places that I have felt most secure and most myself have been in the woods. Far away from all but the select few that I include, I sink into silence and truly listen to the world around me speak to some very deep places in my spirit. The woods represent a retreat into myself and a release of all the energy of the city, which I crave and need at other times.

Naturally, this feeling isn't limited to the woods alone. I've felt it above the timberline in the Rockies, along streams and rivers in the Ozarks and, more recently on deserted beaches on the Pacific coast. The country places offer respite when it is needed, a sort of retreat or a slowing down, which in turn allows me to incorporate all the other stimuli that I absorb in the rest of my life. After all, one can't peddle at full speed all the time.

The food in such places doesn't have much variety, but sometimes that is a comfort in itself. Nothing to be adventurous about, just the security of simple comfort food. And the people are much the same, simpler but very real in their expression of life. There is a small town in the Ozarks where, with just a few words, I can establish my bona fides and be welcomed in like a long lost cousin, which I probably am.

Comparing the city experience with the country one is truly a case of comparing apples and oranges. To my mind, neither one is better or worse than the other. They each feed and nurture different sorts of people with different tastes. Perhaps I am the strange one in wanting both. But there it is on my list of 10 things I most want, a home in both types of places where I can move between them freely. Given my current state of affairs, this might seem to be a wild ambition - to have two homes in two varied environments. And, barring my ship coming in, winning the lottery or becoming an insanely popular author, that dream will have to remain on my list until I can make it a reality. And I do truly want both, and even more.

Daffodils

2009-03-12T13:34:00.010-07:00

Despite the fact that it is still coat weather here, there are signs of the inevitable reappearance of spring popping up. In general, I don't look forward to the coming of spring at all. For me, it is an all too brief buffer between winter and the dreaded heat of summer. And summer seems interminable as I wait for the relief of fall.

But there is one aspect of spring that I truly enjoy and that is the emergence of all the bulb flowers, especially the daffodils. Before I moved to the Pacific Northwest, I had a fairly limited experience of daffodils. A family that lived down the road from us had an entire front yard full of naturalized daffodils. Every spring, I would walk way out of my way just to look at them. They always made me smile. They seemed so cheerful and full of hope.

When I moved up here, once again I discovered a field of daffodils. This time I had access to the field and delighted in walking through it. There was also a bench nearby, so I could spend time just enjoying the yellow flowers swaying in the breeze.

Before I moved here I didn't realize that there was such a wide variety of daffodils. The first ones to come up are the tiny, miniature daffodils. At first, I wasn't at all certain that I liked these mini-flowers. After all, they were not "my" sort of daffodil and I felt a little shortchanged by them. But in time, I began to smile at these petite blooms, recognizing them as heralds of their larger relatives.

And I was surprised to see that the larger varieties had a wide range of variation as well. There were some that had a ruffled center piece. Others had a roundish, blob-ish, center. Some had orange centers. And still others were white with pink centers.

I must confess to disliking the pink and white ones. I guess I'm a bit of a daffodil purist. Despite the fact that I'm not a huge fan of the color yellow, in my opinion, daffodils simply must be yellow. No exceptions. I have expanded my range to enjoying the various sizes and centers, but I draw the line at non-yellow daffodils.

I don't know why the daffodils attract me so much. Pansies, primroses or geraniums don't have any of the same appeal. I will admit to a fondness for tulips and lilies, too. I guess that I'm just a bulb girl at heart.

My ambition is to acquire a home with a big yard and to slowly establish my very own field of daffodils. Then, every spring, I could enjoy them to my heart's content. And perhaps, long after I'm gone, some little girl will walk past my field of daffodils and dream of a field of her own.

Touch

2009-03-10T12:46:00.010-07:00

"Touch is the meaning of being human." - Andrea Dworkin.

I don't know that touch is the entire meaning of being human, but it is certainly an important component. It is well known that infants who are not held and touched "fail to thrive" and, I believe, the same holds true for the rest of us, if in less obvious ways.

One of my teachers in massage school pointed out that touch is the one sense that is reciprocal. We can't touch someone else without feeling something of it ourselves. And it is a profound means of communication when words are totally inadequate in times of joy and grief. It transmits comfort and connection in ways that nothing else can. The words "I'm so sorry" take on added strength when the words are accompanied by a comforting touch. It provides tangible connection in situations where we might otherwise feel isolated.

So it seems odd that ours is such a touch-phobic society. Granted, in certain situations,it is wise to exercise caution and restraint, but those cases are not the ones I mean to explore here. It is a given that unwanted touch is always unacceptable; however, I think we've taken touch avoidance to some strange levels.

I imagine that the seed for this no-touch or limited-touch attitude can be laid at the feet of our Puritan ancestors. Despite the fact that these people had an astonishing rate of babies born within 6 or 7 months of weddings, their reputation and their self-image was one of extreme restraint. Add to that a liberal dose of Victorian prudery and we have a fertile ground for a huge taboo to grow.

Part of it can also be attributed to our litigious society. In this country we have an unhealthy habit of suing people and organizations over the least thing, which leads to absolutist regulations, or zero tolerance policies. Recently, I heard of a middle school that had issued a zero tolerance rule on touching, all touching. No one was to touch anyone for any reason. That included congratulatory hugs and couples holding hands. Obviously this policy was established to allow punishment for unacceptable touching and to safeguard the school in lawsuits, but it is truly a case of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Rather than teaching children to differentiate good, healthy touch from bad or illegal touch, we forbid them any touch at all. This will probably lead to fear and a skewed relationship with touch.

Another aspect is the fact that touch has been highly sexualized in our culture and often there is a misinterpretation of touch, as though it must have some ulterior motive. In many cases, the only touch some of us experience is in a sexual context which adds to our collective suspicions. But the elderly and the uncoupled need touch, just as much as their younger and mated counterparts and, all too often, they must do without any at all. I can't help but believe that this leads to a less obvious state of failing to thrive.

So, what's to be done? I don't for a second think that any of us can alter the centuries old societal taboos that have grown to the extreme in our culture. However, I do believe that we can incrementally subvert them in our own little corners of the world. And it is past time we regained healthy touch for ourselves.

Our subversion of the status quo can begin simply and in small ways. We can couple any words of comfort with a touch on the arm or a hug, showing greater connection to the person we're speaking to. When greeting or leaving friends, add a hug. Whenever you feel moved to reach out, and you know the recipient won't faint from shock, do so. Only by behaving as if touch is a normal part of relationship will we all come to see it as such. What's the worst that can happen? Some onlookers might disapprove, but doesn't that say more about them than you? You might get a reputation as a notorious hugger. But would that be such a terrible thing? And you will have given the gift of touch to someone else and yourself.

Bad Hair Day

2009-03-06T12:05:00.023-08:00

Having just endured yet another unacceptable haircut and knowing it will take a week or two for it to come close to being tolerable, I spent some minutes frowning at my image in the mirror. My haircut had garnered a few "cute" comments, but I certainly didn't see it that way and "cute" was not the effect I was hoping for. With short, blunt bangs and layers that flip out in random places, I think I look like a five-year-old going for the old Farrah Fawcett look. This is not a good look for a woman of a certain age with chubby cheeks. At least, I don't think so. But it got me to thinking about the images we present to others, how they see us and how that differs from how we see ourselves.

As I frowned at the mirror, I acknowledged that I am always harder on myself than anyone else on the planet would be. Whether it is physical attractiveness, inner beauty or some pleasing aspect of my personality, I don't generally see it and am always a bit surprised when others tell me what they see in me, pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless. So I freely admit that there are some areas where I am blind to some aspects of myself. I usually assume that there is a great deal that misses the mark.

I had always taken it for granted that no one could know me as well as I know myself, but I find myself doubting that that is completely true. It seems true that I can know what I think in a given moment, but I cannot be certain that I will hold that same thought or opinion should there be even the slightest change in the information that I have or the situation at hand. Also, I think that for the most part, I know more completely how I am feeling about something, someone or some issue than someone else could know. But again, that can be contingent too, depending on shifts of information surrounding the emotion. Bliss can shift to anguish from moment to moment, but I can recognize that sort of shift, so I still believe that I know my true feelings better than anyone else. But the self-image thing is a total crap shoot.

So why, I wonder, is this the case? And is this a universal or merely one of my little foibles? I can't speak for others, but I have some suspicions and it may be a different mix of several things for others. Part of this blind spot could be generational, which makes me nervous simply because I don't want to get into the habit of recalling "back in the day" or "the younger generation . . ." But I think those of us in the immediate post-boomer generation, still were raised with the notion of not being stuck on ourselves and not blowing our own horns, at least that is how it was in the Midwest. That could just be true for the females; I wouldn't know about men not having grown up male. We were expected to put everyone else's needs ahead of our own and many of us disappeared into the wallpaper without ever examining ourselves too deeply. Indeed, I didn't wake up to what I believe is my true nature until after I turned forty.

Perhaps it could be that we tend to internalize negative comments about ourselves so much that they drown out the positive ones. We fail to even hear them, much less incorporate them into our sense of ourselves. I know that when someone has touched me deeply with a wonderful comment of how they see me, I find myself hoping that they will repeat it or say something else equally good so that I might embed it more deeply into my psyche. Maybe when we are younger and have less depth of experience, we discount such comments as coming from someone who HAS to appreciate us. After all, your mom and dad have to appreciate you; it's their job. Or they come from our peers who have as little depth as we do ourselves and, therefore, the comments don't have the same deep truth as if it comes from someone we respect.

Primarily, I think we have to grow into it and that growing takes place on a fairly perilous field. Sometimes we find a comfortable place to stay and other times nothing will do but more in-depth investigation of who we really are. The need for growth and exploration continues even if we would rather not face it.

What I have come to believe is that we all have some sort of blind spot about ourselves. And that lack of recognition about something integral to our being can only be awakened by independent assessment coming from outside of our own view. In some very real sense, we can only truly see ourselves reflected in the discerning eyes of someone else. This can be a good thing or a bad thing depending on what there is to see there and how much we are in tune with ourselves to begin with. But we know when what they see rings true, even if we feel obligated by modesty to demur about the good stuff or struggle to deny the negative. We can recognize the truth of it and hunger for more if it is a goodness we have not recognized or acknowledged in ourselves before. And, if it is not positive, many of us will simply fortify the wall around the blind spot rather than examine it for whatever truth it might reveal. It takes a lot of will and energy to uproot those things that go deep.

So, I'm resolved to listen for and consider what others have to say about me. And, if it seems to have an element of truth to it, I will try to make it a part of my own self-image. But, in the meantime, I'm going to go looking for another hairdresser and, maybe, buy myself a hat.

Oughts and Shoulds

2009-02-26T13:38:00.009-08:00

When I taught English as a foreign language, my students would frequently get confused over the differences between could, would and should. That was probably not surprising given that they rhyme with each other and the shades of meaning can be very subtle. I would explain to them that would was conditional and expressed a desire to do something, if the conditions were or were not met. As in, "I would meet you for dinner, if I weren't broke." Could expressed capability or options, as in "you could do this or that." And that should was used to impose an obligation and frequently coupled that with a judgment if the obligation weren't met. "you should have finished your homework before going out with your friend." And ought was just should on steroids.

It is probably not surprising that I have a strong dislike for 'shoulds.' When someone says to me, "You should.....," the hair on the back of my neck stands up and I tense up in preparation for a fight. It doesn't always lead to a disagreement. Sometimes it is a kind of sideways compliment. "You should do X! You're so good at it." But, generally, I brace myself because I'm about to hear someone's unsolicited opinion on how I should live my life in a way more acceptable to the person making the pronouncement.

In my life, I've been told what I should or should not feel, should or should not think, whether I should be happy or sad, grateful or forgiving, and what I should or should not be or do. And a much younger me dutifully tried to live up to the obligations imposed from the outside, no matter how many contortions I had to put myself through in order to approximate the mold I was supposed to fit into.

As is my habit, whenever I have a strong reaction to something, I try to figure out why I feel the way I do about it and this is no different. I thought back to my history of resenting 'shoulds' and it stretched fairly far back. And in every case where I remember my hackles rising, it was a case of someone attempting to exercise control over who I am or what I wanted to do.

When we are children it is only reasonable that our parents exercise a certain amount of control over us, lest we act like little savages. Obviously, some parents overdo it and the result is usually resentment and rebellion, once we are old enough to do so. But much more insidious are the ways society as a whole, or smaller groups within society, seeks to control people and enlists everyone in exercising this control on others. This happens with small things and larger things almost without our realizing it. The most dreadful aspect is that we are complicit in enforcing that control on ourselves. These little tyrannies shape and control all aspects of our lives to the point that we frequently turn our backs on the lives we would much prefer to live.

Naturally, there are a few 'shoulds' that should be retained, but probably fewer than most people would think. All the usual proscriptions against violence and thievery should be retained simply because everyone should feel safe in their person and their homes. But I propose the addition of some 'shoulds' that enhance life rather than limit it.

Everyone should do things that make them happy. Whether that be "wasting" a Saturday afternoon on the couch reading, "lazily" hitchhiking across Europe, or "irresponsibly" chucking it all to follow a deeply held personal dream.

Everyone should avoid things that do not bring them life. Many years ago, during my last gig as a pianist, I was heartily complaining to someone about how much I hated it and didn't feel like I could quit. She quietly asked me, "Why do you do things that do not give you life?" I couldn't come up with any justification for it, so I dumped the job. Any activity that doesn't bring joy and animation to life, probably should be dropped. It might not lead to great riches, but it just might bring great peace.

Everyone should have some personal dream that they aspire to no matter what. Once we allow ourselves to be buried under the daily grind, we slowly disappear into that grind and lose sight of ourselves. And that cannot be a good thing in any way.

And everyone should reach for these things as long as we live. Sure, it might lead to what looks like destruction or chaos. Monetary security could be lost. Relationships could fade. Others might heap on criticism. All because we march to the tune of our own lives. But, at the end, it simply has to be better to have lived one's real life.

"One's real life is so often the life that one does not lead." -- Oscar Wilde.

Musical mediation

2009-02-22T13:24:00.016-08:00

"Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life." -- Beethoven.

Not to put myself in the same category as Beethoven, I know what he means here. I began studying the piano at age 5, continuing until I was 16 and, while woefully out of practice now, I used to be very good.

When I first read this quote, I immediately remembered the times when, while playing, I seemed to disappear into the music and lost all sense of everything else around me. In some cases, I wasn't even aware that I was playing, but, from the reaction of others, I must have done rather well.

Playing the piano was both escaping and entering more deeply into whatever events or emotions were swirling through me and around me. Debussy, some Chopin and Ravel for the gentle moments. Beethoven for the powerful emotions. Some Mozart for playful times. And when the anger was welling up ready to explode nothing would serve except Mendelsohn's Funeral March with its triple fortissimo block chords. I always opened up the lid of the piano for that one, and the family learned to dive for cover.

I don't think for a moment that I am unique in this experience. I've watched other musicians play and seen them transformed by their instrument and the music. Once, I was enjoying an Irish band at a pub. The guitar player and the bodhran player were doing an adequate job. But the fiddle player disappeared into the sheer ecstasy of his music and it was a spiritual experience just to witness it.

This sort of transport is not limited to musicians. I believe that it extends to those who enjoy listening to music and, perhaps, to those with only a casual appreciation for it. There are some songs or pieces of music that can immediately take us back to some event or emotion which we associate, perhaps subconsciously, with the music. This holds true for both happy and sad occasions.

We seem to have a permanent link somewhere in our minds or spirits that connect us to the past by way of music. If the event or person was significant enough, and music was present, hearing the same music will bring those memories to the fore. Jim Croce's music always reminds me of young love, despite the fact that none of his songs were that light. Bluegrass reminds me of Saturday nights watching TV with my grandfather. Some songs, which otherwise sound cheerful enough, take me back to some very dark places in the late 70s, so much so that I have to remove myself from the source.

Some music, which has no connection to our past, can move us to unlikely places in the present. Bearing in mind that I have never once been known for my dancing skills, Arabic music always makes me want to dance in the most sensuous of ways. Celtic music lets me sink into a very deep place within myself. Most of the French Impressionist composers allow me to drift off, out of myself, on whatever path they lay before me. Bach and Beethoven, in different ways, can stir up feelings of glory and grandeur. And, frequently, Mozart's music makes me think of pure play.

Music surrounds us in ways we may not even recognize. Whether it is the radio or annoying advertisement jingles, eagerly sought out live performances or our choice of CDs. Humans, perhaps more uniquely than other creatures, have deliberately instilled music into our expression of ourselves, both individually and collectively. It doesn't matter if it is Handel's Messiah in all it's glory or the Oompah Loompah song from Willy Wonka, music finds a home inside of us and causes us to feel deeply. Two people hearing the same music will take away or incorporate different things, but very few people will remain totally unmoved. It gives voice to something deep within us and, maybe, just maybe, contributes to what makes us human.

Dignity

2009-02-16T12:28:00.014-08:00

Last week, a friend of mine took a tumble on an uneven sidewalk. Naturally, the first thing out of everyone's mouth was "are you hurt"? Her response was, "Only my dignity." This got me to thinking about the whole phenomenon of "dignity" vis-a-vis human behavior. And I'm trying to figure out if it has any legitimate use for us.

In the case of my friend, and most other people, it is the standard answer when we do something less than graceful. But why is that? It seems very much like we become embarrassed that we have tripped, or fallen, as if it were somehow shameful to have been unable to withstand the laws of gravity. It seems like a rueful apology for being human and I wonder why we feel that we need to do that. Why make a self-deprecating jest for having escaped potential physical damage? If someone is truly hurt then no such comment is made or expected.

All of this sent my mind exploring other situations when "dignity" is sought out or used as an excuse for our behavior. And I think it might be the case that we use it as a mask behind which we hide who we really are to both save face and protect ourselves from the opinions of others. In short, I think it is a result of some sort of fear of what other people may think of us.

