I've never been a patient person, and waiting for anything can be excruciating. Yet waiting for something painful, for a medical procedure that has the potential to reveal that I'm another number added to a horrendous statistic (close to 20,000 women in California are diagnosed with breast cancer every year, and 1 in 9 Caucasian women will develop breast cancer during their lifetimes) seems almost impossible to bear at times, yet my fear increases as the day of reckoning approaches. I've "dodged this bullet" before, ten years ago, and now I struggle not to apply yet another cliché superstition to my own life----that my "luck may have run out."
Of course, it has nothing to do with luck. I'm older and have been exposed to dioxin (along with every other person on Earth) and a long list of other poisons for longer. After all, I lived in "Cancer Alley" down in Louisiana for most of my life. What should I expect.
So I've been watching documentaries (THE CORPORATION, which I highly recommend, and THE DEVIL AND DANIEL JOHNSTON, on an interesting musician) and science fiction (KNOWING, predictable, but it kept my attention)----trying to keep my mind off of worry, of fear.
Distractions are what we turn to when we can no longer control our feelings.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
The Discipline of Doing
Sometimes pushing oneself to do what one believes is best can become an internal battle, the voices arguing for so long that time passes, and the deeds go undone, regardless. We have so many choices to make in our lives----the primary ones, I believe, being how to spend this moment and upon whom (or with whom).
Dividing our time to spend on what we desire to do and on what we need to do in order to feel balanced is essential, yet how often do I just let my feelings hold sway on my days. Somedays I'm like a blind person, listening, listening to my body, wondering what I feel like doing, examining my feelings like fingers over corduroy, then getting mesmerized with the process, losing all sense of time, and finding the hours to act have passed.
So. . . do I plan my days, schedule them tightly, and act upon them, regardless of my feelings? Of course, I do plan larger events----travel, events like music festivals and writing conferences, hiking.
But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm referring to reading, writing, exercising, gardening, the myriad hobbies that we wish to pursue-----in addition to most folks' need to earn "a living" (i.e., pay the doctor bills, put food on the table, repair the roof or pay rent).
How do we ensure our lives are a balance of desires and necessities? Is it merely good planning? Somehow creating a schedule for everything I want to do doesn't seem right, yet how else can we accomplish that which we desire?
Dividing our time to spend on what we desire to do and on what we need to do in order to feel balanced is essential, yet how often do I just let my feelings hold sway on my days. Somedays I'm like a blind person, listening, listening to my body, wondering what I feel like doing, examining my feelings like fingers over corduroy, then getting mesmerized with the process, losing all sense of time, and finding the hours to act have passed.
So. . . do I plan my days, schedule them tightly, and act upon them, regardless of my feelings? Of course, I do plan larger events----travel, events like music festivals and writing conferences, hiking.
But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm referring to reading, writing, exercising, gardening, the myriad hobbies that we wish to pursue-----in addition to most folks' need to earn "a living" (i.e., pay the doctor bills, put food on the table, repair the roof or pay rent).
How do we ensure our lives are a balance of desires and necessities? Is it merely good planning? Somehow creating a schedule for everything I want to do doesn't seem right, yet how else can we accomplish that which we desire?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Signs
Our friends took us for a long hike yesterday, a hike with a destination----a place known as "Dr. Rock." The modern-sounding name is actually a sacred site to the Yuroks, who make a twice-a-year pilgrimage to the place to experience its power and conduct their rituals. I know little more than this, which made me nervous enough about going, since I'm sensitive (not that my friends are not) to other culture's holy places and didn't want to feel I was defiling it unwittingly by going there. On the winding road we drove to get to the trail, Jon suddenly said "Did you see that snake?" and our friend stopped the car and backed up a bit. We all got out to watch a five-foot-long rattler, his little package held high, accompanying his slithering fat body across the road with its constant percussion, sending a chill through me, while Jon walked closer, stick in hand, to observe.
I wondered whether this was some kind of warning to us not to approach any closer and fully expected to see other snakes on the trail, as that has been my experience. It seems that because I have such a fear of snakes, they are put in my path and in my dreams at every turn. Yet I do have a fascination with them, too, and have forced myself to touch the nonpoisonous ones and have even held a boa constrictor before.
When we finally arrived at the huge rock, we sat on a ledge, looking down into the crevasse where Yuroks camp and cook, felt the power of the place, honored it as best we knew, with silence, with a prayer and a response from another percussionist----some kind of unseen insect that clicked its legs or wings noisily----before taking the long, hot hike back.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Herbing
I like the idea of herbs as plant allies. That plants feel us (as we do them) and wish to be helpful to us, too, is encouraging.
Sunday, over sixty folks from our small community showed up for a talk and walk with a local herbalist, which surprised me and delighted the sponsors, who naturally profess a desire for everyone to be knowledgable about the plants that live here. I selfishly find larger groups of people draining after a short while, but if I can stand off at the edges, I'm better.
Being in large groups of people brings out my desire to be separate, and I often start feeling depressed because I'm reminded of how overpopulated our world is becoming. I also started picturing hoards of people marauding the local fields, pulling at plants and stuffing them in their mouths like voracious cows.
Okay, okay. . . I know it's an exaggeration.
As a child in Louisiana, my grandmother taught me the names of our plants, but as a newcomer to Northern California, it's younger folk who're teaching me the names of herbs that proliferate here.
Learning herbs and their uses is a wonderful addition to the bumper-sticker admonition to "think globally, act locally." I'd like to see another sticker that says "Be kind to plants; they're people, too."
Sunday, over sixty folks from our small community showed up for a talk and walk with a local herbalist, which surprised me and delighted the sponsors, who naturally profess a desire for everyone to be knowledgable about the plants that live here. I selfishly find larger groups of people draining after a short while, but if I can stand off at the edges, I'm better.
Being in large groups of people brings out my desire to be separate, and I often start feeling depressed because I'm reminded of how overpopulated our world is becoming. I also started picturing hoards of people marauding the local fields, pulling at plants and stuffing them in their mouths like voracious cows.
Okay, okay. . . I know it's an exaggeration.
As a child in Louisiana, my grandmother taught me the names of our plants, but as a newcomer to Northern California, it's younger folk who're teaching me the names of herbs that proliferate here.
Learning herbs and their uses is a wonderful addition to the bumper-sticker admonition to "think globally, act locally." I'd like to see another sticker that says "Be kind to plants; they're people, too."
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Self-Heal
Seeing this lovely flower in our yard, I was reminded of bee balm's flower and thought it must be some sort of herb, so the quest was on. What is its name? I asked some old-timers at the Fourth of July parade, and they agreed that it's self-heal, also known as heal-all.
How much better (in the language of medicinal herbs, that is) can it get?
After sitting with it (á la Jane) in our sunny front yard yesterday, I found it to be a twisty little plant, as I had to insinuate my fingers into its close-growing body to find a place to pull off a branch to sniff. No discernable scent (other than purple, which most folks may be perplexed by, but it's meaningful to me in that it's reminiscent of grape Kool-Aid, which most kids of my era are fully familiar with), even when I crushed a leaf a little between my fingers. But then I thought I smelled the green of any plant's leaf-scent (such marvelous science conducted here!).
According to the herbal I found it in (100 Favorite Herbs by Teri Dunn), this relative of the mint obviously enjoyed a fine reputation as a treatment for many things, including a topical salve or poultice for cuts, burns, rashes, and bleeding hemorrhoids. Taken internally, it was reputed to reduce fevers and could serve as a diuretic. A tea brewed from its leaves was said to be soothing to gum inflammations and sore throats or as a mouthwash.
Another way humans have used this beautiful plant is for its dye properties. Its leaves are said to produce a soft yellow to golden color in fabrics.
But it's not a plant's "usefulness" that interests me most, it's its beauty, and the humble self-heal has insinuated itself into our lawn like a hidden treasure.
Writing
Posting something here gives what's been written such an air of finality----as is typical of any sort of recording, whether through art or writing. (Type-)Writing can look so finished, which is why many people fear and avoid it (and many others should) because our lives and thoughts are not in any sense finished, not even when we die. We're always open for revision. . . for learning. . . for change.
And so when I look back at something I've written (which isn't all that often) and suddenly find all sorts of arguments against it, part of me wants to stop recording, to acknowledge my general inability to encompass enough to ever feel I've written the true thing.
But I keep at it because I'm never quite convinced, and occasionally, there are moments of clarity for me, and maybe even for someone else. And not only that----sometimes these pieces just serve as sparks, whether to further thought or argument or doing something.
I guess I'll keep at it a little longer.
And so when I look back at something I've written (which isn't all that often) and suddenly find all sorts of arguments against it, part of me wants to stop recording, to acknowledge my general inability to encompass enough to ever feel I've written the true thing.
But I keep at it because I'm never quite convinced, and occasionally, there are moments of clarity for me, and maybe even for someone else. And not only that----sometimes these pieces just serve as sparks, whether to further thought or argument or doing something.
I guess I'll keep at it a little longer.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Flowers
My own mother and grandmother always kept fresh flowers (or leaves, or twigs or whatever was available to their itchy fingers and visual palettes) in vases in their homes, and I find that I'm happiest when I keep to this tradition. Though Mamaw (as I called my grandmother in the Deep South) also knew some medicinal plants, it was the medicine of their beauty she most desired, as, apparently, so do I since I keep putting off making that rose tincture or elixir and instead imbibe through my eyes (and nose, since my favorite flowers are scented).
Some recent bouquets:
Some recent bouquets:
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Inspiration
From whence does inspiration come? The unconscious? The fully conscious, responding to Earth and its myriad forms? Other folks? All of the above and more.
Yet sometimes I find myself slipping into a realm that believes only in mystery, in the half-looked upon, the star that can't be seen directly, and I come to believe that my own inspiration and ability to act upon it is somehow tied to that mystery, a mystery that will disappear if I look at it directly or question it.