I am reminded of some older movies with characters who present themselves as a "dignified" something or other, generally a clergyman or a barrister. Invariably the character, rather than seeming dignified, comes across as a pompous old poop and we tend to laugh at them for that reason. And many of us have had a relative who donned the veil of dignity and came across as absolutely no fun at all. A smile would never even cross their lips and by no means would they be seen to actually laugh. They are much too concerned with how others would perceive them, whether it be because of their vocation or perceived sense of position.

Most of us do not take it to that extreme, but many of us do worry about how we appear to others. And we cover any perceived violation of dignity as an embarrassment needing an apology of some sort. And, frequently, we are haunted by some offense against dignity after everyone else has long since forgotten all about it. I believe we need to look at it differently.

True human dignity would seem to come from the respect each of us owe each other by dint of our shared humanity, no more, no less. Accidental missteps should not be a criteria for a sense of lost dignity. Tripping and falling is decidedly not the same thing as getting drunk as a skunk and being unable to stand. It would seem that loss of dignity can only be self-imposed and worked toward diligently.

Here in Oregon, we have a law referred to as the "Death with Dignity" Act. It allows terminally ill patients the option of receiving a fatal amount of barbituates in order to circumvent the various painful and/or terrorizing effects that accompany some diseases, such as ALS or AIDS. In this case, I believe that loss of dignity refers to a situation where the person is rendered absolutely incapable of even the most basic acts of human self-determination and, perhaps, this is a more correct way to define it. I'm not at all certain that I would choose such an option for myself, but then I've never faced such a situation.

Otherwise, the search for dignity seems to be more closely linked to avoiding damage to our pride and looking good in front of others. Surely, we have other more useful things to devote our time to.

"We probably wouldn't worry about what people think of us if we could know how seldom they do." - Olin Miller.

Hopes and Dreams

2009-02-13T16:35:00.024-08:00

I had some ideas about hopes and dreams somewhere on the back burner of my brain. Then I came across two different authors mentioning something similar and, not being one that believes in coincidences, decided it was time to move it to the front burner of my brain and start writing about it.

I believe that while the two concepts are related, they have distinctly different characteristics and meanings in our lives. For my purposes here, I will be defining "dreams" as what gallops through our brains while we are asleep and "hopes" as those aspirations that come to us in our waking hours.

There are those who hold that our dreams are merely our brains trying to sort through everything we've experienced during the day. Others say that our dreams are giving us information that we should use in our lives. Maybe they are both right, or both wrong, I'm not certain because neither option covers all the different types of dreams a person can have.

If they are merely a sorting mechanism in our brain then why did I have recurring nightmares in childhood of a giant, green Viking chasing me around while I ran on nothing? I had never encountered any giants, green or otherwise, nor was I acquainted with any Vikings. But the darned dream terrified me repeatedly for a couple of years. If that same dream was trying to give me information, what could it have been, aside from I should run away from giant, green Vikings? Perhaps there is some third or fourth purpose to dreams that would explain it.

On the other hand, during the years before I allowed myself to admit that my marriage had been a mistake from the first, I continually dreamt that I was rushing to the airport and getting on the first plane I saw, not caring where it went just so long as it went. Clearly, this was about wanting to escape and I recognized it as such at the time. And after I initiated the divorce, I had a dream that seriously disturbed me despite not at all being sure of its meaning at the time. In hindsight, it was clearly about a fear of being in deep water (figuratively) and being alone with no one to help me in tough situations.

The examples above are why I tend to think that dreams at night can have varied uses and meanings for us and no one fixed purpose.

Hopes, on the other hand, shape and define who we are, how we see ourselves, and how others see us. What we wish to be or to achieve says important things about our very selves and what we value. I've had relatively few hopes in my life for various reasons. When I was a teenager, I was always pressured to name what it was that I wanted to be. As I was a smart girl, did well in school and had a wide range of interests, everyone "knew" that I would BE something. What that something might be no one seemed to know and I received no guidance on how to figure it out. I had no career hopes. In fact, the one hope that I had had nothing to do with a career and has yet to be realized, although it remains a major hope in my life.

While I was in college, I was the target of much good-natured teasing by my family because I kept changing my major. It wasn't that I was particularly flighty, it was just that the course catalog offered so many different things that piqued my interest and it was very difficult to choose just one or even two. When I finally settled on philosophy, it came, seemingly, out of nowhere while I was studying textile design. It made me feel as if the way my brain worked was not really totally odd, but it was never part of my hopes to study philosophy.

In the years since my divorce, I've allowed a second hope to join the unfulfilled one from my youth. All my life, I have been the go-to person for anything that needs to be written. But, somehow, it failed to enter my mind that I should write. Sometimes, I can be incredibly dense for a bright girl. Despite the fact that several people who knew me well had repeatedly asked me "when are you going to write," it took an unbelievable amount of time for me to realize that I not only wanted to write, but was actually good at it.

What might it mean to have so few hopes in my life? I'm not certain at all. Perhaps it is due to some residual doubt in myself and my right to claim anything for myself. Perhaps it is a product of being a female in the time and place I grew up. Perhaps it is something else entirely. But the result, for me, is that those hopes that I do cling to have incredible importance in my life and, as a consequence, have the power to floor me when they go unfulfilled. I wonder if those who have many hopes for their lives have it any easier when it comes to the point where a hope is dashed. Or, perhaps, they are made stronger both because they withstand numerous disappointments and because they have more hopes to fall back on. I honestly don't know, but I suspect that the loss of a cherished hope is a personal tragedy, no matter how many other hopes one has.

The Past

2009-02-12T14:04:00.009-08:00

"The past is never dead. It's not even past." -- William Faulkner.

Generally, Faulkner is a bit too jaded for my tastes, but there is something that rings true for me in this quote. And, in mulling over my own past, I feel that this applies to both the good and the bad, although the bad seems much easier to recognize.

I have known people who have lived through the nightmare of child abuse, who have told me that no matter how much counseling or therapy they have had that it still informs their self-image. They think that they have dealt with it only to find it nipping at their heels when they least expect it. They hold a secret guilt that it was really all their own fault and, should any one find out about it, people would abandon them. There is no rationalizing it away. There is the possibility of reducing the intensity, but it will never go away completely. In cases of extreme abuse, the person will simply dissociate from the experience to avoid living the pain, which, in turn, keeps them from enjoying the present.

Similarly, many people who have experienced physical attacks continue to carry internal scars from the experience. It causes them to alter their behavior in an attempt to make certain that it cannot happen again. It is futile, of course, but the need to, at the very least, control what happens to one's person and avoid any additional attacks is a strong one. In a strange way, by taking on guilt or anger at one's self in these cases, one is taking back a small measure of power and rejecting the label "victim." But that is only a partial solution.

We have all heard stories of soldiers and others following the trauma of war or other violence who develop post traumatic stress syndrome. In an earlier age, we collectively did not seem to have much compassion for such people. If we gave their condition any name at all, it was something reflective of them somehow being a coward or weak. It didn't occur to people that some sights and deeds could maim an individual's mind and spirit just as severely as physical violence could maim their bodies. We seemed to have gotten past that for the most part, but one can still hear an echo of impatience for those who are unable to "buck up."

Naturally, there are good things in life that never leave us as well. Any happy life altering event will stay with us for quite a long time. I imagine that every parent can remember the moment when their baby was first put in their arms. We remember fondly when someone said exactly the right thing to make us feel better about ourselves, whether it was a parent, a teacher, or a friend. We also carry with us the small, repeated activities with someone we love, regardless if they are alive or dead, whether it be fishing trips, Sunday morning runs to get donuts, endless card games, or double scoop cones at Baskin Robbins. The fond memories remain, even if they no longer happen.

I wonder why it is so much more difficult to hold on to the good things. Perhaps it is because things that follow can color the past, and this is more pronounced in the good memories. Bad memories get neither worse nor better with the passage of time. They were bad when they happened and nothing will soften that badness into goodness. With the good things, however, their goodness can be diminished by time and circumstances. If we have looked back at a person fondly, only to find that they had deceived us, that fondness disappears in a puff of smoke. What we felt was a good thing as a child can, in the light of adulthood, look very, very different, leaving us to figure out what was true about the experience. And that infant one fell in love with at first sight is hard to see in the teenager who says they hate you.

Perhaps another reason is that the negatives are generally much stronger than the positives. Ice cream cone memories can't hold a candle to the strength of the pain and horror of being violated by another human being. While they will continue to make us smile when we think of them, the good things are easily drowned out by the bad. And, if there are too many bad things, the good ones can disappear completely, as if they were merely an unreal fantasy.

I think Faulkner was right that the past always tags along with us, for good or for ill. Our only response is to find some way to live with it honestly, without lying to ourselves or sugar coating it; to bring to the fore those experiences and memories that were strong and good. And to recognize that every single person is dealing with something and to treat them gently for that reason.

Surrender

2009-02-10T15:40:00.008-08:00

"All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling." -- Blaise Pascal.

I've been mulling this quote over for awhile and still am not 100% certain what I think about it. But I believe there is something true lying beneath the surface.

When I was younger, and to a much lesser extent now, I did most of my living in my head. I could think or logic my way out of most negative or inconvenient feelings, suppressing them until I thought they were gone. Of course, I was just lying to myself in a fairly elaborate way. I don't believe that I was terribly unique in that approach, but perhaps I turned it into more of an all-encompassing thing than most folks do. And, in the end, the feelings escaped anyway.

I wonder why I thought that was an acceptable approach to life. Was it fear? That may have been part of it. In the case of my long, too long marriage, I forced myself to accept emotional sterility because I didn't want my children to grow up poor due to their parents being divorced. That was a personal demon carried forward from my own childhood. So, perhaps, it was understandable albeit unacceptable. And, frequently, rejection at the hands of others led me to hide my feelings and desires, believing that there must be something lacking in me or wrong with my feelings. It never occurred to me that the source could be anything other than something missing in me.

I don't think that fear would account for every instance where reasoning is given higher status that feeling. Modern humans have elevated reasoning and logic to a dizzying height at the expense of feelings and intuition. Even the antonyms to the words "logical" and "rational" have strongly negative overtones. They aren't just opposites, they are wrong and unacceptable. It is as if by denying inconvenient feelings we can pat ourselves on the back for being logical or rational, no matter how desolate the lack of responding to our feelings may make us feel within ourselves. I have been guilty of this for large amounts of my life.

I propose that the two ends of the spectrum should be more balanced in our lives. It's not that reasoning is a bad thing. It is vital in many parts of life. But when it shuts out feelings I believe we owe it to ourselves to examine it more closely to determine if that is the best approach to a situation.

I read a book once called The Gift of Fear by Gavin De Becker. The author asserted that if you felt fear, you shouldn't try to talk yourself out of it because, on some deep level, you had perceived a reason for that feeling. It was telling you something important about a situation and that you needed to act on that rather than dismiss it as irrational. I have come to suspect that this reasoning may be applicable to other feelings as well. We have all had the experience of immediately distrusting someone we have just met. There was no data to support this impression, but the feeling was there nonetheless. If we ignore it or talk ourselves out of the feeling, we will most likely pay for any misplaced trust.

I believe that this also applies to positive feelings as well. I think it likely that everyone has met people who they liked on first sight and went on to become fast friends with the person. Just as the fear puts us on our guard, this attraction tells us that there is something good to be experienced if we only let it.

I'm still not 100% certain what I should do with these ideas. I certainly don't want to let it devolve into a solely logical exercise. I suspect the best path for me is to make it my habit to check in with both my brain and my gut on a regular basis, see which one best addresses a situation and trust in the wisdom of either my reasoning or my feelings. At the very least it will lead me to be ever more in touch with what I truly want and need in my life, and, hopefully, to a balanced approach to life as a whole.

Age

2009-02-09T10:13:00.005-08:00

"Age is a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it don't matter." -- Satchel Paige.

Generally, I think Satchel Paige was right about this one with only a couple of exceptions. I've never been one to get upset about birthdays. The only times that I have, it hasn't been about the age I was. It was about something that was missing from my life that I thought I should have had by the time I was that age. And this year is no exception.

The first time I really noticed the creeping of age was when I turned 25. There was just something slightly unnerving about being a quarter of a century old. But it didn't really faze me much.

The year I turned 30 was when I first noticed that any concern I had about age was linked to unmet dreams and needs. Leading up to the day, I had absolutely no qualms about turning 30. Then 3 days before my birthday, we got a letter from a friend that mentioned her younger sister was graduating from college that spring. Crash! I was going to be 30 with no college degree and I indulged in a bit of a pity party. It was the lack of a degree rather than the age that got to me.

Forty didn't faze me at all. I was in a new certificate program, having finished my degree 4 years earlier. I was working with like-minded people and getting ready to begin an entirely new chapter in my life. I think that 40 was the most liberating birthday I have had yet.

But this year, I am again noticing things and experiences that are missing from my life that I had hoped would be there by now. And I know that, before too many more birthdays pass, I will have to give up entirely on some of them. I don't like that fact, but they aren't entirely in my power to bring into my life. However, I think that I'll let myself continue to hope for a while longer.

Satchel got it wrong if he meant to say that age never matters. There are some cases where it does. Our society elevates youth and totally dismisses age. Ask any 50-something person what they think their prospects are if they are laid off from a job. Most folks will agree that they are slim to none.

And more than a few times in my life, I have seen very old people addressed in tones more appropriate for use with children. There is more than a suggestion that older people, meaning older than the person with the opinion, can't possibly know anything due to being old and, therefore, out of touch. I first experienced this when I was the ripe old age of 35. I'd finally returned to college to finish my degree and almost all of my classmates were in their early 20s. In a philosophy class, there was young fellow who was clearly of the opinion that I was too old to know anything at all. He would take contrary positions to everything I said and resort to put downs when logic wouldn't carry his argument forward. I was befuddled by this so I talked with the professor. He told me that I wasn't imagining it, it was real, and that I should watch how the brat talked to him as well. Apparently, the tyke had serious problems with older people, no matter how little or how much older they were. I expect that that sort of thing will increase as my age does. And I am absolutely certain that it will make me angry and I'll put a few people in their places.

An interesting thing that I've noticed about the whole age thing is that the number doesn't mean much as far as the individual is concerned. I've known people in their 20s who are "old" - and not in a good way. I've also known people in their 70s who could give people 30 years their junior a run for the money. As for myself, I have absolutely no idea what 49 is supposed to feel like. Internally, deep down in my self-identity, I don't feel significantly different than I did in my late 20s. I have no clue at all what "to act one's age" means and I don't think I want to find out. If it means to rein myself in from things I want to do simply because of the number of birthdays I've had, then I want nothing to do with it.

This year I'm determined not to focus too much on what has not come to me. I plan to continue as I have been with necessary course corrections and continue to hope. Beats the heck out of the alternative.

Happiness

2009-02-05T15:37:00.007-08:00

"Happiness comes of the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to think freely, to be needed." -- Storm Jameson.

When I read this quote, it struck me as true, but also as incomplete. But I think she may have left out something vital, unless it is implied by one of the others. And I also wondered whether one is truly happy if they only have 3/4 of the list or half of it.

I think that, despite the fact that it can also lead to sorrow, "to feel deeply" does belong on the happiness list. I have known people who shut off their feelings, perhaps in an effort to insulate themselves from pain, perhaps for some unknown other reason. And I always come away from encounters with them feeling as if they are basically very unhappy people, no matter how much they try to convince themselves that they are numb to it. One person even tried to tell me that I only left myself open to being hurt by caring and feeling. To which I replied that that was better than not feeling anything at all. Since I do not exist in the same world as such folks, I cannot imagine the state of their interior landscape. But I can't help but fear that they will be very lonely some day and regret having shut themselves off.

For me, feeling deeply means that I am connected with what is around me: the people, places and events that fill up our world. It also means that I am connected with myself. Yes, it means that I cry at movies or the news, but it also means I laugh and love with no restraint. And I'd much prefer that to numbness.

"To enjoy simply" seems like a given for me, although I don't know that everyone would agree. It occurs to me that if we require elaborate plans to enjoy things, we make it difficult to enjoy much of our lives. Whether the plans require preparation or money, they can be deferred by circumstances and I believe that happiness deferred is happiness lost. How much more enjoyment in life would we have if we noticed the daffodils poking up in spring? Or the smell of smoke coming from chimneys in the dead of winter? Or the taste of fresh bread? Or the stars in the night sky? Or innumerable things just waiting for us to notice them as we go about our day? Of course, this would require us to slow down a bit, so that we don't miss the opportunity. Would that be a bad thing?

I hadn't ever thought about "thinking freely" as a component of happiness, but I think perhaps she is right about this one, too. If one does not think for oneself and adheres to some outside prescription for important matters in one's life, how could one be truly happy? Content, perhaps, but not happy. For me, thinking freely means entertaining ideas that may be in conflict with each other in an effort to determine what I believe to be true. This goes for politics, spirituality and social norms. I don't accept any premise unless I have examined it from all angles. This can be annoying, even provoking, to some. And I know that people have dropped me because they couldn't stand that I didn't fall automatically into line with their position. But I know that I could never be truly happy not examining positions from every angle in order to find my own truth.

"To be needed" seems to be true as well. And a lack in this area not only negates happiness, but also causes serious depression. I think we see it most sharply with mothers whose children have grown and left the nest and with the elderly who can no longer fully participate in things that connected them with others. There comes a feeling of uselessness in the lack of being needed. And we don't seem to find happiness in merely amusing ourselves. Perhaps it is our upbringing or perhaps it is innate in humans, but the need to be needed in some capacity seems to be a requirement for happiness. I have known a couple of people who seemed to muddle through their lives without making an effort to connect and, as a result, they truly were not needed by those around them. In one case, it led to dying all alone and unmourned. We need to be needed, whether it is by our pets, the elderly neighbor next door, our loved ones or to people who benefit from our work. And we seem to need a constant diet of it. Being needed 20 years ago is not the same thing as being needed now, and it does not give on-going happiness now.

The thing I think Ms. Jameson left out of her list for happiness is to love and be loved. She may have implied it in the being needed or feeling deeply, but it wasn't clearly there. And it is absolutely vital. And it may be the case that the most important half of those two is to love, if one is limited to just one. When it is mutual, I believe that there is a dimension of freedom that opens one up to even greater happiness. I have never been in such a situation, but it seems there is a greater space for allowing in such a relationship. What freedom to be allowed to touch and care for another! To share parts of ourselves that we share with no one else. To find peace just knowing that the other one is there. To know that someone would notice and worry if you didn't make it home some evening, and to worry about that someone if they didn't make it home.

Is this list complete? I don't know. I suspect it is the basics that people add to individually. But I wonder what happens to happiness if any of the basics are missing? I think it might be the case that we find a way to be happy with what we have, but the longing for the missing ones will remain. Perhaps the best we can hope for is to go a little beyond the half way mark and relish anything more as a cherished gift. At least, for myself, I hope that is the case.

Value

2009-02-05T15:29:00.015-08:00

"What we must decide is how we are valuable rather than how valuable we are." -- Edgar Z. Friedenberg.

I've thought about this quote for a while and wrestled with the concept long before I stumbled on the quote. Perhaps it is because my earning potential has always been low in a society that assigns great value to that. Perhaps it is because I spent most of a couple of decades raising children and found, despite much language to the contrary, that society doesn't value that at all. Individuals might, society does not. And, perhaps most importantly, it is because I have periodically bought in to society's view of value and under-valued myself. And, given the current economic disaster and ever increasing unemployment, I wonder how many others will find themselves on the low end of society's barometer of worth and how it will affect their view of themselves.

Generally, many of us, seem to assign value to ourselves and our lives based on what we do for work. And the value of that work is frequently based on the amount of money it brings in. As a society, we tend to think in terms of earning potential rather than job satisfaction. And, as a result, many of us spend a large portion of our lives laboring away at something we do not like and frequently hate. We slave away for 50 weeks out of the year so that we can have 2 weeks of vacation where we try to do all the living we cannot allow ourselves to do the rest of the time.

When I was a stay-at-home mother, I keenly felt my financial vulnerability and societal invisibility. Leave it to Beaver not withstanding, staying at home with one's children does not give one stability or respect in our society. Despite the fact that I did much more than "just" housework, it was difficult to feel as though I had done enough to justify my lack of income. And, in my experience at least, all sorts of people think that they are within their rights to express their opinion on what one is doing or not doing. Mothers, in particular, frequently find themselves in no win situations. Not long after my first son was born, I was having lunch with his godmother, who had also just had a baby. I had gone back to work because we couldn't do without my salary. I got keel hauled by just about everyone with an opinion for "leaving my child" to go make money. Coincidentally, my friend, who was staying at home with her son, got blasted for not being out in the workplace pursuing a career. It was a classic case of damned if you do and damned if you don't.

And now I wonder about the millions of people who are losing their jobs and how they will cope with their sense of self-worth in the absence of gainful employment, perhaps even losing their homes. Whether one is on the assembly line or Wall Street, how does one reassign value to their lives when a major focus of that value is removed, especially when those around us focused on it, too? It will not be easy, but, I suspect, it calls for a huge shift in how we think about ourselves and how we respond to each other.

When I was working on my bachelor's degree in philosophy, I was frequently asked "what are you going to do with that?" I know a poet who is frequently the butt of jokes and suggestions that they get "realistic." And we've all heard the jokes about waiters who are really actors. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could refrain from passing judgment and criticism on the honest efforts of others? And wouldn't it be lovelier still, if all of us based our self-worth on a different criteria than occupation and earning potential? But how to go about doing that when the tide all too often flows the opposite way?

So the question is How Am I Valuable? If you make sandwiches for a living and paint gorgeous works of art at home, which one do you think holds the essence of your true worth? If you spend 8 hours a day putting together widgets and every other moment you have cultivating beautiful roses? If you push papers until your mind goes numb from 9 to 5, and then volunteer in a nursing home? If you are completely unemployed, but tell fantastic bedtime stories? If you do anything at all, but manage to have a smile for every human being who passes in front of you?

For me, I've come to realize that, except for my rather skimpy financial situation, that there is very little I would want to change about my life. I find fulfillment in creating things, either physically or with words. I relish the opportunity to be fully present to my friends and those whom I love. I'm a good friend, good mother, good writer and good with my hands. I think and feel deeply. How could I possibly doubt my value?

Noticed

2009-02-01T13:45:00.013-08:00

Last week, I had decided it was time to push my walking to a higher level. I was feeling a bit lethargic from staying inside due to the weather and I do have ambitions to double last year's weight-loss total. But me, being me, I waited several days to see if the feeling would pass.

Then, yesterday morning, in the throws of a monumental three day funk, I decided it was time to dive in. I chose a destination twice as far as I usually go and in a different direction and set off.

Given that I was taking a new route, there were lots of interesting things to look at and mull over. The first thing I found myself noticing was moss. This was a bit unusual for me. Not because moss is unusual, quite to the contrary. I don't know if Oregon is the moss capital of the world, but it is certainly in the running. So, for the most part, I just don't pay any attention to it because it is literally everywhere. But this time, I noticed and was a bit amazed at the variety. There is the bubbly sort that sits along the edges of the sidewalks. There is the feathery stuff that mixes in with the grass. There are the cascades of green that fall over the edges of stone walls. And there is interesting gray green stuff that randomly drops out of the trees in clumps. I could have continued making mossy observations, but there were other things to notice, both externally and internally.

I looked at the houses that I passed and noticed hints of the owners' personalities in the landscaping and exteriors. Some still had their Christmas lights up, but one had a couple of Valentine hearts surrounded by lights in the window. And, given that I've not been an external decorator, I wondered what that might say about the person hanging it, if anything. I noticed the various color schemes on the houses, mostly nondescript, but others quite horrendous. Robin's egg blue on stucco really doesn't speak to me. And, due to personal issues that I'm not going into here, I will never think that bright pink on a house is a good idea. Perhaps in climates with bright sunlight and heat, it might work. But here in the Pacific Northwest and it's blue-ish light, it is a bad, bad idea.

And what is with the lawn art? Cherubs pouring water into birdbaths not once, but twice, in the same small yard. Interesting little mosaic tiles plopped down in the middle of nowhere also made me wonder at their purpose. Lots of dilapidated and long abandoned benches hidden beneath rhododendrons that grew over them long years past.

As I waited for a crosswalk signal at a busy intersection, I watched the drivers barreling past me and wondered a bit about them. If their expressions were any indication, many of them seemed to be either angry or sad. And this made me wonder about the state in which most of us move through our days. Were they off on a distasteful errand? Or were they unable to put some earlier event behind them? Or had the years worn them down until they had forgotten how to smile? I don't know, but I found myself paying attention to my own expression as I walked on.

By this time, I had walked farther than I had before and was starting to feel the effects. The things I noticed became more sporadic as I slowed down a bit to accommodate my complaining feet and lungs. But I still noticed the thoughts that popped up.

I noticed that there are some very ugly and very expensive items in shop windows, and that sometimes they are the same things.

I noticed a pair of goldfinches chasing each other across the sky in search of the bird equivalent of romance.

I noticed that young people don't want to acknowledge you when they pass on the sidewalk, but that anyone over 40 will say hello.

I wondered how there could be so many people in all those houses and I not know any of them. Then I wondered at the miracle that I know the ones that I do.

I noticed that walking in 30 degree temperatures will make your eyes water and nose run no matter what. And that, if one is disposed to have one's eyes watering or nose running, it is a good cover to be able to blame the cold.

I noticed that walking by a bakery and smelling the aroma is probably a temptation straight from the devil.

I walked past a hedge and heard dozens of small birds chirping from within it and I wondered if they had lost their calendars and didn't realize it was still winter.

I noticed that I wished there were someone to walk beside me on my treks and, perhaps, hold my hand.

I noticed that when the fog lifted and the sun came out, everything looked different, even the moss on the way back home.

I noticed that the last 4 blocks back home are the easiest part of the walk.

I noticed that it always feels good to take off my shoes.

I noticed that I want to go noticing again soon.

Repression of expression

2009-01-30T13:12:00.010-08:00

"Never apologize for showing feeling. When you do so, you apologize for truth." -- Benjamin Disraeli.

Things haven't changed much from the Victorian era when Disraeli wrote that. We seem to go through periods where we lighten up and feel more free to express emotions, but it doesn't seem to last. Public expressions of feeling tend to make others uncomfortable and, in many cases, expressing them in more private spheres does the same thing. And I wonder why this is the case. I think it is for a variety of reasons.

The first possible reason is that, particularly in the case of negative emotions, it makes other people feel vulnerable. If anyone over the age of about 5 begins to cry in public, whatever the reason, people tend to look away and avoid the situation. With children, the adults in the vicinity will become annoyed. With other adults, they start looking for the exit. Absent blood and protruding bones, it doesn't appear that there is any situation where we accept tears in public - whatever the provocation. And we all accept this as true. In cases where the tears flow out of control, even in highly justifiable situations, the person will immediately begin to apologize for crying, which to my mind is absolute lunacy, although I've done it. It is as if one is denying the legitimacy of one's pain. Perhaps those witnessing it feel uncomfortable because it reminds them of our essential vulnerability as humans.

Anger, while slightly more tolerable than pain, still must be reined in for public consumption. It is expected to be contained in tight, quiet, restrained little bursts and, in most cases, followed by an apology for "losing it". It doesn't matter the reason for the anger, however justified, it must be kept to a minimum. Although I have noticed, after a lifetime of quietly not making waves no matter what, the odd occasional outburst does tend to get people's attention and show that you are serious. But it makes folks uncomfortable and it is considered impolite, so apologies must follow.

The repression of expression extends to the positive feelings as well. If we are happy or amused, we are allowed polite restrained laughter, but guffaws are simply not acceptable. Giggles are fine in moderation, but if one is frequently amused one is not taken seriously. Which is all kinds of too bad. Sometimes a good laugh is all that gets one through the hard stuff. And they are contagious. A giggling child will get everyone in the area smiling at the very least. And some of the best moments with friends entail laughing uncontrollably. Perhaps the restraint is expected because not everyone is sharing in the joke. Could it be jealousy? I honestly don't know.

Quite possibly the biggest taboo of all to express is that of affection and love. People get visibly uncomfortable with any mention of those feelings except within the strict confines of the family or romantic relationships. And this is really a mind blower for me. I've seen people avoided and made fun of when they express affection spontaneously. And I've thought and thought about it, wondering why that was the case. The only thing that I can think of is that it might make folks feel an obligation to reciprocate and that is the source of their discomfort. Either they do not return the feeling or they think that accepting it will require some sort of action on their part. Either that, or it is just that intense emotion intensifies the level of discomfort we tend to have around all emotions.

So, what's to be done? Currently, we seem to allow emotions to leak out in the presence of alcohol. If affection or tears bursts forth under the influence, they are quickly packed back up with the excuse of drunkenness. I've heard that in Japan you can even tell your boss exactly what to do with himself, sideways, if you have the excuse of being inebriated. But it seems sad to me that we have to have a crutch in order to express our feelings.

What if we felt both able to express our feelings and to accept others' feelings as they are, without any expectation of response or apology? What if we looked on it as merely an expression of honesty? I'm not sure, but I suspect that it would allow for healthier relations between people. There is a type of freedom in knowing where you stand with others. There is also a bit of fear that accompanies that freedom. Anger may be condemned. Affection may be rejected. But, if they be true emotions, they should never be apologized for.

Acceptance

2009-01-28T11:31:00.008-08:00

"Our entire life consists ultimately in accepting ourselves as we are." -- Jean Anouilh.

I've been mulling over this quote and the general notion of acceptance for a while now. It seems to me, absent certain reprehensible behaviors, that there is something very true here. There is also something very much counter to what is thought to be the case by society as a whole.

If we are taught anything about acceptance, it is generally directed at accepting other people's differences or foibles. In some cases, this is a very good thing because the opposite of acceptance is, frequently, judgment or even condemnation. When dealing with the opinions, actions or beliefs of others, we must just accept them for what they are and then either embrace them or walk away. We can never change them.

But when it comes to ourselves, we are generally taught just the opposite. From the time we are children, we are encouraged, taught, expected or threatened into an endless round of self-modification. This is done to make us fit into the expectations of a wider group, whether it be a family, a religion or a community. Some model of preferred behavior is held up as an ideal and we are instructed to try to attain it. Doomed from the get-go, we then, frequently, see only our failures and not ourselves. And we certainly never even consider accepting ourselves for what we are, both good and not so good. At best, this can leave us with a slight case of perpetual discomfort. At worst, true self-loathing can settle in, crippling any ability we might have for self-love.

Now, I don't for a minute think that absolutely everything is worthy of acceptance, but, as a retired master of the try-to-be-perfect guild, I think some healthy acceptance is sadly missing in many of us. And, in a funny kind of way, there is a bit of arrogance in thinking that we are capable of attaining the much vaunted perfection, never mind the silliness in setting it as a goal. In some ways, the always striving after whatever perfection we choose to aim at is a substitution for actually attaining it. It's as though wishing one had a particular virtue, and being seen to be striving after it, is the same as having that virtue.

We seem to put ourselves through this chronic lack of acceptance in every sphere of our lives. We see any failure to live up to an arbitrary standard as a personal failure. And frequently we equate these failures with moral failures. We aren't thin enough.......enough for whom? We don't earn enough......again enough for whom? We aren't smart enough, nice enough, something else enough. We tie ourselves up in knots to be enough, when in fact, most of us are good enough just as we are. We spend untold amounts of effort focusing on living up to some standard set by others and often never even consider what is acceptable for our own lives.

I know this has been true in my life, to the point that it took a concerted effort to even figure out what it might look like to have self-acceptance on any level. I used to beat myself up thoroughly over the past, over and over again, little realizing that there was absolutely no use in it. I even used to give myself a thorough mental thrashing over things that I thought that didn't live up to the elusive standards. And it was always a case of lather, rinse and repeat; there simply wasn't enough self-flogging to be done.

Fortunately, I've given a good deal of that stuff the boot. But I find myself wondering how much of my personal goal setting and life choices are still subconsciously being governed by the old lack of self-acceptance monster. I'm quite comfortable with the fact that I am not now nor ever will be perfect. I'm also thoroughly convinced that growth requires change and that change entails leaving behind previous convictions and behaviors without condemning the best effort of the past. I'm fairly confident that as I muddle along doing the best that I can, I will make some spectacular boo-boos, but I'm equally confident that they will not spring from a malicious spirit and I find that acceptable enough.

Fans

2009-01-24T11:21:00.006-08:00

I like baseball. I don't love baseball, as in being able to quote statistics on every player and highlights of historic games. But I do like baseball, especially seeing it live. I grew up in St. Louis during a time when the Cardinals had phenomenal players. I've seen Bob Gibson throw his fast ball and I've watched Lou Brock steal every base they make. And, even now, a couple of thousand miles from the Cardinal's home field, I'll still watch them play on TV when they are in the series. And I think a home run hit is exciting no matter who hits it.

But I've wondered about this attachment for a team or a sport or an event. What is it that draws us in and makes us want to be present? I've known folks who become totally wrapped up in their team or sport of choice to the point that they schedule their lives around it, traveling to see games and giving full-throated support even if it is only from their living rooms.

And then recently during the Inauguration of President Obama, there were literally a million people or more crowded onto the Mall. Most couldn't possibly see or hear the ceremony without benefit of speakers and huge screens, but they braved cold and crowds and hours of standing just to be there when it happened. I'm certain that I had a better view from my living room 3,000 miles away than the vast majority of those in attendance.

So, what is it about being in a large crowd of people focused on a single event that energizes so many people? I think it may spring from our need to feel connected to others. Most of our connections are on a much smaller scale and they require that we give much more time and attention to those that we are connected with. Within families, friendships and even business relationships varying amounts of time and care are required to maintain those connections. This makes demands on us and, even when they are welcomed demands, takes effort and focus.

The fan phenomenon seems like it might give the benefits of feeling connected to something without any of the effort that more personal connections require. All that is needed is to show up and enjoy in order to be a full-fledged member of the group. The guy sitting next to you at the ball park doesn't care if your taxes are filed, if you called your mother or if your opinions match his. The most he might expect from you is a high five when there is a good play made on the field. It's a tacit equalizer where everyone can feel united for a brief period of time. It is also a respite from all the other demands that fill our days.

Not all of us feel drawn to these group activities. If I had been in Washington, D.C. last week, I expect that I would have watched the inauguration from my TV there as well. Although there might have been some temptation to go wave at the motorcade for a bit. That massive of a crowd simply doesn't speak to me. But an occasional baseball game with our local minor league team might just draw me in because it's a nice distraction and there really isn't a down side.

Paint

2009-01-16T14:19:00.004-08:00

"Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can." -- Danny Kaye.

I came across this quote several months ago and was immediately attracted to the images it stirred up in my mind. It made me wonder what the current canvas of my life looked like and how I might want to add to it and spice it up. It also got me thinking about what it has looked like in the past.

When I was growing up and as a teenager, I think my canvas most closely resembled an insipid watercolor portrait. Watery colors with a few blues and gold sparkles, pleasant enough to look at, if anyone really wanted to examine it. But easy to miss entirely because of the small size and lackluster frame.