Of course, that's superstitious, and I try not to encourage that vein in myself, but inspiration can be so wonderfully present at times and then so dried up at others that one can't help but try to figure it out----this essence that cannot, will not be captured----yet can be encouraged (and of course, dismayed).
Yet sometimes I find myself slipping into a realm that believes only in mystery, in the half-looked upon, the star that can't be seen directly, and I come to believe that my own inspiration and ability to act upon it is somehow tied to that mystery, a mystery that will disappear if I look at it directly or question it.
Of course, that's superstitious, and I try not to encourage that vein in myself, but inspiration can be so wonderfully present at times and then so dried up at others that one can't help but try to figure it out----this essence that cannot, will not be captured----yet can be encouraged (and of course, dismayed).
Reading and Doing
I write to learn. If someone else reads it and learns, too, that's a bonus.
As a child, my favorite book was THE LITTLE RED HEN ("I'll do it myself" is what I carried with me from it), and, according to my mother, I never tired of hearing her read it to me. I can picture myself, book in hand, asking her to read, wanting us to sit in the rocker where she almost always read to me, to hear that creaking wood soothe me with its familiar sounds and rhythms, to feel the warmth of my mother's lap, her accepting and cocooning self keeping me safe in the moment, rocking.
A new friend of mine recently told me that she's not writing so much anymore, not reading so much, but is living more, attending to her spirit more.
Her saying this caused me to consider how often I've believed that if only I can learn just a little more about whatever it is that's currently obsessing me, to read just one more book, then I'll be okay (and what does "okay" mean?). But what these books often do is put off the inevitable, the crucial, the necessity of my simply acting.
It's as if I think that I can figure out how to live my life by reading what others have done, and yes----it's interesting to do this and often helpful and inspiring, but knowing what others have done doesn't necessarily prompt me to act. In fact, reading about others' actions frequently keeps me from acting on my own; instead, I live vicariously.
I guess what I'm finally figuring out is this: Books and ideas aren't going to save me from these emotions that overwhelm me still on occasion. Nor can they make the decisions for me about how to live each day.
Now that may sound a little ridiculous, but at one point in my life I actually thought that If only I had more time to read. . ., kind of like those people who say to themselves, If only I had more money [or time or whatever]. Yet now that I have all the time in the world to read, I realize it's not enough. Reading is not enough to make me happy, though I admit that I love ideas, I love considering this life of ours through the prisms of different people's ideas, and reading remains a great pleasure for me.
As a child, my favorite book was THE LITTLE RED HEN ("I'll do it myself" is what I carried with me from it), and, according to my mother, I never tired of hearing her read it to me. I can picture myself, book in hand, asking her to read, wanting us to sit in the rocker where she almost always read to me, to hear that creaking wood soothe me with its familiar sounds and rhythms, to feel the warmth of my mother's lap, her accepting and cocooning self keeping me safe in the moment, rocking.
A new friend of mine recently told me that she's not writing so much anymore, not reading so much, but is living more, attending to her spirit more.
Her saying this caused me to consider how often I've believed that if only I can learn just a little more about whatever it is that's currently obsessing me, to read just one more book, then I'll be okay (and what does "okay" mean?). But what these books often do is put off the inevitable, the crucial, the necessity of my simply acting.
It's as if I think that I can figure out how to live my life by reading what others have done, and yes----it's interesting to do this and often helpful and inspiring, but knowing what others have done doesn't necessarily prompt me to act. In fact, reading about others' actions frequently keeps me from acting on my own; instead, I live vicariously.
I guess what I'm finally figuring out is this: Books and ideas aren't going to save me from these emotions that overwhelm me still on occasion. Nor can they make the decisions for me about how to live each day.
Now that may sound a little ridiculous, but at one point in my life I actually thought that If only I had more time to read. . ., kind of like those people who say to themselves, If only I had more money [or time or whatever]. Yet now that I have all the time in the world to read, I realize it's not enough. Reading is not enough to make me happy, though I admit that I love ideas, I love considering this life of ours through the prisms of different people's ideas, and reading remains a great pleasure for me.
Friday, July 3, 2009
"I know I don't have much to give"
This line from an old song by Blind Faith prompted me to say in response----It doesn't matter how much we give of ourselves, all we can do is give what we have. Of course, that's Steve Winwood singing, and he's given quite a lot, in my opinion, and if I had to compare my own giving ability with his, I might feel pretty empty-handed, but that's not the point, is it.
If we value diversity, and if we see that life is not a hierarchy, then what we each give from the overflowing of our beings is enough, plenty, and can only have the wonderful effect of adding to the lovely diversity of life and an increase in all that is good.
No comparisons necessary.
If we value diversity, and if we see that life is not a hierarchy, then what we each give from the overflowing of our beings is enough, plenty, and can only have the wonderful effect of adding to the lovely diversity of life and an increase in all that is good.
No comparisons necessary.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
ILLUSIONS
I'm blessed with a wonderful neighbor (after living next to the neighbors from hell back in Louisiana, I'm very grateful now) who pressed a well-worn book into my hands recently, one that I took my time reading----as it demanded----titled ILLUSIONS, by the seagull author, Richard Bach, and I've written several pages of quotes from it and ordered my own used copy to keep. Here's a quote that attests to the truth of what I've been experiencing a great deal lately (aka "synchronicity"):
I've either heard or read similar statements several times over the past year, and it's finally getting through! It's okay to be who you are, even if some folks don't particularly like it. Another:
And finally---"Our true work is this voyage, this adventure." What great ideas.
Every person, all the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you. . . . Just be who you are, calm and clear and bright. Automatically, as we shine who we are, asking ourselves every minute is this what I really want to do, doing it only when we answer yes, automatically that turns away those who have nothing to learn from who we are and attracts those who do, and from whom we have to learn as well. . . .
I've either heard or read similar statements several times over the past year, and it's finally getting through! It's okay to be who you are, even if some folks don't particularly like it. Another:
The Golden Rule doesn't work. How would you like to meet a masochist who did unto others as he would have them do unto him [or her]? . . . I do not exist to impress the world. I exist to live my lfe in a way that will make me happy. . . Anybody who's ever mattered, anybody who's ever been happy, anybody who's ever given any gift into the world has been a divinely selfish soul, living for his [or her] own best interest. No exceptions.
And finally---"Our true work is this voyage, this adventure." What great ideas.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Being in One's Soul
I've just begun reading Bill Plotkin's Nature and the Human Soul, Cultivating Wholeness and Community in a Fragmented World, and especially like his saying that "a person is in her soul, or at least potentially can be, rather than saying that her soul is in her." Our continual evolution toward seeking this "ultimate place" or soul in life he likens to an "evolving conversation" through which "both the person and the world are changed."
This reminded me of something I learned from Wolf Hardin, who talks of how our appreciation of nature, our loving and experiencing it, is a recriprocal process----not only do we gain pleasure in and from nature, but nature becomes more fully sentient through our appreciation of it. Thus, not only do we feel gratitude for nature's bountiful beauty, nature feels gratitude for our appreciation!
As a child of nine or ten, I remember lying in bed at night, looking up at my hands spread in the air, moving my fingers, marveling at my hands' construction. I felt that I had streamers of light emanating from my fingers, but I didn't have words for those feelings at the time.
Only now am I coming to understand that this feeling is a part of my learning about my soul and coming to inhabit it more fully. What a beautiful way to see life, as a progression toward this ultimate habitat of nature-woven soul.
Crater Lake National Park:
This reminded me of something I learned from Wolf Hardin, who talks of how our appreciation of nature, our loving and experiencing it, is a recriprocal process----not only do we gain pleasure in and from nature, but nature becomes more fully sentient through our appreciation of it. Thus, not only do we feel gratitude for nature's bountiful beauty, nature feels gratitude for our appreciation!
As a child of nine or ten, I remember lying in bed at night, looking up at my hands spread in the air, moving my fingers, marveling at my hands' construction. I felt that I had streamers of light emanating from my fingers, but I didn't have words for those feelings at the time.
Only now am I coming to understand that this feeling is a part of my learning about my soul and coming to inhabit it more fully. What a beautiful way to see life, as a progression toward this ultimate habitat of nature-woven soul.
Crater Lake National Park:
Friday, June 26, 2009
Questions that Inspire
Chris Guillebeau (thanks, Tracey!) on his inspiring website asks us to explore a couple of questions, and I have to say that questions of this sort have TERRIFIED me in the past. It's as if I think that answering them will somehow pin me down to what could turn out to be a mistake, and what if I'm trapped in a mistake? How silly of me. . . No one is in control of my life but me, right? So, at this time, this is how I answer these two questions:
What do you really want to get out of life?
My own basic desire has always been centered on appreciating the beauty of nature and the creativity of others (whether in writing, music, art, drama, whatever!), and on somehow reflecting this beauty back in my own unique ways, with the hope that others will more enjoy and then be inspired to create their own unique reflections.
I seek to do these things by experiencing and remembering to be grateful for nature's beauty each day, whether in my home's everyday surroundings or in my larger explorations when I travel (which I love to do----mostly with my husband Jon, but also alone or with a friend). I seek a balance in my appreciation of nature/the nonhuman and human culture, and I want continue to learn throughout my life.
How can you help others in a way that is unique to you?
Through our voices----which I'll define as our own unique ways of representing what is most true to us, to our souls----I believe we can encourage each other. My own soul's voice has most often sought expression through writing, whether poetry or other kinds of reflections, but also through different modes of art. However, only very recently have I begun to be able to share my essential self with others, having felt in the past that, since "there is nothing new under the sun," why should I presume to cast out my little net?
Now I understand that it is only through our casting that we can weave this stronger, larger net that can support everyone, not just a privileged few.
What do you really want to get out of life?
My own basic desire has always been centered on appreciating the beauty of nature and the creativity of others (whether in writing, music, art, drama, whatever!), and on somehow reflecting this beauty back in my own unique ways, with the hope that others will more enjoy and then be inspired to create their own unique reflections.
I seek to do these things by experiencing and remembering to be grateful for nature's beauty each day, whether in my home's everyday surroundings or in my larger explorations when I travel (which I love to do----mostly with my husband Jon, but also alone or with a friend). I seek a balance in my appreciation of nature/the nonhuman and human culture, and I want continue to learn throughout my life.
How can you help others in a way that is unique to you?
Through our voices----which I'll define as our own unique ways of representing what is most true to us, to our souls----I believe we can encourage each other. My own soul's voice has most often sought expression through writing, whether poetry or other kinds of reflections, but also through different modes of art. However, only very recently have I begun to be able to share my essential self with others, having felt in the past that, since "there is nothing new under the sun," why should I presume to cast out my little net?
Now I understand that it is only through our casting that we can weave this stronger, larger net that can support everyone, not just a privileged few.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
What We Gain
As I contemplate (sideways, not directly----too soon for that) the probability that I will face breast cancer (my mother had it, and now, I have the same sorts of pre-cancerous cells in me that are having to be removed), I wondered why so many tend to focus on what we've LOST as opposed to what is GAINED. Thus, we consider "lost youth" rather than "gained perspective, experience, and wisdom."
Or maybe it's just in our more pessimistic moments that we focus on loss, in those moments when we look around us at our society and its continual focus on the superfluous, or on the bright and new----quickly disregarding or relegating to the sidelines what appears old or tired.
Not a novel theme for me, I have wondered this in my earliest journal from my teens/twenties, summarized in song lyrics by John Prine:
Or maybe it's just in our more pessimistic moments that we focus on loss, in those moments when we look around us at our society and its continual focus on the superfluous, or on the bright and new----quickly disregarding or relegating to the sidelines what appears old or tired.
Not a novel theme for me, I have wondered this in my earliest journal from my teens/twenties, summarized in song lyrics by John Prine:
Friday, June 19, 2009
Hair
What is this obsession with hair about? Either it's too straight, too curly, too thin, too thick, or too gray. Women (and some men) apologize endlessly and make excuses for their hair----think of all the "bad hair day" jokes and cartoons. And if you're anywhere near my age, think of how much time has been wasted considering the nuances of hair.
Men often pride themselves on what's on top of their heads, experiencing varying degrees of crisis as they adjust to losing their hair or its turning gray. Some men grow facial hair as compensation or shave it all off, choosing the bowling ball look over the patchy one.
Of course, a whole industry exists to support people's vanity over their hair, barber and beauty shops ubiquitous in our towns and cities, all with the promise of making a person more handsome, prettier, more youthful looking.
Figuring out how to "properly" BE one's age is difficult, as one all-too-quickly discovers when, for example, she realizes she's no longer considered by any segment of society to be young. At 55, in fact, the young consider you old, while one's peers mostly still refer to you as middle-aged (though with a doubtful and sometimes pessimistic reference to "feeling old" at times).
My mirror tells me I am beginning to look like my mother as I remember having noticed her suddenly looking older, the sagging jowls, the creeping neck, the thinner skin, the parchment-wrinkled hands and blue veins beginning to show, the wirey gray hair she finally let grow out. In my youthful arrogance, I remember feeling a little angry at her, as if she should DO SOMETHING about all these things! Stave off disintegration a little longer, Mother!
My own friends----who range in age from young to old----are responding to their aging in different ways. So far, I am tending to just let it happen to me (though I've spent my fair share of cash on eye creams and such while spending more time than I should questioning all of the hoopla), and listening to my husband Jon as he calls me "beautiful" and "young girl with gray hair" and other such endearing (and, I have to say, mostly unbelievable) sentiments.
But it's our HAIR that seems to take the brunt of our self-criticism and the burden of making us (and others) think we are younger. Think of those ads for men and women for the hair dye that shows a progression from gray to darker hair, and how "She looks ten years younger!" after the hair has been dyed.
All of this causes me to wonder why so many mostly intelligent people can continue to hold such negative preconceptions about "older" people and to sadly lump each other into these little categories, rather like a syllogism: she has gray hair, therefore . . . What? She's less worthy? Less beautiful? Less interesting? Has her personality, her very being turned gray along with her hair? Is she fading into oblivion with her hair color?
And it's not just the topic of the color of hair on a woman's head that's been bothering me, either. What of our equally bothersome fetish of not having any hair on our legs or under our arms? What's that all about (besides lining corporations like Gillette's pockets and catering to men's desires to have their women unnaturally smooth like little girls)?
I still flaunt my gray hair, but even after all of this, I do shamefully wonder on occasion whether I'd "look ten years younger" by dying it. Until yesterday, I had hairy legs, but I decided to use Nair on the damned things because I was spending more energy hiding my legs than on enjoying not having to shave them. I'm one of those women with rather thick, dark hair on my calves (certainly not one of the lucky blondies), and I was unwilling to feel the ire of humanity at their sight, so now that I want to join our local swimming pool, I succumbed to the pressure rather than feel like a leprous outcast.
What's with this ridiculous focus on hair?!
Men often pride themselves on what's on top of their heads, experiencing varying degrees of crisis as they adjust to losing their hair or its turning gray. Some men grow facial hair as compensation or shave it all off, choosing the bowling ball look over the patchy one.
Of course, a whole industry exists to support people's vanity over their hair, barber and beauty shops ubiquitous in our towns and cities, all with the promise of making a person more handsome, prettier, more youthful looking.
Figuring out how to "properly" BE one's age is difficult, as one all-too-quickly discovers when, for example, she realizes she's no longer considered by any segment of society to be young. At 55, in fact, the young consider you old, while one's peers mostly still refer to you as middle-aged (though with a doubtful and sometimes pessimistic reference to "feeling old" at times).
My mirror tells me I am beginning to look like my mother as I remember having noticed her suddenly looking older, the sagging jowls, the creeping neck, the thinner skin, the parchment-wrinkled hands and blue veins beginning to show, the wirey gray hair she finally let grow out. In my youthful arrogance, I remember feeling a little angry at her, as if she should DO SOMETHING about all these things! Stave off disintegration a little longer, Mother!
My own friends----who range in age from young to old----are responding to their aging in different ways. So far, I am tending to just let it happen to me (though I've spent my fair share of cash on eye creams and such while spending more time than I should questioning all of the hoopla), and listening to my husband Jon as he calls me "beautiful" and "young girl with gray hair" and other such endearing (and, I have to say, mostly unbelievable) sentiments.
But it's our HAIR that seems to take the brunt of our self-criticism and the burden of making us (and others) think we are younger. Think of those ads for men and women for the hair dye that shows a progression from gray to darker hair, and how "She looks ten years younger!" after the hair has been dyed.
All of this causes me to wonder why so many mostly intelligent people can continue to hold such negative preconceptions about "older" people and to sadly lump each other into these little categories, rather like a syllogism: she has gray hair, therefore . . . What? She's less worthy? Less beautiful? Less interesting? Has her personality, her very being turned gray along with her hair? Is she fading into oblivion with her hair color?
And it's not just the topic of the color of hair on a woman's head that's been bothering me, either. What of our equally bothersome fetish of not having any hair on our legs or under our arms? What's that all about (besides lining corporations like Gillette's pockets and catering to men's desires to have their women unnaturally smooth like little girls)?
I still flaunt my gray hair, but even after all of this, I do shamefully wonder on occasion whether I'd "look ten years younger" by dying it. Until yesterday, I had hairy legs, but I decided to use Nair on the damned things because I was spending more energy hiding my legs than on enjoying not having to shave them. I'm one of those women with rather thick, dark hair on my calves (certainly not one of the lucky blondies), and I was unwilling to feel the ire of humanity at their sight, so now that I want to join our local swimming pool, I succumbed to the pressure rather than feel like a leprous outcast.
What's with this ridiculous focus on hair?!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Depression
These are the symptoms of depression (found on many Internet sites and on cards in doctors' offices):
For me, because I'm no longer required (by having to go to a job every day) to fit in to our society's definitions of normal, instead, I can allow what used to be the debilitating emotions I felt all too often on top of my general sadness (especially hopelessness, irritability, difficulty concentrating, loss of interest in activities, feeling agitated and restless, being angry, and also some acting on dangerous impulses [though "dangerous" can be defined in many ways], and occasionally an extreme increase in talking or activity) to simply happen without undue concern, knowing they'll pass as I come to an understanding of why I'm feeling the way I am, and then figuring out what to do next to shift my emotions to a better plane.
But this isn't what I want to consider. . . I want to think about how all of these symptoms can be the result of someone who is simply, naturally, reaching out and attempting to make changes to an unbearable lifestyle and how this simple act can be considered an illness by our culture. (And consider this: if our culture teaches us that reaching out to make changes is an illness, then the obverse must be considered healthful----i.e., stasis, doing what's expected, being happy, happy, happy all the time----thus the preponderance of antidepressant prescriptions.) Our culture tells us to take that pill, stop thinking so much, and "Don't worry be happy now."
Change isn't encouraged in our society. Flux is considered an illness. Losing interest in the "familiar" is a symptom of depression. And of course, depression must be treated with antidepressants and, preferably, with talk-therapy, which can be a saving grace if (and this is a big IF) you can find someone who can relate to you and you to him or her.
My being able to make friends with two good therapists saved my life. If it weren't for the last doctor I had (John Bolter), a prescribing psychologist (i.e., in Louisiana a person with a doctorate in psychology can become further certified to prescribe medication to patients, rather like a PA or physician's assistant), and one other therapist (Jim Purcell) back twenty years ago, I might not be here now. I just needed to talk through some issues that were important to me and to have someone really listen to me and assure me they didn't think I was "crazy" for thinking the way I do. And, of course, they provided me with ideas for acting or coping (or at least, they helped me formulate plans of action). Finding a way to act in a constructive way seems to be one of the most pressing needs of a person who's depressed because when you're depressed, you're physically and mentally stuck in a viscous universe that causes you to move more slowly, rather like trying to push your body through mud.