Then, in young adulthood, I entered what I refer to as my Beige Period. I did all the conventional things, in the conventional ways and never, ever, gave a moment's thought to whether or not it was what I wanted to do or was meant to do. It was even reflected in my clothing -- browns, tans and grays. A nice nonthreatening canvas that quickly faded into the background even more easily than the earlier watercolor existence. There were always other colors there, buried under the dull ones, but I never let them totally escape. Even when I'd let something peek out from under the gray, I'd cover it back up at the least sign of collective disapproval. I was a waiting room landscape, hanging unnoticed in my own life.

At long, long last, I hit 40 and my peacock period exploded outward. I splashed any and every color I could think of at the canvas of my life. Some didn't look quite the way I had envisioned them, but I merrily continued to add layers and depth and colors, blissfully curious to see what it would turn out to be. And my clothes reflected this activity as well. It was as though all the self-expression that had been bottled up for four decades wanted to spring forth all at once. And I notice that the canvas has gotten bigger as well as more colorful. No longer a watercolor miniature, now nothing will serve but a wall-sized mural and I don't rule out wrapping it around the corner beyond the edges.

These days I am becoming a bit more controlled in my paint splashing. I consider a bit more what to splash and where. The palette now contains rich jewel colors of incredible depth and luminosity, that I scarcely would have touched earlier in my life. The composition is open to possibilities while maintaining a sense of having a unified theme. And there are areas of complete audacity that I would have never thought I was capable of before.

I wonder how many of us allow ourselves to settle into Beige Periods the way that I did? I wonder what colors lie hidden beneath acceptable nondescript exteriors? I wonder how many Van Goghs or Chagalls lurk beneath whitewash? And I wonder why we fear to throw paint?

Prayer

2009-01-15T12:09:00.004-08:00

The first thing I was taught when I began a serious study of philosophy was to define terms. The point being that it is useless to devote energy to debating an idea or position only to discover that you are talking about different things. The classic example given was within the area of philosophy of religion. In debating the existence of God, both sides must have the same understanding of what is meant by the word "God". If one side means the generally accepted monotheistic idea of God and the other is referring to a spinach deity from Alpha Centauri, clearly there cannot be any meaningful discussion or conclusions.

This all came roaring back to me recently during the health crisis of a dear friend. I was encouraged and, in one case, instructed to pray and to pray for a specific outcome. Unbeknownst to the people I was speaking with, we seem to have vastly different ideas of what praying meant or entailed.

I reflected for a while on my personal history with prayer, which, despite my earlier conventional religious background, has deviated wildly from anything resembling the usual forms of petition. In fact, I have never, ever engaged in prayer petitioning anything for myself. The closest I have ever come is, when in moments of despair, a silent scream for "help" has erupted from deep within my soul. It wasn't that I felt unworthy to ask, I just never believed that I knew what was for the best in regards to personal situations. I also never thought it was my job to tell the Creator what to do in any given situation. My great-grandmother would always say, "Be careful what you pray for, because you just might get it." So, in my younger days, any formalized prayer was generalized and for others.

Then, as I studied more about spirituality and the traditions of various religions, I much preferred what is called contemplative prayer, which is much more like meditation than formalized petitions, a listening rather than a talking practice. And, for the greater part of my adult life, this has been the only spiritual practice that has fed me. It almost defied defining of terms because, I suspect, it is unique to the individual and their relationship with the Divine.

But, recently, I have felt a new dimension being added to this experience. And, happily, there was already language available to me in the way it was presented that didn't batter my current understanding. For a little over a year, whenever I feel moved to do so, I attend silent Quaker meetings. There is a lovely feeling in being able to enter into silence with people who hold some similar beliefs, but who put no dogma or expectations on their expression. Through this I have been introduced to the concept of "holding someone in the Light." I won't presume to say what is meant when someone else says this. But, for me, it means going to the deepest spiritual place within myself and carrying my love and concern for the person I am "holding" there with me, so that peace can enter in.

For me, this is the most and the least I can do. For me, it is the work of bringing peace and acceptance to whatever outcome is meant to be. Perhaps, that is essentially what those folks telling me to pray meant as well and we just can't define the term well enough.

"Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul." -- Mohandas K. Gandhi.

Technological Trip Ups

2009-01-10T11:46:00.002-08:00

I’ll just come right out and admit it. I do not fully trust all the technological doo-dads that fill my life. I appreciate them, enjoy them and utilize them to the best of my ability, but I don’t really trust them.

I am old enough to remember when there were only 5 channels on the TV and to go from one to the next someone had to actually stand up, walk over to the set and turn the knob. Telephones were mounted on the wall or sat on a desk. Phone messages required a pen and paper. And if you weren’t at home, no one could contact you. Leftovers were reheated in the oven or on the top of the stove. Games had boards that you laid out on the table or the floor.

I’ve recently had a couple of technological trip ups that led me straight back to skepticism about the reliability of all our marvels. The first happened when I had forwarded a story that I had written to someone who had asked to read it. After a week had passed with no word and feeling a bit nervous that they had hated my story, I asked how they liked it. It never got there. Now, I know how to send e-mail just as well as anyone else, attachments included. But my story had just flown off into the ether somewhere, never to be seen again. I probably would have just written it off as weirdness in the Internet universe, but darned if it didn’t happen a few days later with a message to someone else. This made me doubt that other messages had reached their intended recipients.

The second event went unnoticed for almost two weeks. I had to replace my phone/answering machine the week after Christmas. The new one has so many bells and whistles that I was extremely careful in setting it up. However, I couldn’t help noticing that we had received absolutely no messages since it had been plugged in. Zero. Zip. Nada. So, brilliant girl that I am, I used my cell phone to call the house phone and leave a message. I hung up. The message light was flashing on the phone, but no message. After an hour of going through the not so thorough manual, I fiddled with how many rings before the message machine picks up. Apparently my new phone will record messages after four rings, but, if it is set for six rings, it tosses them into the great void.

Both of these incidents left me wondering if I had inadvertently snubbed someone, or several someones. There is absolutely no way for me to find out, but I wondered. I also got to thinking about how we’ve come to assume things about responses or lack of responses to all of our high tech communications. If there is no response to an e-mail, or a phone message, or a text message, what exactly does that imply? Does it imply anything? There seems to be a different expectation with the electronic messages than with more human based messages. Perhaps the more instantaneous messages make us lose our patience and expect instantaneous replies. And the silences between messages become uncomfortable more quickly than in the days when waiting was the usual expectation.

If there is no reply, does that mean the message wasn’t received? Or it was ignored? Or it landed in the spam folder? Or they don’t want to talk to you? The mind reels through the various possibilities and none of them are good. In the old days, we waited a “reasonable amount of time” before calling back or leaving a second message. But in our high-speed technologically enhanced world, what is a reasonable amount of time?

I’m already on record as being uncomfortable with the layers of technology intervening between humans. Even when communication happens, I feel like it is lacking. And when the technology acts up, it makes me even more uncomfortable. The only solution, I suppose, is to keep trying. But, just to make myself feel better, I think I’ll begin writing more letters. And, if you are expecting to hear from me and don’t, please try again.

Control

2009-01-08T14:59:00.000-08:00

I’ve been reflecting on the issue of control recently. Over the past month, I’ve heard so many tales of illness, death, suicide and war that it has brought to the forefront the reality of our essential lack of control in so many areas of life. And, quite frankly, I’ve been amazed at my own response to the hardship and tragedies that I’ve come in contact with. A younger me would have been wracked with pain at being totally helpless to positively affect any of these sad and, sometimes, hopeless, situations. It is not that I do not care or have no feeling for those involved, quite to the contrary. But the acceptance of my inability to make an impact has allowed me to express my concern from a place of greater peace than at any other time in my past. It is as if, in releasing the illusion of control, I release the turmoil of the chaotic and enable myself to be more fully present to those involved.

I haven’t fully nailed down this new approach but it has me wondering about the impact that clinging to control has and I believe it may have a very widespread negative aspect on every aspect of human life. The most obvious would be the impact of war on the world stage. Most recently, the news is filled with the latest escalation of conflict between the Israelis and Palestinians, with hundreds of people killed. Each side is suffering countless death and incalculable pain in the effort to control their own territory and ultimate destiny. And each side is equally certain of the justice of their efforts to secure that control at the expense of the other. I don’t pretend for a second to have a solution to either the Israeli-Palestinian conflict or to war itself, for that matter. But it does seem that striving after control as opposed to striving after cooperation seems to be a strong contributing element in all such situations.

Another area that I’ve been reflecting on is the ultimate human question of life and death, illness and suffering. I have heard numerous stories in the past few weeks of horrifying accidents, life-threatening illness, suicide and death. And I have waited by the phone for news of a friend clinging to life. What I have noticed in all of this is that there is nothing to control beyond my response. I can’t make anyone well. I can’t save anyone’s life. And I can’t do anything more than offer words of comfort to those who are suffering loss. But, in accepting my lack of control, there is no increase in suffering through attempting to change what is.

Economically throughout the world many, many people are attempting to hold on tight through a mess that frequently was made by others. We do the small things that we can to ease part of the problem, whether it be clipping coupons or buying less expensive necessities. But, ultimately, we can’t control whether or not our employer lays us off or ships our job to another country for cheaper labor.

Now, I’m not for a second suggesting that the only rational response is to roll over and let circumstances have their way with us. But, it seems, that trying to control the uncontrollable tends to make a bad situation worse. Perhaps a better tactic would be to seek out those positive steps that we can take and attempt to release the chaos that presents itself as futile attempts at control. And it doesn’t seem to mean that we have to give up a satisfying life to do so.

For example, my current situation doesn’t allow for an entertainment budget. It doesn’t matter how badly I would like theater or symphony tickets, it simply isn’t going to happen right now. But I can watch PBS on the television and have been learning very interesting things about the history of India recently. I can also pop a CD into the player and have Faure’s Requiem any time that I care to.

In the case of my seriously ill friend, while I have been distressed waiting for news and hopeful of it being positive, it does not do my friend one lick of good for me to wring my hands and cease to function. I can do no more than to hold her in my heart while I knit or wash the dishes and hope for the best. My sinking into pain ahead of its’ time is of use to no one.

I’m surprised at the peace that this realization has given me. I wouldn’t have thought it would be the case. But in ceding that I can only do what I can do and cannot do what I cannot do, essentially giving up the illusion of control, I also give up the panic of not being in control. And that is what allows a place for inner peace.

Fitted Sheets

2009-01-03T12:01:00.002-08:00

As I was doing the laundry and remaking the bed, I got to thinking. Fitted sheets may be one of the best things since sliced bread, but they are also challenging little buggers.

On the upside, fitted sheets make making the bed infinitely easier than doing so with flat sheets. I can make a hospital corner that would put most to shame, but they don't stay on nearly as well as the fitted ones. And now that they make the extra deep pockets, there is rarely a need to re-tuck them between the regular changes of the bed linens. It's generally quick and easy to make the bed with a nice smooth sheet.

There are, however, some downsides to the fitted sheet. The first being the folding of the thing. I imagine that we were all taught by our mother, or someone, that the way to fold a fitted sheet involves tucking the corners inside one another, tweaking the edges so that it approximates a rectangle and then folding as if it were really a flat sheet. Naturally, those puffy corners don't lay flat and the approximate rectangle never really works like a rectangle, so the procedure is doomed from the start. But we give it the old college try and stuff the malformed mass in a drawer to wrinkle up until we need it.

And, given the sizing phenomenon of mattresses and bedsheets, it isn't always as easy as one might hope to figure out which way is up when making the bed. With a twin bed, it is easy to tell which end of the sheet goes where because it is so obviously a skinny rectangle. But the larger sizes are more square than rectangle, although not quite. If they were truly square, it wouldn't matter which corner of the sheet was put on which corner of the mattress, but they are not. So what should be a simple, straight-forward task actually requires a bit of thought in trying to assess which way is the long way on the sheet and then, when you realize you have assessed incorrectly, rotating it so that it will actually fit on the mattress.

While contemplating this situation, I began to think that people are more like fitted sheets than one might have imagined. When we are oriented correctly for our lives, we have the attributes of the well placed sheet. We fit, things are smooth and comfortable, and there are no wildly wrinkled places.

However, it's in the folding that the trouble begins to appear. When we try to make ourselves approximate some shape that we are not, things get lumpy, out of shape and crammed into dark places. And the wrinkles begin to set in with a vengence so that we cannot function in the way we were meant to. Similarly, if we try to make ourselves fit the wrong way round, we are stretched and pulled all to no avail. We neither function nor look right.

All of which makes me wonder why we try to do contortions like that. Probably because we were expected to for so long that we just come to enforce those expectations on ourselves. Sadly, many times we don't even notice the knots that we have tied ourselves into. I think a better model might be to be like sheets hanging on a clothesline on a warm spring day, blowing in a breeze and gaily waving our colors for all to see.

New Year's thoughts

2009-01-01T11:25:00.006-08:00

As I was thinking about this post, I was watching "Shirley Valentine", a movie about a 40-something woman who impetuously decided to live her life, as opposed to the life that had moved in and taken over her months and years. There was a line in the movie that perfectly captured what I had been thinking about in regards to my own life. "I fell in love with the idea of living."

As I deliberately considered what in my life needed to be chucked out with the garbage, I also began to muse on what needed to be embraced and welcomed in. The answer that came back to me was the word PLEASURE. Pleasure in all of its forms, large or small, lasting or transitory. And I recognize that, for me at least, this has to be a conscious choice that is made over and over each day until it becomes the norm rather than the exception in my life.

Some of this can be achieved simply by noticing and appreciating the things that are around me. The flickers and robins that nest near my home. The squirrels that cavort through the trees. The sound of rain as it drips outside my window. The smell of baking, the feel of silk and wool, the gurgle of someone else's baby. All of the free and delightful things that cross my path and don't cost a dime.

Then there are those things that I will make small efforts to welcome in. Getting up early to head into the woods just to see what interesting birds are to be found in that time and place. Eschewing cheap chocolate for the occasional perfect truffle. A glass of wine with a dear friend. A lingering glance and a gentle touch just when it is most needed.

There are also those larger things that I will go full out to hunt down and capture. A satisfying career, the ability to spin fine yarn, a fulfilling relationship and expanded awareness.

I am determined to wake up each morning asking myself the question, "How can I most fully live today?" And equally determined to follow the answer through whatever adventures may present themselves. Some days will give small delights, others will give full blown, mind blowing pleasures. All of them, when approached with awareness, will give something that enhances life as a whole. Some will give pains, it is true, but even those will bring experiences and knowledge that could enhance life further down the road.

I knew a Franciscan friar once who gave a retreat talk that he called his "fantasy of death." In this fantasy, when one dies and goes to heaven, one is nearly tackled and bear-hugged by God. God is so excited to see them and can't stop asking how the experience was and what they liked best, what was their favorite part. And I realize now that I've not focused on my favorite parts at all. It's past time that I got a list of those things going.

So many of us view life as work, a slog, and even suffering, to be gotten through. I know that was the case for me throughout most of my life. But, wouldn't it be better if we viewed it in a different way? Shouldn't we want to be the child we once were, wanting to lick the cake beaters, have one more story, suck down the last drop of juice? We were wiser as children than we are as adults.

Granted the less wonderful things will raise their heads and we will have to deal with them. But they simply must be less draining to those who are living out loud and to the fullest with the intention of living well. I'm determined to find out first hand. If you're trying to find me, it will be easy. I'll be the one standing over there with a huge smile, licking the chocolate of life off my lips. Care to join me?

New Year's Eve

2008-12-31T11:08:00.005-08:00

While so many are focused on the new and what is coming, I'm going to take for my model the Roman god Janus. Straddling the calendar's shift, today is a time for looking back.

A few years ago, I was invited to a Solstice ceremony. Everyone was asked to bring a piece of paper and to write down all those things that we wished to leave behind us in the dark. These papers were then burned to create the new light of things to come. So today I'm considering what needs to be left behind.

First, and foremost, is fear in all it's aspects. I am determined not to carry with me fear of financial disaster. It may very well hitch-hike along for the ride or pop up like a jack-in-the-box, but I'm not wrapping my arms around it or claiming it for my own. We are almost all in the very same leaky boat on that score so it is useless to worry about it. Whatever will come, will come and there is no use angst-ing about it in the meanwhile.

I'm also all done with the fear of rejection. Most of my life I've held myself back, generally assuming that my presence was not welcomed. This was based on nothing more than a lack of self-esteem as many people seem more than happy to have me around. Granted not everyone, but that is always going to be the case for everyone. And, only by risking the rejection do I open myself up to opportunity for acceptance. I figure a 50/50 split is probably do-able.

And the fear that makes its appearance through lack of trust has also got to go. I don't plan on being reckless by any means, but I do plan to allow folks to show me just how wonderful they are. If they don't, well they don't, but I'm thinking most of the people one comes across are worth the effort. And, if they aren't, they don't get the second shot at me.

I'm going to leave behind pain, as well. I don't think I get the option with physical pain, although if someone would like to cart off my migraines and bury them, I wouldn't object. I mean the emotional pain that clouds new joys. Like everyone, I've had my share, but it is not going to go forward into 2009 with me.

Resentment also has to go. I'd already taken steps to eliminate the most egregious causes of resentment, so it's just the niggly little things that require digging up at this point. But it is time to get out the trowel and dispose of them as well. I'll probably also give the heave-ho to the nasty little pet names that I have given to those resentment causers.

That seems like a lot. However, given that they are all rather heavy and no utter use to me, I expect that it will be a relief not to lug them around any longer. And, when one is tightly clutching things in one's hands, it makes it impossible to open those hands to receive new gifts. So, prior to lifting a glass to welcome in the new, these things need to be tossed over my shoulder first, without a backward glance.

Dieting

2008-12-29T14:12:00.003-08:00

"Health food may be good for the conscience but Oreos taste a hell of a lot better." Robert Redford.