Why did I feel I needed to pay someone to listen to me? Partly it's because our society seems to require such substantiation to deem it "real" and valid. A person must have "qualifications." But it's also the depressed person's way of saving her friends from the pain of listening to the mental machinations of someone who's thickly and painfully sad and stuck.
Not many people want to dwell on how awful things seem. However, it's a quick way to eliminate from your life the folks who only thought they were your friends----talk to them about the way you really feel and think, as a line from an old CSNY song goes, and you "separate the wheat from the chaff."
But right now, I've talked myself right out of this mood and am preparing to take a walk in the redwoods with a local botanist who works with the parks---a "June blooms" walk at Tolowa Dunes to learn the names of some of the local wildflowers.
I'm making that shift from inner to outer, to nature, the source of healing.
At least one of the symptoms must be either persistent sad or "empty" feelings or loss of interest in activities.
Constant sadness
Irritability
Hopelessness
Trouble sleeping
Low energy or fatigue
Feeling worthless or guilty for no reason
Significant weight change
Difficulty concentrating
Loss of interest in favorite activities
Be sure to tell your health care professional if you're experiencing any of these symptoms.
Call a health care professional right away if you or your family member has any of the following symptoms, especially if they are new, worse, or worry you:
Thoughts about suicide or dying
Attempts to commit suicide
New or worse depression
New or worse anxiety
Feeling very agitated or restless
Panic attacks
Trouble sleeping (insomnia)
New or worse irritability
Acting aggressive, being angry or violent
Acting on dangerous impulses
An extreme increase in activity and talking (mania)
Other unusual changes in behavior or mood
For me, because I'm no longer required (by having to go to a job every day) to fit in to our society's definitions of normal, instead, I can allow what used to be the debilitating emotions I felt all too often on top of my general sadness (especially hopelessness, irritability, difficulty concentrating, loss of interest in activities, feeling agitated and restless, being angry, and also some acting on dangerous impulses [though "dangerous" can be defined in many ways], and occasionally an extreme increase in talking or activity) to simply happen without undue concern, knowing they'll pass as I come to an understanding of why I'm feeling the way I am, and then figuring out what to do next to shift my emotions to a better plane.
But this isn't what I want to consider. . . I want to think about how all of these symptoms can be the result of someone who is simply, naturally, reaching out and attempting to make changes to an unbearable lifestyle and how this simple act can be considered an illness by our culture. (And consider this: if our culture teaches us that reaching out to make changes is an illness, then the obverse must be considered healthful----i.e., stasis, doing what's expected, being happy, happy, happy all the time----thus the preponderance of antidepressant prescriptions.) Our culture tells us to take that pill, stop thinking so much, and "Don't worry be happy now."
Change isn't encouraged in our society. Flux is considered an illness. Losing interest in the "familiar" is a symptom of depression. And of course, depression must be treated with antidepressants and, preferably, with talk-therapy, which can be a saving grace if (and this is a big IF) you can find someone who can relate to you and you to him or her.
My being able to make friends with two good therapists saved my life. If it weren't for the last doctor I had (John Bolter), a prescribing psychologist (i.e., in Louisiana a person with a doctorate in psychology can become further certified to prescribe medication to patients, rather like a PA or physician's assistant), and one other therapist (Jim Purcell) back twenty years ago, I might not be here now. I just needed to talk through some issues that were important to me and to have someone really listen to me and assure me they didn't think I was "crazy" for thinking the way I do. And, of course, they provided me with ideas for acting or coping (or at least, they helped me formulate plans of action). Finding a way to act in a constructive way seems to be one of the most pressing needs of a person who's depressed because when you're depressed, you're physically and mentally stuck in a viscous universe that causes you to move more slowly, rather like trying to push your body through mud.
Why did I feel I needed to pay someone to listen to me? Partly it's because our society seems to require such substantiation to deem it "real" and valid. A person must have "qualifications." But it's also the depressed person's way of saving her friends from the pain of listening to the mental machinations of someone who's thickly and painfully sad and stuck.
Not many people want to dwell on how awful things seem. However, it's a quick way to eliminate from your life the folks who only thought they were your friends----talk to them about the way you really feel and think, as a line from an old CSNY song goes, and you "separate the wheat from the chaff."
But right now, I've talked myself right out of this mood and am preparing to take a walk in the redwoods with a local botanist who works with the parks---a "June blooms" walk at Tolowa Dunes to learn the names of some of the local wildflowers.
I'm making that shift from inner to outer, to nature, the source of healing.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Silence
I've been on a movie-watching binge lately because I'm anxious about a medical procedure scheduled for Thursday and have been trying to stay out of myself, or at least to worry less. One of Revolutionary Road's main characters, played by Kate Winslet, states at one point, "No one forgets the truth, they just get better at lying," and I added to that "or remaining silent." This film's young couple fill in some emotional gaps in my understanding my own parents and their peers, who were around their age at that time in history (the 50s and 60s), and they also help me see how easy it is for people to defer their own dreams to societal norms.
How many times have I wondered the same thing----Who made that "rule" and why should it be followed?
The themes running through this film also segue nicely (it's not that I think you don't know this word, I did this because I hate the way this word looks---so unlike its pronunciation) with a book I just finished reading, The Other, by David Guterson----and the themes I've been intent on exploring in my own life: what it means to "fit in" to our culture versus critically standing outside of it, questioning the reality that so many seem to accept without bother; why some of us are disturbed to the extent of our sanity being questioned while others are able to be quite happy and maintain what some describe as "successful lives"; how those considered "insane" are often the most sane and perceptive.
Coincidences can take on more meaning than we intend sometimes and either become elating synchronicities or disturbing potentialities, which only time can tell. In my blog-browsing, I recently came across a photograph of a woman naked from the waist up, arms raised in exhaltation to an open sky, one breast removed.
Synchronicities are seen in hindsight.
How many times have I wondered the same thing----Who made that "rule" and why should it be followed?
The themes running through this film also segue nicely (it's not that I think you don't know this word, I did this because I hate the way this word looks---so unlike its pronunciation) with a book I just finished reading, The Other, by David Guterson----and the themes I've been intent on exploring in my own life: what it means to "fit in" to our culture versus critically standing outside of it, questioning the reality that so many seem to accept without bother; why some of us are disturbed to the extent of our sanity being questioned while others are able to be quite happy and maintain what some describe as "successful lives"; how those considered "insane" are often the most sane and perceptive.
Coincidences can take on more meaning than we intend sometimes and either become elating synchronicities or disturbing potentialities, which only time can tell. In my blog-browsing, I recently came across a photograph of a woman naked from the waist up, arms raised in exhaltation to an open sky, one breast removed.
Synchronicities are seen in hindsight.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Defiance
Though we purposefully don't have a television connection, I do watch movies occasionally, and yesterday I watched the film Defiance, based on a true story about Tuvia Bielski and his brothers who, in 1941, basically took to the woods to hide from the Nazis, eventually forming a kind of resistance and gathering more and more Jewish people in their wooded community as time passed.
My focus on thinking about this film has been its most basic premise----of escaping into nature and allowing it to enfold and protect----and of how generous nature can be to humans, yet how cruel humans too often are to nature. Escaping into the surrounding forest was possible in the early 20th century, but I wonder whether those forests now exist to an extent that would allow them this. Based on humans' destructive tendencies, I think not, since 95% of all old-growth forest has been destroyed.
I read statistics like this and feel as if I've been slapped, only to remain uncomprehending.
My focus on thinking about this film has been its most basic premise----of escaping into nature and allowing it to enfold and protect----and of how generous nature can be to humans, yet how cruel humans too often are to nature. Escaping into the surrounding forest was possible in the early 20th century, but I wonder whether those forests now exist to an extent that would allow them this. Based on humans' destructive tendencies, I think not, since 95% of all old-growth forest has been destroyed.
I read statistics like this and feel as if I've been slapped, only to remain uncomprehending.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Learning to Do
To me, learning to do something physical is oxymoronic: I have to physically go through the motions to learn how; I can't be told how to do it and then actually do it with impunity. That technique induces me to do it with idiocy.
For example, Jon and I thought we should take a little 3-hour class in kayaking before venturing out on our own. However, by the time we actually sat in the kayak and pushed off into the water, I wanted to leave that little teacher behind and figure it out for myself, in the quiet of the day. At one point when I was waiting (waiting, waiting) while she instructed us, I was fiddling around with my oar (thinking of a line of Donovan's "a simple act of an oar's stroke put diamonds in the sea"), and she stopped to ask me what I thought I was doing. "Just playing," I humbly giggled, feeling as busted as a kid in junior high.
So if I go out and die while kayaking in the future, it can all be blamed on my not listening properly to my teacher.
Rusty, Kayak Zak's dog, looking quite debonair:
Digitalis----foxglove----growing wild near Lake Earl, where we kayaked:
For example, Jon and I thought we should take a little 3-hour class in kayaking before venturing out on our own. However, by the time we actually sat in the kayak and pushed off into the water, I wanted to leave that little teacher behind and figure it out for myself, in the quiet of the day. At one point when I was waiting (waiting, waiting) while she instructed us, I was fiddling around with my oar (thinking of a line of Donovan's "a simple act of an oar's stroke put diamonds in the sea"), and she stopped to ask me what I thought I was doing. "Just playing," I humbly giggled, feeling as busted as a kid in junior high.
So if I go out and die while kayaking in the future, it can all be blamed on my not listening properly to my teacher.
Rusty, Kayak Zak's dog, looking quite debonair:
Digitalis----foxglove----growing wild near Lake Earl, where we kayaked:
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Opening and Closing
I was dubious about beginning a blog for many reasons, even wondering to myself why I could desire "strangers" to read what I'd written (which is a rather odd thing to think, I see, since most of us are [and will always be] strangers to one another, and, ahem, that's what writers do). But then I felt a certain purpose in writing here that turned the key, and the door has, so far, felt good being open, especially when some truth actually sifts through and miraculously appears on top of the dross.