As generally happens at this time of year, people's minds turn to resolutions and, most commonly, to losing weight in the new year. As I listen to people talk about their determination to lose weight, I can't help but notice that their language reflects attitudes of struggle and sacrifice which would seem to handicap their efforts. And there also seems to be an undercurrent of virtuousness behind those struggles. This got me to wondering about both diet and the wider issue of "noble" suffering.

The average American diet is widely acknowledged to be a nutritional nightmare. I think this stems in great part from our hurried attitude towards most things. We must have fast food, fast cars, fast downloads, fast you-name-it. And with this speed comes an inability to savor anything. Meals bolted on the run do nothing beyond fill the stomach and quiet hunger for a while. Food swallowed whole has no opportunity to play on the tongue, although in the case of fast food that is probably for the best. We pursue neither nutrition nor enjoyment in our meals.

We look at dieting for weight loss as self-deprivation, further hampering our efforts. We focus on what we "can't" eat or on what we "should" do, eliminating from consideration what we can and may do. This simply has to set us up for defeat even before we've begun.

How might it be different if we looked at it from an attitude of self-indulgence rather than lack? I believe Alan Watts once wrote that if we were true hedonists we wouldn't consume more and more, we would insist on only the best. This would involve a bit of a time commitment, but what if we spent a few minutes finding the best tomatoes at the grocery or took the time to find the perfect pear? The enjoyment of them would begin from that moment and extend through the preparation and consumption. Surely this indulgence would enhance the experience and take away the feelings of deprivation. It would also lead to healthier eating overall, which might, just maybe, help us achieve our other eating related goals.

My other thoughts were set to unraveling the notion that suffering is somehow more virtuous than enjoyment. Perhaps this is a worn out hang over from the mythos of our Puritan ancestors, but it does seem to weave its way through our cultural consciousness. If I am miserable, I must be good and if I'm not, not. I'm not sure why this has stuck with us, but I vote that we attempt to un-stick it.

We could enhance our diets, our enjoyment, our lives by indulging ourselves in the freshest foods available, pleasing to both eye and palate. We could lovingly prepare nutritious, attractive meals for ourselves and our families. We could gratefully indulge in good tasting and good looking dishes. We could pamper our bodies with the best we could find. Certainly there is more virtue to be found in taking care of the one and only body that we've got than in trying to whip it in to shape. The result would be most likely the same and it would have to be better for our psyches.

If we consciously approached our eating, and indeed all of our lives, as a good to be enjoyed, we could also eat the occasional Oreo with no ill effects.

Silence

2008-12-28T15:01:00.006-08:00

There are many different types of silence: good silence, bad silence, silences that are meaningful and those that are truly no more than an absence of sound, full silences and empty silences. While being snowed in recently, I noticed an increase in several types of silence, some comfortable and some decidedly uncomfortable. And I began to think about these various silences and how they impact me.

The snowstorm imparted a deep physical silence. The snow itself muffled most of the everyday background noise that we tend to ignore in the course of our daily lives. The shutdown of ground and air traffic filtered out even more of the man-made sounds until one felt quite cocooned in a blanket of quiet. In the beginning it was comforting, even inspiring, like being new born into a new world. After several days, however, this very same silence became oppressive and I found comfort in the sound of the heater kicking on and resorted to electronic noise-makers to keep me company.

So what had changed? The silence remained what it was, mere silence. The duration had lengthened, but not beyond anything I hadn't tolerated deliberately before. I thought about other times when I had purposefully entered into silence for up to seven days, when the silence did not oppress me.

On those occasions, I chose to go into silence as a retreat from the noise and busy-ness of my life. The silence was an escape that I had freely and eagerly embraced. It represented an opportunity for rest, reflection, and a break from the more distasteful parts of my life. Sometimes I was alone and other times I shared the silence with others, but, in every case, the more deeply I allowed myself to sink into the silence the quieter I became internally and my thoughts were freed to gently drift into whatever paths seemed most restful or enlightening.

These planned forays into the depths of silence fed me in ways that constant chatter simply could not. In fact, after extended periods in silence, I found re-entry into the so-called real world to be extremely jarring and would find myself very quickly overloaded by the stimulation. I had to plan gradual re-introduction of activities for awhile.

Given my appetite for extended silence, I was surprised when I found myself uncomfortable with the silence of being snowbound. Not only was the world itself seemingly mute, but my phone took that opportunity to fail and I couldn't get out to replace it for 3 days.

I think my discomfort came from a couple of different sources. The first being that this silence was unplanned and of unknown duration. The first 4 days were enjoyable for me. I blissfully spent my days reading and knitting, admiring the snow falling outside and quite content with the reduction in responsibilities to be met. Then, sometime during day 4, I began to feel stifled by the very same silence that I had previously savored. It came to represent isolation and loneliness for me. The silence had to be broken, even shattered.

I don't think I was alone in this. While trudging a mile to the store and then back again, there were several people risking slips and falls to be outside, some were even skiing down the street. Everyone seemed friendly and eager to connect with others. I met neighbors that I hadn't even seen in the entire three years I've lived here. And the break in the silence enabled me to remain in the silence again when the snow began to fall once more.

The second source of my discomfort seems to have been that I am simply out of practice with being in silence, externally or internally. The hurry, struggle and chaos of the last few years left me unprepared for both the gifts and the challenges that silence brings. My muscles have gone flabby which means I should probably make plans to exercise my internal silence more in the new year. It is time to re-develop my skills in just being instead of doing. I've allowed myself to fall prey to the misconception that activity endows meaning and purpose.

Despite succumbing to a bit of isolation craziness, I think I've learned the lesson that the silence of the snowstorm had to give me. Now to see if I can retain it through the thaw.

Snow Revisited

2008-12-22T14:47:00.006-08:00

I know, I know, previously I was all Zen-like about the snow storm. Yarn, rabbit, cocoa all at the ready, I would not be daunted by what passes for a snow storm in the Pacific Northwest. But the stuff is still coming down and they are predicting that we will be inside for at least two more days, if not longer. So what has changed? It isn't the snow, obviously, but the old mental state is slowly but surely shifting into the slightly batty range.

It isn't like I'm the sort that would be chomping at the bit to get out to do last-minute Christmas shopping. I avoid that like the plague, generally engaging in one dash to the stores to get anything that I can't acquire quickly on-line. I'm aware that we could be housebound through Christmas, but I don't feel any angst about that element of the situation. However, ramen for Christmas dinner might be a bit off-putting.

We're fortunate that our electricity is holding steady and so the heat is on. Don't have to worry about excessive cold. I am a bit miffed that the few festivities that I had planned on attending were canceled. Lost out on some much valued socializing there. But that's hardly enough to send me slipping towards the edge.

As I smugly watched others go bats after two days, I didn't imagine that this would continue to the point that I would join them, but here I seem to go. Why? As is my wont, I've been giving the situation a think and I have come up with a possible answer, or at least a partial one.

I first noticed myself slipping when I realized that I had not done enough grocery shopping for an extended snow-in. I'd gone to the store on Friday to pick up a few necessities, but I did not stock the pantry by any stretch of the imagination. Now this is a crucial point for me. When I was a child, the month always exceeded the paycheck and I learned to value a well stocked pantry. It symbolized security (as well as meals) to me. So this extended snow must be rattling my inner sense of security on some level, despite the fact that I am warm and fed at the moment.

This, of course, leads my mind to other security issues. Could that be the reason so many find themselves with, what is lightly referred to as, cabin fever? Is there a loss of security in being stuck inside? In spite of the fact that inside is safer than outside, I think this might be it, at least in part. When we can direct our days in any manner we like, we have a sense of safety in that we never have to face our constant and very real vulnerability to life. When Mother Nature asserts herself in our lives to the point that we cannot make choices that we otherwise would, we come face to face with the idea that ultimately, in some senses at least, we do not control our own destiny, whether that destiny be a trip to the grocery store or keeping ourselves and our loved ones safe. We may not recognize this threat overtly, but when we are constricted, it burbles around in our subconscious and niggles at our sense of well-being.

All of us like to think that we are in control, on one level or another. Even though I often acknowledge that I have very little control over what life decides to serve up, I also like to control the little things to give myself the comfortable illusion of control. But a blizzard, or an earthquake or a hurricane, will very quickly send that illusion flying out the window. And, perhaps, this is why we become so very uncomfortable internally, as well as physically, during such times.

Snowbound

2008-12-20T14:23:00.005-08:00

We've had several snow days recently, but only today has it increased to a level of a bona fide snow storm. So today, there will be no heading out at whim, no quick dash to the store, no going out. Period. This has its good points and a few irksome points.

I sit here watching the snow blow outside my window, collecting in lovely clumps on the camellia, admiring the contrast between the whiteness and the deep green leaves. The wind speeds up periodically causing the falling snow to swirl and it makes it feel colder somehow. The birds have disappeared, no sight at all of the ubiquitous crows that live around my home. The cool blue winter light filters through the windows giving the room a chill. And I see that the tenacious rosebud has finally given up the struggle.

I've spent most of the day puttering. The chores have been virtuously completed and a quantity of knitting has been done. In the background, A Christmas Carol is playing on the television. There is no need to go out and so I find myself content to stay in, separated from the winter outside. This was not the case earlier in the week.

During the earlier snows, when the city shut down for no apparent reason, I found myself quite restless and resentful of inactivity. It got me to thinking about the nature of cabin fever and why it hits sometimes but not at others. Today, just like those earlier days this week, I am inside and most definitely will not be going out. But today I am content whereas before I was not. So, what is the difference?

Previously, I had plans for my days and evenings and could see no good reason for those plans to be disrupted. Having grown up in a different part of the country, part of me does not totally understand how such a little bit of weather can have such widespread effect. So I went out while others stayed in lamenting their inactivity. I just wasn't fazed by it. And, I'll admit, I was also a bit cocky about my Midwestern experience of "real" winters. Don't get me wrong, I completely respect bad weather and won't engage in foolishness during a storm, but my definition of bad weather is a bit stronger than some folks.

Having had my earlier plans thwarted by what I considered insufficient reason, I really struggled with the imposed inside isolation. I thought it was because I was not able to have full freedom and control of my own activities. But I don't know that that was quite correct. Today, I am also confined to the house, as the snow continues to fall all day long. But I do not feel any of the restlessness that accompanies cabin fever for me. I am no less restricted than those earlier days, in fact, I am more snowed in now. And yet, I am content.

Perhaps the difference in my reaction lies in the recognition that this particular storm is its own restriction. It isn't imposed on me by others deciding that the weather could be bad enough to cancel my plans. This hemming in of my options is due to a truer reality than what I perceived as the timidity of others. There is no arguing with an actual storm and, thus, I don't feel constrained. I could be wrong about this. It could be that two or more days of "real" weather inactivity will bring cabin fever just as the other days did. But, for now, I am content to curl up in my chair, with my rabbit at my feet, and knit the day away.

Found

2008-12-18T14:59:00.004-08:00

"I have never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several weeks." Daniel Boone.

This quote tickled me when I first came across it and I was sorely tempted to write it off as 18th century machismo. But then my mind got churning on what it means when we say that we are lost. And, I suspected, that it would relate to something other than wandering through uncharted territory. Daniel Boone just might have been onto something here.

Unlike Mr. Boone most of us never open up previously unexplored physical territories. I think the last human to do that may have been Neil Armstrong. But the rest of us mere mortals are constantly exploring the uncharted territory of ourselves or, at least, we could be. And sometimes on that trek we feel that we may be lost. But what if, like Daniel Boone, we are only confused for a while?

How might we become "lost" on this most important of journeys of discovery? One way might be that we are given incorrect directions. Any time someone tells us who we are or what we should do or where we should go, there is the possibility of our losing our way. These helpful others may wish us well and be trying to help, or they may not wish us well and be trying to control, but, whatever the motivation, it is very likely that they are wrong simply because they cannot know our interior landscape in the intimate way that we do ourselves. And should we alter our course to accommodate their direction, we run the risk of becoming profoundly confused about our path, our identity.

Another way could be when we choose to ignore our own intuition and neglect to follow the signs we see along the way. Those "aha" moments that we shout down internally so as to make ourselves conform to what is defined as practicality. We stop ourselves from reaching for the stars because that would not be prudent and, thus, we put blinders on, shielding our sight from a better path for us.

Still another method is to follow only the established paths begun by others with the street sign labeled "THE WAY", whether that be the path of established rules of business, religion or society. By denying ourselves the opportunity to question and explore, we also deny ourselves the possibility to discover and celebrate our unique vision and expression of life, to be our true selves.

Granted risk taking is, well, riskier, but the sure things seem to give much less in the way of personal rewards and growth. The innovators of mankind, in every sphere of human activity, have always been those who take the risks, think outside of the box, and dare to be themselves. Our risks do not have to be grand, earth-shattering events designed to touch all mankind. Indeed, they most likely will take humbler forms, such as not saying "yes" when we really want to say "no". Or asking for what we really need in our lives, or opening our hearts to another so that we allow ourselves to be known. Reaching for what would truly feed our spirits does not mean that we will be able to grasp it all, but it might cut down on the periods of self-confusion and those sad feelings of having lost our way and our very selves.

The Wind and Longing

2008-12-09T12:56:00.005-08:00

The wind has been a spiritual metaphor for many things in my life. Today it speaks to me of longing. In all its various guises, it stirs gentle memories and raging passions, joyous laughter and wistful sighs.

In its lightest, most elusive form, a breeze that barely flutters a leaf, it carries a snippet of a forgotten tune or the whiff of long ago cooking drifting through a youth with rare pleasures. It teases out partial memories and gently tugs out a desire for days that cannot return, for things that should have been, for people who should have stayed. It is the quiet voice of loss that never is totally silenced.

Another is like the cool breeze of spring, moving the grass with waves of hopeful promise of what yet might be. Stirrings of new life skirting through the trees carrying the scent of turned earth and budding flowers and disappearing down the lane, leaving a laughing invitation to follow in its wake. Running after it to discover what is just beyond our sight, offering promises of new joys.

Most invigorating perhaps are the roaring passions of the storm winds, stirring up feelings of depth and intensity that awake awareness of life lived to its limits in ways the breeze cannot even hint at. It couples power and risk, offering those who are not too timid to reach for fulfillment, if only they will dare. It blows away the dross and leaves a landscape cleared of the usual, offering new perspective and new possibilities.

There are long, lonely winds that whistle at our windows on cold evenings. These winds keen to us of loneliness and loss. Like mourners crying low in pain, they resurrect old sorrows and current emptiness and refuse to subside for their season.

Even the lack of wind leaves its own special longing. The hot, stuffy days, when there is no movement, feel pregnant with waiting -- waiting for the merest stir of the air which signals relief. And that relief could come in the slightest of breezes or the strongest of tornadoes, any movement at all that would disperse the stagnation and weight of humidity and heat. Setting in motion the desire for change at, almost, any cost.

Each longing has its own wind, its own time, its own expression. The winds of relationship seem to be ever present, if variable in type. There are very few places in life or on earth that have the same wind at all times. But the wind itself is constantly present, just as longing within the human heart is always present. And I notice which wind of longing is blowing and from which direction in the same way that a sailor must. I also wonder which way it will shift and what corrections in course I will have to make in order to accommodate it.

Rosebud

2008-12-04T16:03:00.010-08:00

Outside my kitchen window on this chilly December day is a coral-colored rosebud stubbornly clinging to the top of an otherwise barren bush. I have been watching this little bud for several weeks now, speculating as to when it would succumb to the inevitable and reflecting on the lesson of this almost flower for myself.

I wonder at its timidity in keeping closed in on itself, holding itself tightly, afraid to open up and share itself. Did it not get something that it needed to bloom? Was it missing adequate light or love? Surely, it didn't fear that its beauty would be rejected or ignored, that its sisters would outshine it. Perhaps it believed that it came too late to the feast and felt unable to participate, left on the outside looking in.

I marvel at its tenacity, holding on through rain, wind and chill, never letting go of its tenuous hold on life. Unfulfilled and yet more long lived than its cohorts, keeping a tight grip on possibility long after its season of hope.

How many of us are like this little bud at one time or another? Fearful of showing our core, we hold ourselves tightly closed with only the barest hint of our sweetness escaping. Perhaps, when first we tried to bloom, the air was chilled with rejection. Maybe our roots were not nourished with the warm mulch of love. Or we were pruned back too severely by convention and expectation. And yet we cling to the hope of possibility that we have not, in fact, missed our blooming.

But, unlike this rosebud, we do not fall after a season. We have the possibility to nurture ourselves during the fallow times, to aerate our roots, trim back the dead and open ourselves up to the possibility of blooming again in the spring. We have multiple seasons. And, as I notice my own growing and changing, and that of others around me, I feel a little less chilled by the sight of this tiny, unfinished flower. I can continue to dig around my roots, add new components and hope for an even more lush blooming with the change of a new year.

Certainly it is riskier, this always becoming. Next season may produce not even a bud for all the effort. It could, in fact, kill off the entire bush. But the possibility of expansive growth seems to be worth the risk. It is necessary to trim off the bud of lost hopes in order to cultivate the potential for what may yet be.

".... and then the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." -Anais Nin.

Inspiration

2008-12-01T11:40:00.004-08:00

"You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." Jack London.

Not being a fan of Jack London's work, I was surprised when this quote caught my attention. And, while I reject his muy macho, blood-thirsty image, it has got me thinking about the nature of inspiration.

According to the Online Etymology dictionary, the word inspiration comes from the ideas of breathing in life or animating with an idea. This life/animation can take many forms and come from unlikely sources. It also depends on the disposition of the receiver. So, it would seem, that inspiration is that point where the external possibility joins with internal receptivity to create something new.