And so I was surprised at my reaction this morning to finding that a blog I was following had been unexpectedly closed. No note. Nothing. Gone. This little window into someone's soul, shut. I miss her already. She played guitar, sang in the loveliest low voice, posted her artwork, and generally inspired many, I'm sure. Where has she gone? Is she okay? art-teri.blogspot.com.
I'm not an obsessive blog-checker, but I do have a bit of a ritual in the early mornings, usually, or sometimes late evenings, depending on what's happening in my life. The relationships we form with people via this machine are mostly shards of our larger selves, pieces we chip away and post here to offer others, by chance to do some good. When our computer was in the shop recently, I have to admit that I missed this a bit. In the computer's absence, I felt a certain airiness, a freedom that I also feel because we have no television connection, no way to get lazy and sit in front of the tube. Now I realize that if I ever do disconnect from the computer, too, I'll want to leave a note to say why. . .
And so I was surprised at my reaction this morning to finding that a blog I was following had been unexpectedly closed. No note. Nothing. Gone. This little window into someone's soul, shut. I miss her already. She played guitar, sang in the loveliest low voice, posted her artwork, and generally inspired many, I'm sure. Where has she gone? Is she okay? art-teri.blogspot.com.
I'm not an obsessive blog-checker, but I do have a bit of a ritual in the early mornings, usually, or sometimes late evenings, depending on what's happening in my life. The relationships we form with people via this machine are mostly shards of our larger selves, pieces we chip away and post here to offer others, by chance to do some good. When our computer was in the shop recently, I have to admit that I missed this a bit. In the computer's absence, I felt a certain airiness, a freedom that I also feel because we have no television connection, no way to get lazy and sit in front of the tube. Now I realize that if I ever do disconnect from the computer, too, I'll want to leave a note to say why. . .
Friday, June 5, 2009
Finding What I Need Is What I Have
I know. It's cliché. (But as I used to say to my students, there's a reason for clichés' overpopularity: they speak truth!)
Wolf asked me why we decided to live in town, and why in a Victorian (when I was telling him how much I miss living in the country, being closer to wildlife). All I could say was that I've always loved old houses and had pictured myself living in one with bay windows----and with an attic, where I could play in those rafters with secret nooks, a childhood dream realized.
We had a fine big attic in the old Acadian house we restored in Louisiana, but it wasn't a place I felt comfortable----especially not after having found a snakeskin up there. . . yes. . . a snake shed its skin in our attic----and of course it's so hot and muggy there, leaving only a few weeks out of a year that it's cool enough to stand its upper realms.
Here, however, the attic is quite cool most of the time, with only isolated days that it might heat up to an uncomfortable degree. And so on rainy yesterday, here in June with our coastal temperatures still in the 50s during the day, I sought out the warmer attic and began to make what my goddaughter Mary-Margaret has made before and now her grandmother-age protegée has made, too: an attic nest.
But what's the impetus to go up there? In part, it's the height----here, there's one window from which (and this is where I've carved out my little space) you can see the mountains meeting the Pacific a little over a mile away. I could sit and stare at this view for hours. (Folks, of course, do this out on our little town's famous Pebble Beach Drive, but as you know, houses with ocean views are exorbitantly priced and they have almost no gardening area, as we are fortunate enough to.)
But the height isn't just for the view; it's also for the feeling it gives me. I think of cats who are always looking for the highest point to perch unexpectedly, just looking out. Thinking. Imagining. Separated from the everyday lived below. A retreat.
And so I've hung a few curtains and other fabric as soft enfolding walls and am looking forward to developing this attic spot as a focus of creativity. The narrowness of the attic steps has so-far prevented my hauling up a more comfortable chair to sit in (I even thought of putting a bed up there!), but here are the beautiful rugs that our lovely Fritz chewed holes in when he was still a puppy, the drawing table I wasn't using downstairs, and the old wooden ironing board, which is perfect as a table.
Now to begin one of those projects I've been meaning to! Sometimes, it just takes finding a new perspective.
Wolf asked me why we decided to live in town, and why in a Victorian (when I was telling him how much I miss living in the country, being closer to wildlife). All I could say was that I've always loved old houses and had pictured myself living in one with bay windows----and with an attic, where I could play in those rafters with secret nooks, a childhood dream realized.
We had a fine big attic in the old Acadian house we restored in Louisiana, but it wasn't a place I felt comfortable----especially not after having found a snakeskin up there. . . yes. . . a snake shed its skin in our attic----and of course it's so hot and muggy there, leaving only a few weeks out of a year that it's cool enough to stand its upper realms.
Here, however, the attic is quite cool most of the time, with only isolated days that it might heat up to an uncomfortable degree. And so on rainy yesterday, here in June with our coastal temperatures still in the 50s during the day, I sought out the warmer attic and began to make what my goddaughter Mary-Margaret has made before and now her grandmother-age protegée has made, too: an attic nest.
But what's the impetus to go up there? In part, it's the height----here, there's one window from which (and this is where I've carved out my little space) you can see the mountains meeting the Pacific a little over a mile away. I could sit and stare at this view for hours. (Folks, of course, do this out on our little town's famous Pebble Beach Drive, but as you know, houses with ocean views are exorbitantly priced and they have almost no gardening area, as we are fortunate enough to.)
But the height isn't just for the view; it's also for the feeling it gives me. I think of cats who are always looking for the highest point to perch unexpectedly, just looking out. Thinking. Imagining. Separated from the everyday lived below. A retreat.
And so I've hung a few curtains and other fabric as soft enfolding walls and am looking forward to developing this attic spot as a focus of creativity. The narrowness of the attic steps has so-far prevented my hauling up a more comfortable chair to sit in (I even thought of putting a bed up there!), but here are the beautiful rugs that our lovely Fritz chewed holes in when he was still a puppy, the drawing table I wasn't using downstairs, and the old wooden ironing board, which is perfect as a table.
Now to begin one of those projects I've been meaning to! Sometimes, it just takes finding a new perspective.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Moving Energy
The concept of "moving energy" interests me. I'm thinking of it in a certain context----that of being in a situation in which negative energy is apparent, and then using our ability to change it to something more positive----whether through humor, a show of compassion, a simple smile, a deep breath, or some other means. Our intellect might call this manipulation, but I like the more expansive idea that a person can move energy.
We can all think of examples when we've done this (and also when we wished we could have). It may occur by simply focusing elsewhere: you are with someone who is in a terrible mood, energetically grumpy, and instead of going down that path, you turn your eyes to the window, look outside, see a robin hopping on the ground, and suddenly----you're feeling better and the shift in energy occurs. Perhaps the grumpy person feels better, too.
I'm eager to learn more about rituals that can cleanse spaces of this sort of heavy energy.
We can all think of examples when we've done this (and also when we wished we could have). It may occur by simply focusing elsewhere: you are with someone who is in a terrible mood, energetically grumpy, and instead of going down that path, you turn your eyes to the window, look outside, see a robin hopping on the ground, and suddenly----you're feeling better and the shift in energy occurs. Perhaps the grumpy person feels better, too.
I'm eager to learn more about rituals that can cleanse spaces of this sort of heavy energy.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Our being in a photograph----especially in relation to nature----makes us into icons, and just as we view the photo, we become larger than our lives.
For example, here are three generations, sitting with an ancient one:
My desire for my daughter and granddaughter is that they take these feelings with them when they move to Austin over the next month or two, and that they feel safer and more whole because of them. Austin's a big city compared to our own little town here, so I am hoping they can find places of calm, clarity, and grounding to help them in their own continual acts of balancing.
For example, here are three generations, sitting with an ancient one:
My desire for my daughter and granddaughter is that they take these feelings with them when they move to Austin over the next month or two, and that they feel safer and more whole because of them. Austin's a big city compared to our own little town here, so I am hoping they can find places of calm, clarity, and grounding to help them in their own continual acts of balancing.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Jon and I hiked Dolason Prairie Trail in the Redwoods National Park Sunday, traipsing over rolling hills and then down, down into shady redwood forest, ending at Emerald Creek, where we turned around and, one foot after another, made the 4-1/2 mile walk back up to our trusty Ford Ranger waiting patiently for us. Signs at the beginning of the hike warn that it's tick country, so we followed the directions to tuck our pants into our socks, which kept the little critters from getting up our legs, but they sure wanted to climb in from the neck! It's good we began this trek not knowing how bad the ticks were; we may never have gone otherwise----and look what we'd have missed.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Grounding
Terms that remind me to get my feet on the ground (which does not have to mean that one's head cannot simultaneously be in the clouds of imagination) are serving me well, keeping me in touch with Earth and ultimate, sensual reality.
Having just read an essay by Derrick Jensen that is to be included in a compilation of essays written by President Obama, among others, I am reminded that it is this basic disjuncture between humans and Earth, between humans and the real, that can explain in great part why our planet is in the trouble it's in. As Derrick says, our agreed-upon social constructs, cultural clichés if you will, have by their very nature of being ubiquitous, blinded us to the obvious: our planet will be killed if the current industrial civilization continues.
We don't want to believe it.
To use an ordinary example, I enjoy my hot baths more than most, I'd venture to say, yet these baths are obtained by turning on a faucet in my old clawfoot tub that is connected by pipes to a monster water heater that uses diesel from a big tank outside our house to fire it up. Every six months or so, we have to call a company to send a driver over in one of its big tank-trucks to fill 'er up. I don't need to go on, but it is in great part these sorts of comforts that keep people's feet from the ground because rather than knowing them as conveniences, we come to believe them necessities.
At the Anima sanctuary, I bathed just once in the five days I was there, and that one spit-bath I took, pouring water over my head with a pot over the kitchen sink while a fire crackled in the wood stove, was quite satisfying----not as pleasant as a hot tub, but still nice, especially when I was done. I had the same feeling of renewal.