I believe London was correct that passive waiting for inspiration to arrive is useless. But he was wrong in his attacking analogy. It is more akin to farming than hunting. It requires a fertile ground on which to fall, a welcoming climate, and careful cultivation and nurturing until the fruit springs forth.

One of the components must be time. While I have had the occasional poem spring, seemingly, fully formed from my mind or heart; most of my writing comes from taking the time to write, manipulating words and thoughts until the result bears some resemblance to what inspired it. But beyond the actual time spent writing is the time taken to notice and observe what is around me and within me, hoping to catch sight of what will inspire me next. Always turning things over, looking for unexpected facets and ideas.

Another piece is the rich compost of everything around us. There are lofty ideas, heroic personalities and jaw-dropping beauty which offer insights for creativity. But those things may be too limited. There is a much larger crop of the so-called mundane around us that offers new possibilities for the mind that is ready to receive them. They are more accessible and immediate to us than the Elgin Marbles and offer new windows into the beauty that exists all around us. No less than their more magnificent counterparts, the daily-ness of these things offers us the opportunity to step beyond what we might otherwise overlook.

A few years ago, I was at an Arlo Guthrie concert. And Arlo was talking about how he came to write a particular song. He said that he believed that songs and ideas were floating all around us. He said that this song was written during a time when he and James Taylor were sharing a house. He believed that it sounded like a James Taylor song, but when it floated past Arlo was the one who had the pencil. I believe Arlo was right and inspiration visits those that are ready for it.

And it is not only the artistic or officially creative among us that these things can enrich. This cultivation of inspiration requires only that we show up and open a space within ourselves to receive it. How it will then express itself is limitless. Some will write or paint or compose. Others will concoct a perfect salad or create a welcoming home. Still others will create an inspiring lesson or a beautiful garden. In a very real sense, it doesn't matter how it expresses itself, so long as we allow it expression in our lives. Whether it be small or large, the result will enhance its moment and place in our lives. All we have to do is watch for the opportunities all around us.

Laughter

2008-11-30T13:55:00.006-08:00

"Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand." Mark Twain.

I'm generally of a mind to think that Mark Twain was correct about most things. But perhaps no more so than when he said this. Despite the fact that my life has not been all hearts and flowers, I've usually been able to find something to laugh about, even if it is only my own foibles. And I believe that those who cannot or will not laugh are taking themselves far too seriously.

One of my earliest realizations of my tendency to laugh in the face of problems came when I was a 17 year old college freshman. For the first time in my life, I was on my own and very concerned about my ability to succeed. So I sought out one of the university's counselors to hash out my worries. At one point during our conversation, he leaned back in his chair, smiled broadly and said, "You will never go crazy." Odd little pronouncement, I thought, so I asked him why not. He said it was because of my sense of humor. At which I told him that that was a rotten thing to say as I thought it might be much easier to have doctors supply me with lots of lovely drugs and order my life for me!

A few years later, in the early 1980s, I was living in Texas. Folks were up in arms about a group of local KKK members getting a parade permit for a march through town. There was a lot of discussion about how or if to respond and the ideas ran from the benign to the bizarre. One friend of mine had what I thought was a brilliant idea. He said that everyone should line the parade route in silence and, as the ridiculous people in their bedsheets progressed along the route, everyone should begin giggling. Given that the KKK is not known for their sense of humor, perhaps it would have ended badly. But it would have been a lovely thing to see attempted.

Amazingly, even death can have its sting lessened a bit by laughter. My maternal grandfather's family did not engage in hushed reverent funerals. There was always loud conversation and story telling going on. And, if one didn't know better, or notice the casket, one might have thought a party was in full swing. When my grandfather died, the once large extended family had disbursed, but the tradition still held among those remaining. One of my grandfather's nephews, whom I had never met, came in and began telling us a story about my grandfather. It seems that my grandfather had taken him on fishing trips as a boy. And he'd let my grandfather know that he was fond of Milky Way candy bars. My grandfather knew no moderation in supplying things that people liked. And he gave his nephew so many candy bars when they went fishing that the kid invariably got sick. And didn't much want the candy any more. Laughter ensued because we each had our Milky Way equivalent. Mine was strawberry ice cream......still can't touch the stuff, although I do look at it longingly sometimes in the grocery store. And we won't get into what happened to get me laughing uproariously in the ladies room at the funeral home. I still don't know which one of my relatives heard me and beat a quick exit. The laughter didn't eliminate the pain I was feeling, but it brought those of us remaining closer together and it is the laughter I remember now, more than the pain.

I find that I don't much trust people who don't laugh. Granted at a given moment someone may be in too much pain to laugh, but there are some that never, ever laugh and it makes me suspicious. People who can laugh together generally do not hurt each other. And those who can laugh at themselves are usually gentler with those around them. Victor Borge once said that laughter is the shortest distance between two people. And what a lovely way to close the gap.

Relativity

2008-11-28T15:35:00.004-08:00

My first encounter with ethical relativism came rather early in life in, of all places, Sunday school. There we were, all of 11 or 12 years of age, discussing good and evil, being very sure that we knew the difference. One of us, and I hope it wasn't me, piped up with the proclamation that we would never steal. Our teacher responded that we should never say there was anything we would never do because we could not know that. She then said that she was absolutely certain that she would steal if it was the only way to feed her children. That certainly gave us pause. I don't know that any of us were less certain of our own correct behavior at that point, but, for me at least, it did make me a bit less judgmental of other people's behavior.

As I got older and saw more of life, I came to the realization that there are very few black and white, good and evil distinctions in this world and that all we can do is decide where on the gray scale to be in any situation. And sometimes that choice will be something that others will neither understand nor approve of. This all came back to me recently when I found myself in a dispute with a young person whose world is very much black and white. There could be no meeting of the minds because, in his view, both of us could not be right and so he had to fight tooth and nail to assert his own correctness. So, while releasing him to his own opinions, I found myself revisiting the issue of right and wrong and what it means in my life.

What is black? Genocide, rape, child abuse, wholesale destruction for profit, all seem to fall into that category for me. But other seemingly black ethical concerns can be slid to the dark gray end of the scale depending on circumstances. For example, ending another human life is an ill that becomes less black in certain cases and even our laws and society acknowledge this fact. A cold blooded murder is not the same thing as killing in self-defense and we all admit as much.

What is white? Love, care for the innocent, peace making, altruistic giving seem to be good in and of themselves. However, these things, no less than their blacker counter parts, can slip into the pale to mid-level gray areas. If unselfish care for another leads to a total abnegation of one's own needs and bitterness ensues, there is no beauty in those acts.

The grays predominate in every life and vary depending on an individual's time, history and circumstances. We like to think ourselves better than that but we might just be perpetuating a comfortable fiction which insulates us from ourselves. My Sunday school teacher was right and I no longer believe that there are things I absolutely would not do, although I sincerely hope that there are some. As much as it shakes my non-violent beliefs, I am certain that there are even some cases in which I would resort to physical violence, all the while hoping that I never have to find that out.

What is to be done with this relativistic life? What does it mean to make moral or ethical choices in such an atmosphere? It seems to require much more of us in the way of self-reflection and in identifying what guiding star we wish to follow. In holding that before us, always ready to adjust our course, perhaps we can steer more truly through whatever waters we may find ourselves in. It requires our constant attention and examination in order to avoid drifting into unwanted channels or crashing on the rocks. And, if at the end of the day, we can honestly say we did our best with what was before us, we can hardly wish for more.

Of Flying and Strawberries

2008-11-24T13:25:00.006-08:00

"Would God give a bird wings and make it a crime to fly?" - Robert G. Ingersoll.

I've been musing on this quote for a couple of weeks now. Obviously, the author isn't talking about birds, but what might it mean regarding people? So much of our training, conditioning and up-bringing seems focused on controlling ourselves, which seems to frequently entail a very long list of what we may not do. And, sadly, it seems to end up curtailing self-expression and the enjoyment of many of life's pleasures. And my thinking leads me to conclude that this is simply ungrateful.

A turning point in my thinking about enjoyment happened well into my 30's on the occasion of my first massage. Having grown up in a time, place, and tradition that frowned on physical pleasure, it took some hard thinking on my part to decide to sign up for the massage. I was on a week-long silent religious retreat and massage was an option available on request. I knew one of the therapists. She explained what I could expect and suggested that I think about it. In a few hours, I'd thought enough to give it a shot. After all, I knew her and trusted her, what could possibly be wrong with it?

I was very nervous, but I signed up and managed to not cancel the appointment. Little did I know that it would have not just a physical effect, but also a spiritual effect on me. The room was dimly lit and as I lay face down on the table, I very slowly began to relax. The therapist asked if anything hurt. I told her that nothing did. How little I knew about my body and it's sensations. When she put her hands on my shoulders, I almost raised off the table, they were so painful. She told me that that was frequently the way, that we often don't recognize the pain that we are carrying around with us. As she gently started working on the knots, I ever so slowly relaxed and my mind began to drift as I casually examined the sensations. At one point, my mind followed a thought that was so strong that I almost heard it. "If we were only meant to have bread and water, why did God make strawberries?" I managed to maintain my relaxed state through the rest of the massage, but my mind was on fire for many days after that.

Why indeed? Everything in my background supported the notion that life was suffering. One was not to expect anything because that would only lead to disappointment. That there was, in fact, some sort of virtue in suffering. But now I had the evidence of the strawberries to contend with. For the first time in my life, I came face to face with the idea that life, every bit of it, was to be enjoyed rather than endured. And, further, to refuse to enjoy it was tantamount to ungratefully throwing the gift back at the Giver. It took another decade or so for this realization to solidify in my life, but it has remained, quietly nudging me to clearer recognition and response.

We refuse so many of the pleasurable gifts of life, whether through a sense of decorum and propriety or that of following what is expected. We smile when a child cheerfully skips past us, but we would never skip ourselves. We don't sing aloud, laugh aloud or love aloud for fear of being unseemly or improper. We don't reach for the brass ring because we might fail or look foolish in the attempt. We never indulge ourselves in massage or rich foods or long lingering looks because.....because.....why?

One of the gifts we have is that of our senses. Our nerves and emotions fire pleasure through our brains, if we but allow them to. But more often than not we clip our own wings and refuse to fly. Sometimes out of necessity, but other times out of a fear of disapproval from others. Each of us have different potential pleasurable paths before us; it is only for us to choose our preferred way. What sorts of grateful flights are we denying ourselves? And what would it take for each of us to fly?

A kind word

2008-11-23T16:44:00.009-08:00

As children we all repeated a little chant: "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me." We did so in an attempt to turn away hurtful things someone else had said to or about us. As we grew older, we learned that words not only could hurt us, they could devastate us. And some of us then learned to be careful of our own use of words and to protect ourselves from the words of others.

Odd, then, how we were never taught about the healing use of words as well as the hurtful ones. How we can say a small thing that will brighten and transform the life of another, in large ways or small ways, often without our even knowing that we have done so. We can say just the thing someone has needed to hear and bring joy where there had previously been pain. We can make both small and large contributions to someone else's self image merely by opening our mouths and saying a heartfelt kind word.

Many years ago, I was walking down a deserted hallway in a university building. A strange woman, whom I had never seen before, was walking towards me. We exchanged the usual acknowledgments of each others' existence and kept on walking. I have no recollection of my state of mind or mood, but in fairly short order, this woman was about to lift it in a way that I have never forgotten. She had just passed me when she stopped, turned back and said, "Has anyone ever told you? You have the most beautiful eyes." This unsolicited compliment from a total stranger did so much to improve that day for me that I remember the moment some 20 years later and, I'm sure, this nice woman has absolutely no memory of it at all. It was just one kind act in what was probably a long series of kind acts in her life.

On another more recent occasion, about 6 or 7 years ago, in re-living a very traumatic event in my life in a very public place, several people approached me with very kind words. But one very dear human said something to me that changed my life. I didn't know it at the time, but I had been holding my breath for 24 years waiting to hear precisely the words he said to me. I was in a bit of a shocked state, so I don't know if he ever realized what a gift he had given me, but it transformed my life and permanently lifted the power of something that had haunted me for many, many years. And I will be eternally grateful.

All too easily we internalize the negative, hurtful words and dismiss the kind ones as though they have less power. Recently, I have been collecting and savoring kind words from others. Usually, they come very unexpectedly and I've learned to reply with a genuine smile and a thank you rather than the expected self-deprecating denial. And then I hug the words to me to savor their warmth for a time. In the past two weeks alone, I've collected quite a few lovely adjectives said to me or about me to others, which cause me to smile and see myself a bit more as others do, a bit more clearly, more positively.

And I am trying to more consciously put those same good feelings back out to others. It is not difficult at all to give half a minute to a genuine compliment or insight to someone. It is so very simple to say, "I just love that you are always so X." "I think it is great when you do Y." "Do you know how wonderful you are?" Anything at all, so long as it is true and good, may be the very thing that someone else needs to hear to make their day or heal some pain. It costs us nothing to boost each other up. There is no need to be suspicious of the motives or intention of these words. And, just like those two people from my past, it may help someone in ways we may never ever realize.

I can't help but believe that if more of us engaged in spontaneous acts and words of kindness that all of us would be better off. I don't know if it would lead to world peace, but it might lead to a lot more inner peace, and it certainly wouldn't lead to more conflict. And it costs us nothing to try.

Fog

2008-11-18T16:09:00.004-08:00

I've always been drawn to fog. It has never had any of the negative associations with me that it has for others. I have respect for it and wouldn't do anything foolhardy like drive around in the pea-soup variety. But it has a decidedly mystical quality that draws me.

Even as a child, I relished autumn walks through the woods near my home as the fog wafted its way between the trees. It never felt frightening or secretive, but rather, it felt alive and as if it were inviting me to dance with it. And dance I did with the fog and my friends the trees hiding me from the more unpleasant parts of my young life. Perhaps it is my early good connections with fog, or maybe its the fact that my relationship with it has grown over the years, but there is no other form of weather that speaks to me on such a deep and spiritual level.

Fog has so many faces. The lightest mists have a quality of filtering away rough edges and softening everything, giving an invitation to enter more deeply into the surrounding landscape. As it thickens slightly, it also muffles and softens sound so that any harshness there also loses its power to disturb. At this point any breeze sets the fog stirring and it is as though you can see the breath of the Creator weave its way through its creation, blessing everything it touches. When it thickens still more, things begin to disappear and I feel wrapped in safety and love.

I wonder at how I form a small, non-foggy oasis in the mist. It surrounds me yet is not within me. I am with it, but perhaps, not of it. I feel softened, yet not invisible. It circles me, plays with me and comforts me. I always look forward to its arrival and happily hurry to join it, to be one with it.

Wisps of nothing
tango through the trees,
covering all sins.
The garbage, the buildings
and man
disappear.
Artless Beauty comes out to dance.
Mother Nature pretending
that all is as
it should be.

Transformation

2008-11-18T10:14:00.002-08:00

The leaves are dying.
Red and gold,
fluttering in the breeze;
dancing with secret mirth.

The winds come through,
The weak let go;
tumbling and playing
over the ground.

The rains begin,
The remainder fall;
clogging gutters and streets,
seeming, at last, to be dead.

The rotting begins.
Pregnant smells in the air;
rich and earthy,
returning to their source.

Food for the future.
New buds in the spring.
In fact, it seems
they did not die.

Security

2008-11-17T13:10:00.010-08:00

"There is no such thing as security. There never has been." Germaine Greer.

I've been thinking about this quote for several days. It seems be both bold and, oddly, liberating to me.

We seem to spend our lives chasing after and working for security whether it be financial, emotional or physical. And, while I can certainly understand the desire, I am perplexed by the frantic way in which we pursue it. I have longed for this sort of security for as long as I can remember, but I can't help thinking that we seem to be chasing a will-o-the-wisp.

Certainly, the current economic situation has people very much afraid for their current and future financial security. But my finances were precarious before the recent events began, so I don't think that is what has set my mind to working on this question. Having grown up poor, I intimately know the stress of financial insecurity. We stretched a gallon of milk twice as far using powdered milk, Kraft macaroni and cheese was five boxes for a dollar, and I watched my mother stay up all night sewing so that we would have new clothes to wear. Jobs can disappear in a moment and child support fails to come. As an adult, I traded quite a bit of the rest of my needs in life for the illusion of financial security and, in the end, it simply wasn't worth it.

Emotionally, every last one of us has experienced disappointments and hurts that prove that security is an uncertain commodity there as well. There are exceptions, sometimes a great many of them, but there is never security here either. It begins when your best friend in kindergarten decides she really likes Sally better than you and continues right through to the one you thought was THE ONE, who couldn't be that one for you or anyone else.

Physically, we are vulnerable every second that we breathe. I heard someone once say that from the day of our birth, we begin to die and, no matter how much we would like to pretend otherwise, it is true. Friends and loved ones have been vibrant one minute and dead the next through heart attacks or accidents. Others waste away before our helpless eyes. Natural disasters, diseases and calamities hover at the edges of our existence. And violence, which may not kill our bodies, can steal our spirits in a flash.

So, why do I find this quote both potentially liberating and comforting? In acknowledging the reality of insecurity, I feel that I am opening myself up to more fully appreciate the many positive experiences that I have. By not wrapping myself in bubble wrap and believing myself to be safe and secure, I think it may be better for me to fall into the insecurity. By acknowledging the possibility of loss, I believe I enhance the experiences by feeling more gratitude for the blessings of each and every good thing that comes my way. By insulating ourselves from pain, we can also numb ourselves to joy and that is what I sincerely hope to avoid. I think it may allow fuller expression of our true selves. And, while I will continue to make sure my pantry is stocked, I hope to live more in the blissful moments that present themselves.

Blogger Tag

2008-11-17T12:56:00.010-08:00

Being relatively new to the whole internet networking thing, I had no idea what it meant to be tagged. However, I'm happy to participate and, perhaps, stir up some traffic for some of my favorite bloggers.