Bathing took on more meaning when I had to heat a pot of water on the wood stove and then dole it out to my body in parts, slowly. With all of the conveniences we take for granted in our industrial civilization, we lose track of the effort and the costs paid for them. Just because they are easy for us doesn't mean they come without a cost.
Having just read an essay by Derrick Jensen that is to be included in a compilation of essays written by President Obama, among others, I am reminded that it is this basic disjuncture between humans and Earth, between humans and the real, that can explain in great part why our planet is in the trouble it's in. As Derrick says, our agreed-upon social constructs, cultural clichés if you will, have by their very nature of being ubiquitous, blinded us to the obvious: our planet will be killed if the current industrial civilization continues.
We don't want to believe it.
To use an ordinary example, I enjoy my hot baths more than most, I'd venture to say, yet these baths are obtained by turning on a faucet in my old clawfoot tub that is connected by pipes to a monster water heater that uses diesel from a big tank outside our house to fire it up. Every six months or so, we have to call a company to send a driver over in one of its big tank-trucks to fill 'er up. I don't need to go on, but it is in great part these sorts of comforts that keep people's feet from the ground because rather than knowing them as conveniences, we come to believe them necessities.
At the Anima sanctuary, I bathed just once in the five days I was there, and that one spit-bath I took, pouring water over my head with a pot over the kitchen sink while a fire crackled in the wood stove, was quite satisfying----not as pleasant as a hot tub, but still nice, especially when I was done. I had the same feeling of renewal.
Bathing took on more meaning when I had to heat a pot of water on the wood stove and then dole it out to my body in parts, slowly. With all of the conveniences we take for granted in our industrial civilization, we lose track of the effort and the costs paid for them. Just because they are easy for us doesn't mean they come without a cost.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Hanging Out Clothes to Dry
I love a clothesline----shaking out a shirt, figuring out which way to hang it, snipping on a clothes pin to one corner, then the next, bending over to pick out the next item to hang. Sometimes I arrange all of the like items together, sometimes not. In this picture, all of Jon's underwear is hung in a row, discreetly toward the back of the line so it's not as visible from the street. After all, we do live in town. Who knows what sorts of delicate sensibilities might be driving or walking by. Then there's the sensual delight of the smell of freshly dried clothes----that scent of steeped-in sunshine. Of course, there are the proverbial sun-dried sheets and pillowcases that not only titillate the sense of smell but of touch, too----smooth, crisp, line-dried sheets as an aid to more restful sleep. Towels hung on a clothesline are, perhaps, an acquired taste----stepping from a tub and using their rough texture to dry off is somewhat akin to using a loofa to wash with. Add to this the pleasure of feeling a bit less weighted down by one's connection to the power grid and the big metal monster that churns out dry clothes for a price, and using a clothesline becomes another freeing moment in a sunny day.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Recurring Themes
Paying attention to recurring themes sometimes means hearing an unusual word several times in different contexts over a short period of time. Today, Kiva wrote about chiaroscuro, a word I've come to love for its lovely mixing of black and white, and which I've heard or read several times over the past three days (after not having done so for some time). When these synchronicities occur, they naturally serve to slow us down, tugging insistently at our skirt tails like a child demanding our attention. I have to stop and wonder why. . .
Is it because I tend to set up arguments in my mind about how I "should be" by facing them, chessboard-like, against each other? I am either doing well or not? I am either happy or not? I am either reading and learning or not reading and not learning?
How absurd! And yet, I face these sorts of dilemmas daily in my mind, dilemmas that are set up poorly and thus are problemmatic from the start.
Sometimes, our lives improve simply by recognizing that we have set up faulty ways of perceiving, of questioning, of exploring. It's a matter of puzzling-out a knot in the tangle of our thoughts, a knot that we didn't even realize had formed until we trace it back to its origins and actually feel it.
How freeing it can be to untangle and release that energy. . . every day. . .
Is it because I tend to set up arguments in my mind about how I "should be" by facing them, chessboard-like, against each other? I am either doing well or not? I am either happy or not? I am either reading and learning or not reading and not learning?
How absurd! And yet, I face these sorts of dilemmas daily in my mind, dilemmas that are set up poorly and thus are problemmatic from the start.
Sometimes, our lives improve simply by recognizing that we have set up faulty ways of perceiving, of questioning, of exploring. It's a matter of puzzling-out a knot in the tangle of our thoughts, a knot that we didn't even realize had formed until we trace it back to its origins and actually feel it.
How freeing it can be to untangle and release that energy. . . every day. . .
Friday, May 15, 2009
The water line is rising and all we do is stand there. . .
With my feet on the ground, I feel the tensions, too, and when I heard this song, all of the unshed tears held back like the floods behind the sandbagged levees four years ago broke through, and I cried, not just for us humans who insist on hiding from truth, but for all of Earth, hurting, hurting, hurting. . . (Click on the title of this song below to hear the You Tube version.)
WATER LINE, Sage Francis
I just sit there
and let the thoughts flood
And I remind myself it's all right,
it's all good, it's all love,
it's not though,
cuz there's a kink in the armor,
a pot hole I'm sinkin' in,
and while I think of the drama
so I stand up
I start to pace in my living room,
set my eye to the highway
knowing that I’ll play chicken soon
It’s a vanity plate with my name on it
There’s a Davy Crockett hat
with Masonic fat cat under it
A musket rifle spittin’ at my feet,
they want me to dance
in the middle of the street
And I respect my elders,
so I do as I’m told,
but I offset the bell curve
When I do what was sold,
losing control
Guilty feet do have rhythm
they just dance to the wrong theme music
to amuse the villain
Instead of killin’
I’ll spare the raccoon
and start fillin’ sandbags as I stare at the moon
and let the thoughts flood
Blessed are those who are dammed
When the levee broke come in and choked on the steps of a slow dance
A staircase to a hug with no hands
Accountability hung out to dry
on the line of command
We let the thoughts flood,
we remind ourselves
it’s all right, it’s all good, it’s all love
It’s not though,
‘cause there’s a kink in the armor,
a pothole I’m sinkin’ in
I’m sharin’ a drink with my father
It’s a family affair
The vanity we share
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
WATER LINE, Sage Francis
I just sit there
and let the thoughts flood
And I remind myself it's all right,
it's all good, it's all love,
it's not though,
cuz there's a kink in the armor,
a pot hole I'm sinkin' in,
and while I think of the drama
so I stand up
I start to pace in my living room,
set my eye to the highway
knowing that I’ll play chicken soon
It’s a vanity plate with my name on it
There’s a Davy Crockett hat
with Masonic fat cat under it
A musket rifle spittin’ at my feet,
they want me to dance
in the middle of the street
And I respect my elders,
so I do as I’m told,
but I offset the bell curve
When I do what was sold,
losing control
Guilty feet do have rhythm
they just dance to the wrong theme music
to amuse the villain
Instead of killin’
I’ll spare the raccoon
and start fillin’ sandbags as I stare at the moon
and let the thoughts flood
Blessed are those who are dammed
When the levee broke come in and choked on the steps of a slow dance
A staircase to a hug with no hands
Accountability hung out to dry
on the line of command
We let the thoughts flood,
we remind ourselves
it’s all right, it’s all good, it’s all love
It’s not though,
‘cause there’s a kink in the armor,
a pothole I’m sinkin’ in
I’m sharin’ a drink with my father
It’s a family affair
The vanity we share
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Writing Trickery
A new friend of mine had the idea that we would write on assigned topics and share our writing. This project didn’t last too long, but the first topic was “from the corner of my eye,” which I decided to post here:
From the corner of my eye, a tiny spot of blood blossomed, overflowed, and slowly bled down my cheek. As I felt its smooth descent trenching my face, I imagined that it burned into my skin, creating a red scar. But that’s all in my imagination.
I must watch carefully, without being seen to be watching, peripherally, though with focus, from the corner of my eye—as one must do in order to see the faintest star, not looking at it directly but just to its side. This sort of watching is studied, unlike the casual way people typically walk through life, blind to all but their own thoughts projected on their inner lids. To be seen as a studied watcher is to be disdained as one who is too serious, too determined to understand what lies beneath the façade of faces with pasted-on smiles or blankness.
This watching-without-watching made casual friends at work nervous, like my former students, who were slightly afraid of me, wondering (in the way students must) how this might affect the difficulty of tests, their grades, the practical matters that fill ordinary students’ minds. These would-be friends asked me probing questions that I responded to according to my mood, either seriously (which might be like listening to a doomsday report) or not (which may turn them on their heels feeling they’ve been spoofed).
But just as we must watch from the corners of our eye, we find ourselves being watched. Is this merely part of our consumer culture, to watch, to assess, to take in, to devour with our eyes?
I remember feeling as a teenager that maybe I would be better off blind* than living as another judging member of the sighted, another person who thought she fully understood merely because she saw something. How quick others were to judge based on how a person looked, and how this attitude pushed me farther and farther away from what I perceived as the judgment of others, which I never wanted to participate in.
Reading and seriously taking in every word of Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan didn’t help, either. For Don Juan stated that we should not tell others our history because in this stated history were chains that bound us to another’s view of us, probably a limited, and definitely a temporary, slice of our lives.
And so this watching is frequently done from the corner of my eye, yet sometimes, it is a bold staring, a staring that has resulted from my feeling invisible at times. As one ages in this culture, as hair grays and wrinkles appear, one also fades from the view of others-----especially from the young who don’t know John Prine’s lines about passing some hollow, ancient eyes and saying “hello in there.”
*I recently came across the yellowed hand-copied poem by May Swenson that encouraged my youthful self in these ideas about the benefits of blindness. Here it is:
The Blindman
The blindman placed
a tulip on his tongue for purple’s taste.
Cheek to grass, his green
was rough excitement’s sheen
of little whips.
In water to his lips
he named the sea blue and white,
the basin of his tears and fallen beads of sight.
He said: This scarf is red;
I feel the vectors to its threads
that dance down from the sun. I know
the seven fragrances of the rainbow.