First of all, I'm giving a big recommendation for Chris, who tagged me. She's an internet buddy that I've just recently met in real life. She is also an amazing photographer. Her stunning black and white photos of places in Portland can be seen at her blog Portland at Night (http://www.portandatnight.blogspot.com)

Next, I'm supposed to share 5 factoids about myself.

1. I have a tattoo. I want two more. Nice girls from the Midwest are not supposed to want or have tattoos. Go figure.

2. I do not have depth perception. I generally like to tell people this when I'm driving them down the freeway at a high rate of speed, just to freak them out.

3. I own a banjo, but haven't yet learned to play it.

4. I plan to learn belly dancing once I lose a bit more weight.

5. I enjoy bird watching.

And for part 3, I'm to recommend other blogs that people might like to read.

Since I haven't had an opportunity to clear this with any of the folks I'd like to recommend, I will leave this blank. However, if you check which blogs I'm following (and I think you can do this on my blog profile) you may find something that you would enjoy.

KIPing

2008-11-16T13:58:00.003-08:00

For the uninitiated, KIPing stands for Knitting in Public. I've always engaged in it in a limited way. Whenever I knew I'd have to wait in doctors' offices or while the boys were doing something, I'd take along a portable project to fill my time. I never thought much about it. It was just something I did while waiting, until recently.

During the past month or so, I've had different opportunities to participate in KIPing with groups of women and it has me thinking about what this more deliberate, non-waiting public knitting is about for me.

First of all, it is fun to sit and talk with people that share a common interest and vocabulary. We can commiserate over having to "tink" something (unknit a mistake) or "frog" a failed project (unravel completely). There are discussions of patterns and yarns, along with the universal need to touch whatever other people are working on. There is also the ready help or advice when tackling a new technique. But these things aren't part of the public aspect of the knitting, although jokes are made about the subversiveness of knitting and how we are aiming for world domination by knitters.

The intriguing part of public knitting for me comes from the reaction of the non-knitters passing through the public space. These reactions seem to change depending on where one is knitting and whether or not you are alone or one of a large group.

Waiting room knitting is scarcely noticed. It is akin to reading old magazines to pass the time and gets only the quick question about what you are making from whatever doorkeeper may be present. Knitting at a yarn shop hardly qualifies as knitting in public at all. Everyone in the place knits and it is just a social gathering. Knitting at the mall is an entirely different experience. People scurrying between shops do not give much attention beyond watching while they approach, although they must be curious as to why nine women are knitting in the mall.

The most interesting experience I've had so far has been at a bakery. About ten women were gathered around several tables pushed together happily talking and knitting away. The staff were happy to see us. The twenty-somethings didn't know what to make of us. A couple of middle-age men struck up a cheerful conversation and jokingly solicited handmade sweaters for themselves. And an elderly gentleman walked in, couldn't take his eyes off of us and couldn't seem to stop smiling either. It made me wonder if he were remembering a dear one in his life who had been a knitter.

For me, these last examples of fleeting connection encourage me to continue to seek out other opportunities to be seen knitting. Perhaps it is the anachronistic quality of knitting or, maybe, it is the fact that several of us were doing it together, but something engaged, at least briefly, those who crossed our path. And human connection is always a good thing.

Busy-ness

2008-11-13T15:43:00.005-08:00

We could all probably offer any number of proverbs encouraging people to be industrious and to avoid idleness, to be practical and to work hard. We've heard since we were children that we shouldn't just sit around, but that we should DO something. We brag about how busy we are and qualify any enjoyable activity with "just" -- just reading, just thinking. There are even public service announcements encouraging us to sit down and have dinner with those we love. We're too busy to write, too busy to talk, to get together, to take a break, to live our lives. How did we come to such a state and why? I'm not sure I know even after observing the phenomenon for many years. It's as though we've hung every notion of our self-worth on how busy we are.

I'm not a historian so I can't pinpoint when this snowball got its start careening downhill. But it seems that each technological advance or labor saving device designed to make our work easier has, in some sense, taken away more of our time. There appears to be something in us that will not or can not say enough is enough. And I have been just as guilty as anyone.

When I was a stay at home mom, it wasn't enough for me to be chief cook and bottle washer. I sewed and baked, wove and knitted, did the driving, took care of the children and became the queen of all volunteers. I felt guilty for going away two or three weekends a year as if I didn't deserve the time off. And I wonder if that might be a part of society's endless pursuit of productivity, guilt.

But I also suspect that this false virtue of busy-ness is a type of drug that muffles the more frightening aspects of our lives. By being too busy we can avoid introspection and any harsh realties that might disrupt our lives. We can sidestep risks that might make things messy. But we also avoid reaching for what might bring us joy and fulfillment. My busy-ness enabled me to pretend that I felt valued, appreciated and loved. It kept me from recognizing unacceptable situations and chronic unhappiness. It made it easy to waste a part of my life.

We've all heard the story about the man on his deathbed who laments having worked so much while living and loving so little. But, having heard it, have we truly considered it? Are we so certain that we will not be that man? What would you do if you weren't so eternally busy? And why aren't you doing it?

Stash Diving

2008-11-12T15:49:00.008-08:00

Most knitters have a stash of yarn of some size tucked away. I have yet to meet a knitter who bought yarn for one project, which they finished before venturing forth to buy more yarn. This knitter may exist out there but he or she is a rare bird.

My stash is much smaller than it once was. After a couple of divorce-fueled personal downsizing sessions, my personal stash no longer fills a walk-in closet but fits into two large plastic containers and a few smaller baskets. And I feel the deficit.

What is this insatiable yarn hunger that many of us have? It isn't as though all the sheep might disappear and we'd be left without. Nor is it likely that all of the yarn stores and internet resources will dry up. And many of us have the ability to spin our own yarn, if push came to shove. So, why the compulsion to acquire more yarn?

In culling through my stash, I see a wide range of types and motivations present in the various yarns. There is the acrylic charity knitting yarn found at Goodwill and various discount stores. Not my favorite stuff, but necessary for items to be given away and which require easy washing. Then there are the specific project yarns, generally high quality natural fibers chosen for all my own handmade clothing and for those chosen few who know how to care for them. There is also the hand-me-down yarn that someone else wanted to get rid of. Also of high quality, but it tends to sit around for awhile until I feel inspired by a project. And last, but most certainly not least, is my sock yarn, which is in a category all its own.

My love affair with knitting socks began over a decade ago and has only deepened over time. As my financial fortunes have ebbed and flowed, the constancy of sock yarn has remained. No other medium allows for such variety of colors, fibers and weights for such a relatively low cost. Silk, wool, cotton, silk & wool, washable wools; space-dyed, self-patterning, stripes; neutrals and wild colors; all singing a siren song to me to make yet another pair of socks. And I cannot turn my back on that oh so alluring ball because it may not be there the next time and I will have lost out on those socks.

While I can exercise restraint with yarn for sweaters and scarves, the sock stash continues to grow and change and, I expect, that will remain the case far into the future.

Perhaps artists are the same way about paints and brushes, or photographers about equipment. And I know as a writer that I have an extreme attraction for interesting pens and notebooks. Maybe by stashing yarn, knitters are merely loading their palettes for whatever their creative voice needs to express next. I suspect this may be the case. Or, perhaps, our gluttony just runs toward yarn.

Bowling Night

2008-11-10T14:19:00.005-08:00

For going on three years now, many of my Wednesday evenings have been devoted to my women's bowling league. Why, you may ask, in this time of fast-paced busy-ness where the individual reigns supreme do I belong to a bowling league? I do because it is a heck of a lot of fun.

Our current team came together in the most serendipitous of ways. One member has been bowling for decades, another has a long history as well. Two joined our team thinking that they were joining a different team entirely. And I joined a year after my divorce because I was spending far too much time at home alone. I've become such a fan that I roped in another person to join us.

We pride ourselves on the fact that we have more fun losing than some teams have winning. This is so true of us that we recently rechristened our team "We Don't Care" and are eagerly awaiting the delivery of our new bowling shirts with the name blazoned across the back.

So what is the appeal for me? It certainly isn't because I have plans to go on the pro bowling circuit. My average is nothing to write home about so it is a very good thing that we don't care about winning. The appeal lies squarely with the camaraderie I share with these women, which is unique in my life.

We come together with no other goal than to enjoy ourselves. We have a drink. We give each other high-fives for our successes. We cheerfully proclaim how much we suck at bowling when we fail. We play poker for quarters and for 3 hours a week focus only on having fun. We support each other in the trials and celebrations of life.

I marvel at the impact it has had on my life. Never having been a part of a group or a team, I little realized the positive power it could have in one's life. And to be part of a team whose goal is not to work but to play is truly special. I cherish my time with my teammates and really hate the off-season. And I wonder what I did before I found them and why it took me so long to discover this.

Self-Betrayal

2008-11-09T16:35:00.015-08:00

"Betrayal of yourself in order not to betray another is betrayal nonetheless. It is the highest betrayal." Neale Donald Walsch.

I came across this quote recently and it is refusing to let go of me. It seems almost revolutionary in its possible ramifications. And it clearly points its finger at me and says, "J'accuse." I used to hold several semi-professional titles in the field of self-betrayal and only in the last few years have I attempted to call a halt to it. I don't even want to retain an amateur status. I sacrificed my voice throughout my life in the mistaken notion that I was making others happy. I never made waves, tried to help all and sundry, and forgot that I had any obligations to myself. I betrayed myself on a daily basis throughout my marriage not realizing that this betrayal also betrayed those I had hoped to protect.

Our society has a vested interest in promoting self-betrayal. Naturally, it appears under different labels and guises, but it is valued nonetheless. From the time we are very small, we are expected to mask what we think and feel, especially if it doesn't conform to acceptable norms. Children may not feel angry at adults regardless the provocation and, I believe, this leads to adults feeling unable to express dissatisfaction with figures of authority. It is a direct line from being seen but not heard to swallowing all manner of unacceptable abuse and neglect from anyone to whom one feels obligated. We enshrine the "good girl" who never makes waves, who goes along and smiles, no matter how loudly she is screaming for release inside her own spirit. As long as the surface looks good, the reality is of little importance.

Betrayal is a harsh arena and certainly not an action to be entered into lightly where others are concerned. But the betrayal of oneself is even more insidious and results in still deeper betrayals of others, even if they never know anything about it. By repressing our own needs, our own wants, our very identities in the misguided notion that we are protecting another, we have already betrayed them by withholding our true selves. The person they think they are with doesn't exist and we give life to a lie.

Of course, refusing to betray one's self comes with consequences. Conformity in society, in the work place and in our personal lives is rewarded. The rewards for being true to your self are less widespread and frequently only present internally. This seems backwards to me. Obviously, on the surface, people/society find self-actualization and expression to be a dangerous and unpredictable commodity. And, if one is going against the tide of societal expectations favoring conformity, I suppose it is. However, what if, what if everyone lived out of a sense of who they truly are without wondering if they are fitting the expectations of others regarding their roles and positions in society? What if everyone lived from a place of deep self-knowledge and personal integrity? Wouldn't that lead to a refreshing sense of predictability? We would know what to expect from each other because our behavior would flow from our core; our external self would match our internal self. And maybe, just maybe, we could truly know and trust each other.

Virtual Isolation

2008-11-08T12:15:00.007-08:00

The internet has brought a previously unimaginable sense of connection with the world. We can conduct business, exchange ideas and play with anyone in the world who chooses to make themselves available. We can also maintain closer contact with family and friends very easily, no matter where they or we may be. So I am not for a minute going to denegrate the benefits of the internet. I value the interactions that I have established through it and I believe that part of my life to be expanding rather than contracting. However, I have a concern hovering at the back of my mind. It is a concern not caused by the internet but, perhaps, amplified by it.

We all know of the potential for abuse in the virtual world. Some of those abuses can be viewed as silly, while still others contain an element of danger. Practically everyone with an e-mail account has been contacted by non-existant Nigerian royalty with a golden opportunity to become rich. And anyone with a television has heard of the dangers of sexual predators in chat rooms. And disinformation about everything from political candidates to the satanic nature of soap companies flies around the world at dizzying speeds. The anonymity of the computer enables those who would do ill to do so very easily. This is not the concern I wrestle with, for it can be dealt with with education and an awareness of the potential dangers that exist.

A more subtle problem seems to be that all of this virtual connecting leads to more actual isolation. It could be that those of us who work at home and/or live alone are the canaries in the coal mine in this area but there are a lot of very lonely people out there and there exists a potential for damage in the way we connect and interact in the real world. No matter how many virtual contacts we have, we are still sitting alone in front of a machine.

Our society has blissfully plunged head first into incorporating the internet into every aspect of our lives. We have the convenience of shopping on-line for everything we need and thereby we avoid the hassles and the joys of interacting with others. We don't talk to the friendly butcher or choose which piece of meat comes home with us or hear how his wife likes to prepare it. Sure, that sort of interaction takes longer but we end up with more than pork chops at the end of those visits. We play games with strangers whom we call friends in fantasy worlds that, at times, eclipse real relationships in the real world. And, perhaps saddest of all, when our isolation becomes unbearable, we search for love on the internet by advertising our attributes in the hope that someone will want to share our lives in a more concrete way. We lose out on the look in the eye, the sound of laughter and the real presence of the other who might become more.

In addition, the internet has allowed some of us to totally forget our manners. It is easier to forget small kindnesses when dealing with words on a screen rather than with a person directly in front of us. We can dismiss people out of hand and without explanation because we are insulated from any grief we may be causing. And we can disregard as unrealistic anyone who might want more from us than the echo of electrons on a computer. Furthermore, the speed which with it moves makes it all too easy to come off as abrupt in our dealings with others.

What is to be done? How do we meld this wonderfully useful technology with the needs of our non-technical humanity? It seems self-evidently true that we cannot allow ourselves or our relationships to be limited in this way. It would be crushing to the spirit. I'm not certain what path each individual must take to find balance. Some possibilties: look at everyone you walk past, from babies to grandmothers, and smile; look at every person who waits on you and say thank you; go to the coffee shop and leave your laptop at home and, above all, call that person you've been meaning to call and make arrangements to see them. Do whatever you can to increase the physical world contacts you enjoy so that they balance the virtual ones. Technical savvy is no substitute for human interaction.

President Obama

2008-11-05T12:24:00.010-08:00

There are moments and events that are so full that they defy description; words fail, language limps and there are not enough adjectives. And pity the poor writer who feels compelled to make the attempt to put it into words. Last night in America, we had such a moment.

Old enough to have been aware during the 1960's, I recall the marches and the assassinations, the riots and the killings. I grew up in a time when those who would use the "N" word, did so with impunity. And a fight between teenage boys was termed a "racial incident" by the school administration rather than just the usual teenage stupidity. And I can't help but believe that just beyond the veil, untold numbers of those who died, perhaps without hope of this day ever arriving, are proud of what we, as a people, did yesterday.

And I consider the spirit of all of those whose participation enabled this to happen. All of those regular people, like myself, who contributed whatever they could in money or time so that hope could have its day. And then backed up their commitment by standing in long lines to fulfill their sacred civic duty by voting. We Americans like to think of ourselves in terms of our highest ideals; liberty, democracy, equality. And, in the past, we have all too often succumbed to giving these ideals mere lip service. Yesterday, we collectively not only remembered who we are, but acted on it. We stood up to say that we care what happens to each other. That hope is stronger than fear. And that, if we bind ourselves together, we can accomplish great things.

As I listened to how people around the world held their breath with us and felt happy for us, I felt profoundly grateful that we are now a step more closely linked to the family of man. As I received the congratulations of friends and acquaintances from the Middle East and Africa and Canada and Europe, I felt so proud of our country and of my small contribution to making this come about.

While watching Barack's speech last night, I saw a man who, while happy, was fully aware of the heavy responsibility he had just shouldered. I saw a good man, a thoughtful man, a man who has just sacrificed so many of the daily, mundane joys usually enjoyed by husbands and fathers across this country for the sake of this country. And I am filled with the deepest respect for and gratitude to him for this. And, I believe, that just as we came together to elect him, we must stay together to work for the hopes and dreams that we all voted for yesterday. We cannot send him on his way and expect him to do all the work. That is not what this is about. That is not what America is about. We must continue the effort well past January 20, 2009 and make our aspirations a reality for ourselves, our children and for those who follow us. We've picked up the gauntlet along with Barack and we can not put it down again. Last night's exuberance cannot be allowed to become today's complacency.

There is much for us yet to do. It's time for us to roll up our sleeves and get to work.

Water

2008-11-04T07:05:00.001-08:00

Yesterday afternoon a man from the Water Bureau came by with bright orange door tags informing everyone that our water would be turned off for eight hours today for necessary repairs to the water mains. For most folks having the water turned off between 8:00 AM and 4:00 PM on a weekday would have no impact as they are at work during those hours. But without a workplace to go to, aside from my desk, this immediately led to a change in my plans for both yesterday and today.

First of all, today’s laundry had to be moved to yesterday. Easily done. Then a bottle of water had to be filtered for drinking. No problem. I considered baking and deferred it to Wednesday. I debated rising early for a shower or taking one at night. Then the recognition came that flushing would require water and thus I could not plan on staying at home all day. In short, my generally unnoticed dependence on clean, easily accessible water came directly to the front of my awareness for the first time in quite awhile.

The longer I considered it I became a bit stunned that I hadn’t considered it before. My usual routine relies on the instant availability of water. I have a preference for washing dishes as I use them, it being so easy to turn on the tap. I shower, clean up and flush at my own convenience, never giving a thought that I might need to plan these activities or do without. And with this complacency, I believe there is an element of lack of gratitude.