I have caressed
the orange hair of flames. Pressed
to my ear,
a pomegranate lets me hear
crimson’s flute.
Trumpets tell me yellow. Only ebony is mute.
May Swenson
From the corner of my eye, a tiny spot of blood blossomed, overflowed, and slowly bled down my cheek. As I felt its smooth descent trenching my face, I imagined that it burned into my skin, creating a red scar. But that’s all in my imagination.
I must watch carefully, without being seen to be watching, peripherally, though with focus, from the corner of my eye—as one must do in order to see the faintest star, not looking at it directly but just to its side. This sort of watching is studied, unlike the casual way people typically walk through life, blind to all but their own thoughts projected on their inner lids. To be seen as a studied watcher is to be disdained as one who is too serious, too determined to understand what lies beneath the façade of faces with pasted-on smiles or blankness.
This watching-without-watching made casual friends at work nervous, like my former students, who were slightly afraid of me, wondering (in the way students must) how this might affect the difficulty of tests, their grades, the practical matters that fill ordinary students’ minds. These would-be friends asked me probing questions that I responded to according to my mood, either seriously (which might be like listening to a doomsday report) or not (which may turn them on their heels feeling they’ve been spoofed).
But just as we must watch from the corners of our eye, we find ourselves being watched. Is this merely part of our consumer culture, to watch, to assess, to take in, to devour with our eyes?
I remember feeling as a teenager that maybe I would be better off blind* than living as another judging member of the sighted, another person who thought she fully understood merely because she saw something. How quick others were to judge based on how a person looked, and how this attitude pushed me farther and farther away from what I perceived as the judgment of others, which I never wanted to participate in.
Reading and seriously taking in every word of Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan didn’t help, either. For Don Juan stated that we should not tell others our history because in this stated history were chains that bound us to another’s view of us, probably a limited, and definitely a temporary, slice of our lives.
And so this watching is frequently done from the corner of my eye, yet sometimes, it is a bold staring, a staring that has resulted from my feeling invisible at times. As one ages in this culture, as hair grays and wrinkles appear, one also fades from the view of others-----especially from the young who don’t know John Prine’s lines about passing some hollow, ancient eyes and saying “hello in there.”
*I recently came across the yellowed hand-copied poem by May Swenson that encouraged my youthful self in these ideas about the benefits of blindness. Here it is:
The Blindman
The blindman placed
a tulip on his tongue for purple’s taste.
Cheek to grass, his green
was rough excitement’s sheen
of little whips.
In water to his lips
he named the sea blue and white,
the basin of his tears and fallen beads of sight.
He said: This scarf is red;
I feel the vectors to its threads
that dance down from the sun. I know
the seven fragrances of the rainbow.
I have caressed
the orange hair of flames. Pressed
to my ear,
a pomegranate lets me hear
crimson’s flute.
Trumpets tell me yellow. Only ebony is mute.
May Swenson
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Stasis and Change
All of the energy swirling from our gathering of folk at our home Saturday evening is only now beginning to dissipate and to allow me to finally feel a little more calm and focused. Sunday's gardening literally grounded me, but I couldn't sleep well that night, and yesterday is almost a blur as I rather blindly bumped and stumbled around (picture yourself at night in the darkness walking in a strange room, your arms and hands before you, feeling, feeling the air to try to avoid the pain of contact with a wall or piece of furniture), taking out projects, doing a little on one and then finding myself working on yet another.
I'm attempting to pull together a few poems to send out (not because I really feel like it at this point, but because I promised myself I would) that must be postmarked by the 15th----only three days hence. However, instead of doing this, I stopped to read a few old journal entries (which I very rarely do----every ten years or so at most) from when I was in my early 20s, and realize that I haven't really changed that much. Should that make me happy? Sad?
Surprisingly, I feel good that our essential selves do not change, rather like we have an anchor after all----that we are not merely drifting aimlessly but we have purpose.
I think of other women whose blogs I've read (and linked to), women who are also seeking purpose yet finding themselves smack dab in the middle of it. . . finding clarity unexpectedly, yet with that odd sense of familiarity-----like coming back to ourselves----rather like these cows of Gary Larson:
I'm attempting to pull together a few poems to send out (not because I really feel like it at this point, but because I promised myself I would) that must be postmarked by the 15th----only three days hence. However, instead of doing this, I stopped to read a few old journal entries (which I very rarely do----every ten years or so at most) from when I was in my early 20s, and realize that I haven't really changed that much. Should that make me happy? Sad?
Surprisingly, I feel good that our essential selves do not change, rather like we have an anchor after all----that we are not merely drifting aimlessly but we have purpose.
I think of other women whose blogs I've read (and linked to), women who are also seeking purpose yet finding themselves smack dab in the middle of it. . . finding clarity unexpectedly, yet with that odd sense of familiarity-----like coming back to ourselves----rather like these cows of Gary Larson:
Monday, May 11, 2009
Permission and Synchronicity
I have mentioned this before, but how odd, I remember thinking, when Loba asked me what brought me to the sanctuary, that what would come from my mouth was "I feel like I need to be granted permission to be myself." Not only that, but she wasn't surprised by my response (as I was) and only said that she had heard this from others before me.
Where did this come from? I hadn't consciously thought it before.
This morning, it occurs to me that as children in our culture, this "asking permission" becomes so common and pervasive (in school, at churches, at work) that we internalize it to different degrees, and even some of us who are natural-born rebels and questioners are tainted by it without even being aware. We learn to stuff our natural responses to people, to events and situations, to our own feelings and thoughts, desires, and instead of responding authentically, our minds and bodies become accustomed to fingering-through a little Rolodex-file of responses to choose one that has been deemed "culturally appropriate."
How wonderful it is to begin to trust one's own intuitions again, to believe in the rightness of our own responses, no matter how different they may appear to the culture at large.
And to quote from yet another synchronicitous (I just love all forms of that word, the way it dances in the mouth and mind) inspirator (to use a bit of a made-up word), Jane:
Truly, our lives just start singing and shouting and having a party when we nourish ourselves with an “essence” that sums up something important to us. The magic is this: what is potent medicine for you is going to be that arrow that sings right into the heart of another and shifts or softens or provides something that’s needed.
Where did this come from? I hadn't consciously thought it before.
This morning, it occurs to me that as children in our culture, this "asking permission" becomes so common and pervasive (in school, at churches, at work) that we internalize it to different degrees, and even some of us who are natural-born rebels and questioners are tainted by it without even being aware. We learn to stuff our natural responses to people, to events and situations, to our own feelings and thoughts, desires, and instead of responding authentically, our minds and bodies become accustomed to fingering-through a little Rolodex-file of responses to choose one that has been deemed "culturally appropriate."
How wonderful it is to begin to trust one's own intuitions again, to believe in the rightness of our own responses, no matter how different they may appear to the culture at large.
And to quote from yet another synchronicitous (I just love all forms of that word, the way it dances in the mouth and mind) inspirator (to use a bit of a made-up word), Jane:
Truly, our lives just start singing and shouting and having a party when we nourish ourselves with an “essence” that sums up something important to us. The magic is this: what is potent medicine for you is going to be that arrow that sings right into the heart of another and shifts or softens or provides something that’s needed.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Among Folk
Though I am an inveterate loner, I like to put together gatherings of people on occasion, and then flit around the edges on my tattered wings, land here and there next to different people, listen in, maybe say a word or two, withdraw, sit at their feet petting our dogs as others speak, cuddle up quietly next to someone for a moment, then remind myself I must move on. Others' energy is so palpable to me at times, my focus becomes that flitting and fleeting movement. Only with individuals, at a distance from others, can I feel myself separate, can I think more clearly. And even then, depending on the individual, I sometimes have difficulty.
What is this permeable self I inhabit?
I have to guard myself from feeling "less than" others when I am around those who so glibbly state their thoughts and arguments, as the best I can do at times is kiss my dog's ears and soothe my exposed nerves. No longer do I have the numbing effect of antidepressants to hold my self in, so I may fall into tears or laugh too loudly unexpectedly, or find words evading me like slippery fish.
And so today, it's back to Earth, hands in the dirt, into the garden, where instead I will visit with violets and occasionally hack at invasive ivy and non-native blackberries, happy for this balance, this give-and-take, this lovely reciprocity.
What is this permeable self I inhabit?
I have to guard myself from feeling "less than" others when I am around those who so glibbly state their thoughts and arguments, as the best I can do at times is kiss my dog's ears and soothe my exposed nerves. No longer do I have the numbing effect of antidepressants to hold my self in, so I may fall into tears or laugh too loudly unexpectedly, or find words evading me like slippery fish.
And so today, it's back to Earth, hands in the dirt, into the garden, where instead I will visit with violets and occasionally hack at invasive ivy and non-native blackberries, happy for this balance, this give-and-take, this lovely reciprocity.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A Gathering
In a small gathering of six, elk grazed peacefully beside the roadway, looking up when someone pulled their roaring hulk of color closer and silenced it, its sides splitting as one of those bipeds emerged with his hands in front of his face, eyes obscured by a little dark box he fingered and pointed at them.
Such peace. . . even in the midst of these loud and mechanical interventions. . . Huge animals standing in the green of new growth, nibbling, their presence emanating in waves.
If only this peace could happen here this evening as a gathering of folks come to our home to eat and be.
Such peace. . . even in the midst of these loud and mechanical interventions. . . Huge animals standing in the green of new growth, nibbling, their presence emanating in waves.