Perhaps it is just the realities of modern life, but we have separated ourselves from an awareness of the very necessities of life. We turn on a tap. We don’t pump our water, draw it from a well or haul it from a stream. And this makes us unaware and wasteful. We use the water to cook our food, to clean ourselves and our belongings, hydrate our bodies and grow our crops. And yet, we seemingly give it no thought.

As I sat through the evening, listening to the rain pelt the windows, I noticed how ubiquitous water is and yet more difficult to access than one might think. The local river cannot be a source of drinking water due to the various noxious things we have dumped in it. There are no streams or ponds nearby. I don’t know a single person who would know how to dig a well if their life depended on it. And don’t get me started on the issue of outhouses. If the water were to be turned off one day for real, we would all be in a very fine mess very quickly.

So, as I move through my waterless day, I notice my needs more closely than I might otherwise have done. And, rather than allowing myself to be annoyed at the inconvenience, I’m grateful for the awareness it has brought me. Hopefully, this will stay with me beyond the remainder of today and influence my actions and sensibilities in the future.

The turning of the year

2008-11-03T13:59:00.022-08:00

I don't claim the label of "pagan" or "Wiccan" for myself, but the Celtic calendar's spiritual significance speaks to me. This time of year has always been my favorite and full of meaning. Perhaps observing the new year at a nonstandard time of year makes it easier for me to do so in a thoughtful manner. Whatever the reason, this is my time for reflection on what has passed and what may be coming.

In the Celtic tradition, Samhain marks a time when the veil between the physical world and the spiritual world is very thin, allowing for easier access of one side from the other. The chill in the air and the falling leaves accents this as the wind physically changes the external view of the world. Trees release their leaves, which swirl and fall, seemingly dying. And yet, the rich smell of decay as they become soaked with rain is a harbinger of new life just below the surface waiting to be called forth in the spring. Rather than seeing this as a dormant time, I see it as a pregnant waiting, nurturing life.

As one who is not only experiencing a great many transitions but also actively courting them, I consider what leaves I am dropping and what will spring from their remains. I have released a great deal of what we generally call security for the hope of new growth. But I doubt, on some level, that security even exists. Everything that we hold dear can be taken from us without notice through disease or catastrophe. And I fear that many grasp at the illusion of security only to find that they hold stagnation in their hands. So, perhaps, all I have released there is an illusion.

I have released some very solid stumbling blocks both in the physical and mental realms and risked the consequences of going against the societal grain. However, society has never particularly rewarded me for my conformity and I have only released things that were not serving me well. I have given up the illusion of acceptance for the possibility of self-actualization. So, this is my time of watching some of my illusions fall away.

What may be coming in their place, I wonder? Of that I cannot be sure. The nature of waiting through pregnancy requires general preparation with only the assurance that there is something to prepare for. The new life springing forth could have any number of different traits and characteristics. Boy, girl, tall, short, blue eyes, blond hair, bright, slow. The only thing that is known is that there is a high likelihood that new life will be coming. We cannot even know exactly when it will arrive.

So, I'm settled in for my nesting period. Wrapped in a warm shawl against the chill and eagerly awaiting what might appear at any moment.

Hand washing socks

2008-11-01T18:05:00.005-07:00

If you know me for more than a few minutes, you know that I knit. And after that, you'll quickly learn that I especially like to make socks. I can wax rhapsodic about the joys of custom fit hand knitted socks.

Yes, I know that you can buy ten pair for $12.00 at Target. And that those socks are easily tossed and replaced without a moment's thought. I also acknowledge that handmade socks cost more in terms of the price of the yarn and the time involved in making them. But, plain old cotton crew socks cannot hold a candle to handmade, hand dyed, wool/silk socks.

With this luxury comes an obligation to the care of one's socks. While some of them are made from machine washable wool, most require getting right into the sink with them and scrubbing. Generally, I wait until I am almost out of socks before I engage in the great sock wash.

I take the basket containing the dirties to the bathroom sink and fill it with very warm water. And, for reasons passing understanding, I use the liquid Kiss My Face soap on them. So, I submerse a few socks and pump on the soap. As I rub each sock with soap, attempting to dislodge unseen dirt, I notice again the stitches, the texture and the feel of the knitted fabric. Most of the socks are not particularly delicate but I'm aware of wanting to take care not to felt the yarn as I scrub. Scrubbing hard enough, and yet not too hard, to get the job done.

As I scrub, rinse and wring out, my mind wanders to the lesson of the socks. The difficulty of rinsing the soap out completely, the need to be firm yet gentle, the repeated movement to get the task done.

And I consider that we are all like handmade socks. We each are made of different materials and yet still have the same form. Some of us are hearty wool work socks, perhaps not as pretty as others but strong and durable. Others are silky lace socks that are beautiful but require extra care. Then there are the colorful ones which allow for a bit of self-expression that would never be found in a larger garment. We all get dirty, to one degree or another, by what our life takes us through. We all need special care and careful attention in order to restore ourselves to a more pristine state. We can't take too much hot water or too much agitation. And occasionally, life rubs a hole that cannot be darned.

I hang the socks to dry and hear them drip as I clean the sink. Then I reach for my needles again.

Risky Behavior

2008-10-25T16:54:00.004-07:00

For literally decades, wherever I've worked, be it at home, a cube farm or a classroom; I've had a quote from some unknown wise person posted where I could see it frequently. "Those who risk nothing, risk much more." It has always had the feeling of a bone-deep truth to me and thus, it is surprising for me to realize how reluctant I have been to follow through on this perceived truth.

Until the last few years, throughout my adult life, I have, in fact, done the exact opposite and avoided every sort of risk. I chose the security of a lifeless marriage over the risk of financial instability and emotional solitude. I never dared to risk social censure by saying no to requests that I did not want to agree to. I never had the audacity to ask for what I truly wanted, needed. My hopes and dreams were locked tightly in the cage of "Someday" from which they would never escape or be released to take flight.

Then came the much vaunted awakening of my fortieth year. And the first of the risks took form. I abandoned the lifeless marriage, accepting the financial instability that was sure to follow. And agreed to the emotional and physical solitude that I had so much dreaded. Still a fledgling at the art of risk, I thought I had risked enough. I thought wrong. More, much more, lay burbling beneath the surface, waiting for me to catch my breath.

I was still thinking in the old, acceptable patterns, not even imagining that I would bolt even further from the permissible norms. I settled into a nice respectable job because one must have a job with benefits and not entertain pipe dreams. Even if that nice respectable job eats you alive and makes you weary of life. One simply cannot do without health insurance and a 401K. So on I slogged.

Then, came the day when accepting the unacceptable became impossible. And I quit the job. Without a replacement in sight but knowing that I had to walk away. It took three long years for that awakening to occur. So I leaped without a net, thinking in vague terms that I would find "something" or do temp work. Anything but stay where I was.

I still hadn't quite got the risk thing. A partial risk is no risk at all. It's an all or nothing proposition. Fortunately, it only took about a week for me to figure out that I wasn't done leaping. Due to some residual income and a generous subsidy from my mother, I am now taking the largest risk of my life so far. The risk of being a writer and, more importantly, the risk of being fully myself. Perhaps, I should be fearful. But the life I led for my first forty years has made me dread another forty years of the same respectable, "normal," unfulfilling existence. I don't want to be an old woman sitting in a rocker who could have, would have, should have dared to live her true life.

My great grandmother used to ask the question, "When you get to be old, do you want to regret what you did or what you did not do?" Clearly, I have finally, at long last, embraced the risk of failure and regret for the chance at being fully myself.

And, although I've only just now removed the training wheels of risk taking, I am curious about what I will risk next.

Rationalizations and justifications

2008-10-24T09:53:00.006-07:00

Because I "only" had 5 projects awaiting completion, I decided it was time to cast on for a pair of fingerless gloves. I ran a very comprehensive rationalization of why I could delay the works in process even further and, I am happy to say, it was successful.

The cables on the sweater's sleeve require me to pay attention and I'd rather do something less thought consuming. The shawl pattern is fairly mindless but it is going to take a long time to finish. The seams on the cardigan need to be taken out and put back in, which requires full daylight to see well. I didn't want to haul the sewing machine out to bind the quilt or finish the blouse. And, (major point here) my hands felt cold as I was typing on the computer. Obviously, diving through my yarn stash and patterns was necessary. On hand were several small balls of Shetland wool and a pattern for fingerless gloves just begging to be started. So start them I did.

And as I contentedly worked away on my satisfying little project, I wondered why I felt the need to rationalize anything.

There seems to be an unspoken assumption that completion of something is a virtue that must be achieved before another something can be begun. But why do I (and seemingly others) make that assumption? And is there any truth to it?

If meaning lies only in the completion of a thing, then perhaps the assumption makes sense. But, that doesn't seem to be true to me. The hours of knitting, sewing, and writing are full and complete in and of themselves. The thought, creativity and devotion of each stitch, each word or each action exists in its own moment regardless of its ultimate disposition.

Each project, action, relationship has its own seasons, whether to be started or finished or perhaps put aside. Like plants in a garden, sometimes one needs more attention than another. As the ultimate mistress of them all in my life, my task may be to help them along, each in its time, rather than to try to control the phases. To make way for what calls in the moment.

A Backwards Glance

2008-10-12T09:52:00.002-07:00

The kids were warned, both at home and at school, to stay away from the woods. Something bad would happen if they entered the woods. No one said what that bad thing would be. No one told any stories about bad things that had happened there. But everyone knew that something bad would happen.

A black top road ran alongside the school and the athletic field, straight towards the woods. At the tree line, it changed from black top to dirt. It was a rutted, axle-buster of a road and no cars were ever seen going in or coming out.

The girl ran down the road, past the school and the athletic field. She headed straight for the place where the road went into the woods and kept right on running. She ran as if the Devil himself were on her heels. Even though she knew Grandma would never come this far.

Once she got to the dirt, she slowed to an easy walk. She was much calmer now. The trees had closed ranks behind her, hiding her. She snuggled into her favorite spot, under the hickory tree next to the berry thicket, and escaped into its comfortable embrace.

After a couple hours listening to birds and watching clouds, the girl slowly and reluctantly rose and began to make her way out of the woods, walking towards the place where bad things really did happen.

Comings and goings

2008-10-06T14:01:00.003-07:00

With the unexpected advent of Rupert, I found myself thinking about all the other entrances to and exits from my life. The only constant is that they happen and, with few exceptions, they happen unexpectedly.

Some enter as a soft rain which starts almost unnoticed and ends just as indistinctly but, in another sense, has endured in the grass and flowers it nurtures. Others enter as a driving hail storm that flattens everything it hits and then abruptly moves on. Still others are the sunshine of a spring morning, gently warming and lighting for a time. While there are those that are the moon, variable in strength but constantly there.

The past several years have been primarily about exits. Most notable have been those strong storms that have uprooted large swaths of my forest, large trees and small shrubs both. There have also been sandcastles washed away by the tide and spiritual rocks that have been overturned by the waves. All followed by a blank landscape and fields left fallow.

There have been frantic attempts to sow new, generally inferior, seeds with disappointing yields. There have been endless months watching and hoping for new growth only to have the seeds wash away before they could take root. And there has been a seemingly endless feeling of being trapped in a bog.

And yet, the rabbit has brought a new awareness of the landscape. There have been new entrances in my life, like mist which can be sensed more than felt. They came in quietly, gently and unnoticed during prevailing storms; deepening to something more substantial with time. There have been surprising reentries, which raise an awareness of the turn of the seasons; returning every year the same and yet different. The worst of the storms have passed and, like crocuses in late winter, new connections and fulfillment are slowly poking up. And all of these have given me an inkling that more change is afoot. Invigorating coolness has replaced harsh sun and heat. Violent storms make way for fertile rest. And perhaps, someday, the fog of loneliness that weaves through the forest of my life will be dispelled by the gentle breeze of love.

Of bunnies and dust bunnies

2008-10-03T16:47:00.008-07:00

Last weekend, I was attending the Oregon Flock and Fiber Festival. My entire ambition for the day consisted of meeting a few on-line friends in real life and to stay within my very restricted yarn/fiber budget. But, I hadn't counted on the fateful meeting that was about to occur.

While we wandered through the animal barn, I was mentally stocking my fantasy fiber farm. In very short order, the dairy goats that already occupied that mythical place were going to have to be segregated from the pygora goats that absolutely had to be added to the farm. I rejected the notion of sheep, despite my abiding love affair with wool. Buzzed right passed the alpacas and llamas. I obviously like the idea of them better than the reality of them.

Then we came to the bunnies. Their intrinsic cuteness vibrated through the entire area. Children and adults both were more animated in the bunny section. I oooo-ed over the lop-ears. I ahhhhh-ed over the angoras. And I almost escaped, ready to buy yarn, when the very nice lady said, "The little one is free." Within 30 seconds, she had opened the cage and I was holding this little runt of a rabbit that they were calling by the insulting name of "Hamster". I heard the tale of his being number eleven in the litter and kicked out by his mom, then being adopted by another mother and raised by a girl in 4-H. I was sunk. In nothing flat, he had let me know that his real name was Rupert.

I threw on the coaster brake long enough to wander around the festival a bit longer and even eat lunch. But, despite a lot of very desirable fiber on offer, I was on a bunny mission. So, I peeled off and went to collect Rupert.

Bear in mind, I had no notion as I got up that morning that I needed or even wanted a rabbit. I had never even contemplated a rabbit in my life. So it was a bit surprising to find that my weekend had quickly become bunny-centered. A cage, bedding, food, toys; all had to be procured. The apartment suddenly became un-bunny-friendly and had to be tackled. As the week progressed, cleaning up after Rupert led to increased cleaning everywhere. Now the evenings include the joy of watching a 9-week old bunny bound around the living room, skidding on the hardwood floors.

So, what might it mean that this little rabbit has found me? I'd been wanting a pet for over a year but I'd never considered a rabbit. I was fairly certain that I wanted a parrot. Is it true, I wonder, that people, animals or events come into our lives for a reason? It feels like it may be true. But those reasons could be anywhere on the spectrum from hellish to sublime. Whether Rupert will turn into a lesson in further responsibility or undiluted joy, I do not know. I suspect it might be both.

Folding towels

2008-09-10T11:41:00.004-07:00

I pull an armload of towels out of the dryer. Their warmth seeps into the core of my body as I carry them over to the table. The combination of hot cotton and dryer sheet assaults my nose with a smell both comforting and false.

I begin to fold them; matching corners to fold in half and then in half again. The bath towels, in tidy squares, smoothed and piled together. The hand towels in their own little group of rectangles. Then stacked together, bath towels on the bottom, wash cloths on the top, with the hand towels sandwiched in the middle.

I carry them to the linen closet, burying my nose in the fading warmth. Trying to catch the last little whiff as the cotton cools. I straighten out some rumpled towels already there and neatly stack each category of towels with its partners.

The repeated actions lend a rhythm to the chore that echos another beat. I feel that these rhythms that feed my soul are part of and are reflections of the all encompassing rhythm of life which winds through all living things. And it is this connection with that larger rhythm that brings me satisfaction in the smaller tasks.

Colors Without Names

2008-09-08T09:06:00.005-07:00

I was making muffins (what else?) over the weekend. The recipe called for a cup of jam. When I stirred it in, the batter turned a delightful color. A color that I had never seen before. A color that I have no name for.

It was cherry jam that I added but it didn't look like "cherry" as it is generally labeled. The flour, the buttermilk and all the other ingredients contributed their own nuances to the batter, so that it wasn't pink and it wasn't beige and it certainly wasn't "cherry". There were flecks of fruit throughout giving contrast to whatever color this was.

When the muffins came out of the oven, they were a different un-nameable color; closer to what we might call "cherry" but only if we mean the color of cherrywood furniture. They were a rich, inviting color. A color for a favorite pullover or a cozy chair. Something to envelop and warm you.

I've noticed the same phenomenon in handspun yarn. The spinner plys two or three seemingly unrelated colors and the resulting yarn is a wonderful, never before seen new color; rich with depth and feeling.

All of this made me wonder about the limits of language. We are visual creatures who take in massive amounts of information through our eyes. And yet, we cannot adequately describe what we see. We cannot share with any exactness the color of a thing without resorting to an endless list of adjectives or delineating what something is not. We say something is green. But what sort of green? Leaf? Olive? Emerald? Grass? Sage? Loden? Moss? Or some shade found only in one location at one time of day when the sun hits it just right?

Our perceptions are so clear that we can take in the feeling of a color but language limps when we try to share it. So I cannot describe the muffins' color, beyond saying that it was the color of jam muffin batter after I stirred in the black cherry Polander All Fruit. And it was very pretty.

Washing Dishes - View 2

2008-09-04T09:48:00.005-07:00

I pop the baking into the oven and turn to survey the damages. Not too bad. I turn on the tap and fiddle with it until the water is pleasantly warm.

I begin with all the measuring devices; the spoons and the cups. Very small, very little effort. I look out the window and notice a hummingbird skirting around the camelia bush. I thought it was too late in the year for hummingbirds but there he is and then he's gone.

Next comes the mixing bowls. The flour-y one is quickly disposed of. The one that held the batter takes a bit more attention. A new bird grabs my attention; a flicker climbing on the back fence. I've never seen one this close before. I turn my attention to the various spoons and utensils that I used for mixing and then I'm done. I de-flour the counter and put away everything I washed.

Bing! And the baking is ready to come out. After it cools, I wash the baking pan and the cooling rack. I ask myself what is the difference between this washing up and the previous washing up. There is more of a connection to the action but why? Could it be that it isn't washing but part of the baking? Could it be that it was a controllable amount of washing? Or could it be that my mind was more open to being connected at this time? And, if that is the case, how do I become connected and opened to the less appealing acts of washing?

I strongly suspect that the answer lies within myself and not in the dirty dishes.