If only this peace could happen here this evening as a gathering of folks come to our home to eat and be.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Kokopelli in Action
Stephanie McMillan's cartoons strike me as particularly interesting with their roundly ironic "cuteness" and pointed messages. Just as Kokopelli continues his dance though his burden basket is full, so we are reminded to live beautifully while acknowledging sadness in our continual tightrope walk between the moment that is and that which was and will be.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Making Choices
I'm thankful not to be limited by my health in the choices I make, and now that I'm retired from the all-consuming 9-to-5 workday, I find the most difficult aspect of my life is deciding how best to occupy my time. People I barely know graciously include me in their lives and imaginations. Do I really want to be included? I don't know unless I try, but then at some point, I must decide whether to stay involved. I ask myself whether my involvment is serving others and myself to become more fully alive and connected (or whether I feel that I am merely a "yes" person, nodding in agreement without thought). If I find myself becoming numb, wanting to pull the covers of isolation over my head, then I don't think anyone is served (at least not if I am always isolated). If I find myself losing focus and purpose, I am not where I want to be.
Yet I also know that I tend to hurry. . . I make quick decisions that may not be the best ones. I'm impetuous. How long do I "give" these involvements before cutting clear of them?
Sometimes I feel I know little more than a child about how I should live, which says a great deal about how our culture operates. We are encouraged from childhood not to think but to go along with what is "expected" of us. And, though I've always questioned these cultural norms and admired those who break clear of them, I never quite committed (other than internally) to acting decisively in regard to my own life. Instead, I've always lived from this secret self that questioned, raged privately with knotted fists, yet externally, mostly appeared to be rocking right along on the calm waves of our culture.
What do I expect? I just don't know yet. . .
Yet I also know that I tend to hurry. . . I make quick decisions that may not be the best ones. I'm impetuous. How long do I "give" these involvements before cutting clear of them?
Sometimes I feel I know little more than a child about how I should live, which says a great deal about how our culture operates. We are encouraged from childhood not to think but to go along with what is "expected" of us. And, though I've always questioned these cultural norms and admired those who break clear of them, I never quite committed (other than internally) to acting decisively in regard to my own life. Instead, I've always lived from this secret self that questioned, raged privately with knotted fists, yet externally, mostly appeared to be rocking right along on the calm waves of our culture.
What do I expect? I just don't know yet. . .
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Self Image
I just realized that we tend to hold our "self images" to ourselves as if they are something we own and can somehow contain and keep from others we deem undeserving. Thus, with this idea, we believe ourselves justified in becoming angry or hurt when someone "misunderstands" us. We believe we can take ourselves back from them, reclaim ourselves from their misbegotten hands, as if this image is a physicality, an unmutable thing.
How others perceive us is not within our purview unless we wish to mold ourselves according to what we think others think. . . and how convoluted this can become, how downright crazy!
In the small writing group that my neighbor invited me to, this same neighbor wrote a moving and perceptive journal entry and read it to us yesterday, an entry about her own hesitancy in owning the name "writer" for herself and an exploration of why this is true. Partly, it is her unwillingness to be taken in by others' expectations for her, i.e., others may expect a daily entry to read and then clip out to put in their little file of her saved and treasured columns. Another part is her sense that she is losing too much energy in worrying about what others think and expect (how does she avoid feeling guilty at not meeting their expectations?). And then, there is (especially in this small town) the feeling that one is no longer able to be anonymous when one wishes to run into the grocery store and not be stopped for long conversations when the time isn't right.
As she was reading these "reasons," I thought that I'd just be considered rude by such people because I can easily tell someone else that I can't stop now but would be happy to talk more later. I also know this person to be very good herself at setting limits, at communicating her desire to be alone without lashing out angrily at someone or hurting them. But I know that people can literally suck you in to their worlds, and these may be worlds that we do not want to enter and don't even realize we've been sucked in until we've spent a great deal of time there. . . .
Instead of attaching myself to a particular "image," I want to become truer and truer to what I value most, to what I believe is most beneficial to me, to Earth, to the greater good of which I am but a small strand, though my own small strand in this fabric of life may help hold on a button or two, and that is good, too. To do this, I personally do not always have an audience in mind other than my own striving self, and if anyone else can benefit from reading about my journey, this can only add to my joy, not detract from it.
How others perceive us is not within our purview unless we wish to mold ourselves according to what we think others think. . . and how convoluted this can become, how downright crazy!
In the small writing group that my neighbor invited me to, this same neighbor wrote a moving and perceptive journal entry and read it to us yesterday, an entry about her own hesitancy in owning the name "writer" for herself and an exploration of why this is true. Partly, it is her unwillingness to be taken in by others' expectations for her, i.e., others may expect a daily entry to read and then clip out to put in their little file of her saved and treasured columns. Another part is her sense that she is losing too much energy in worrying about what others think and expect (how does she avoid feeling guilty at not meeting their expectations?). And then, there is (especially in this small town) the feeling that one is no longer able to be anonymous when one wishes to run into the grocery store and not be stopped for long conversations when the time isn't right.
As she was reading these "reasons," I thought that I'd just be considered rude by such people because I can easily tell someone else that I can't stop now but would be happy to talk more later. I also know this person to be very good herself at setting limits, at communicating her desire to be alone without lashing out angrily at someone or hurting them. But I know that people can literally suck you in to their worlds, and these may be worlds that we do not want to enter and don't even realize we've been sucked in until we've spent a great deal of time there. . . .
Instead of attaching myself to a particular "image," I want to become truer and truer to what I value most, to what I believe is most beneficial to me, to Earth, to the greater good of which I am but a small strand, though my own small strand in this fabric of life may help hold on a button or two, and that is good, too. To do this, I personally do not always have an audience in mind other than my own striving self, and if anyone else can benefit from reading about my journey, this can only add to my joy, not detract from it.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
To Myself, Today
Slow down. Pay attention. Don’t go tripping over your tongue along the path, yammering about every feeling that passes over your nerve endings. Slow down. Stop that incessant interpretation of what you think and feel. Get out of that self-defeating spiral, the one that spins faster and faster the more you lean into it, the more words you feed it. That criticism you feed on. . . Stop eating it. Don’t worry if you can’t identify what every feeling is. Don’t allow your curiosity to drive you slap dab crazy. And stop telling yourself you’re “losing it” unless you really want to lose it! This, too, shall pass. Do not assume it will be forever. Go on that hike. Try to be silent and not worry about other people’s feelings so much. They can take care of themselves.
I’m awfully bossy, aren’t I.
Consider the sleeping dogs on the chair. . . They do not worry or toil. . .
I’m awfully bossy, aren’t I.
Consider the sleeping dogs on the chair. . . They do not worry or toil. . .
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
"Response-ability"
I've always been extremely responsible to my word. That is, when I say I'll do something, I do it, "come hell or high water"----as my father used to say. However, I never was especially "responsible" as our culture defines it. I never minded calling in sick to work when I didn't feel like going (though I've generally been blessed with good physical health). I never felt obligated to join clubs or to agree with what a person in power said, both of which some consider to be acts of the responsible. I never cared about gaining outward accolades for good work. And I never minded asking "Why?!" about anything, though after reading Wolf's piece on the Anima blog today, I see that the more responsive question is "Why not?"
Wolf reminds us of the importance of "taking responsibility for what [we] care about and are devoted to. . . " and then it is up to us to figure out what these things are, based on our values. One value that trumps all, I think, is to acknowledge that "every living thing is dependent on the rest, that life itself is a series of mutual dependencies" (as eloquently put by Lierre Keith in the book of hers I'm now reading, The Vegetarian Myth). As I've alluded to (many times) before, it's much easier to know what we do NOT want, but figuring out what we DO want, especially in this culture that throws so many distractions in our way, isn't so easy.
I'll end with one other quote from Keith's work that summarizes nicely what I've been thinking, too: "The challenge of adulthood is to remember our ethical dreams and visions in the face of the complexities and frank disappointments of reality" (p. 76), and that "reality" may simply be our learning better by peeling away another false reality.
Wolf reminds us of the importance of "taking responsibility for what [we] care about and are devoted to. . . " and then it is up to us to figure out what these things are, based on our values. One value that trumps all, I think, is to acknowledge that "every living thing is dependent on the rest, that life itself is a series of mutual dependencies" (as eloquently put by Lierre Keith in the book of hers I'm now reading, The Vegetarian Myth). As I've alluded to (many times) before, it's much easier to know what we do NOT want, but figuring out what we DO want, especially in this culture that throws so many distractions in our way, isn't so easy.
I'll end with one other quote from Keith's work that summarizes nicely what I've been thinking, too: "The challenge of adulthood is to remember our ethical dreams and visions in the face of the complexities and frank disappointments of reality" (p. 76), and that "reality" may simply be our learning better by peeling away another false reality.
Monday, April 20, 2009
It's Poetry Month
"[W]e all should realize, that just as there is no revolution worth attending unless you can dance, any struggle worth engaging has a poet’s heart. . .pain, effort, caring, anger and especially humor made more meaningful as well as beautiful through their apt and artful expression, set to the rhythms of campfire crackle and late night recitation, trumpeted from the mouths of the young and uncompromised, echoed on mountain cliffs as well as glass fronted buildings, recorded with music or cached like survival food, knives and blankets in the pages of patiently hopeful books."
--Wolf (from a Web site piece)
I've been writing poetry (and prose), off and on, for thirty (!) years, since I was 15. Now, I might look at this critically, even self-defeatingly because I've mostly chosen to write in private, sharing only occasionally, for many reasons. Some of those reasons have included my fear of stating the obvious (and I STILL fear this!) and being harshly judged on my writing; of being "pinned down" by ideas I've written about and later learned better than; of not wanting to "sell myself" by attempting to have my work published; of simply not being "good enough.". . . The list goes on, and just as I can state reasons why not, I can also refute them with why sos, but the best way to do that is to simply write and share.
And so, this year I've decided to push my envelope of comfort a bit by attempting to get a poem or two published. . . just to prove to myself that I CAN do it, that I'm not merely afraid of failure. . . because I love poetry and even have a certain admiration for those who write "bad" poetry (or that which I think is too sentimental or obvious) and boldly proclaim it! Yes. . . poetry is the natural language of the heart, the emotions, intense beauty recognized and eagerly consumed, language that expresses our uniqueness to be celebrated.
As Eliot so beautifully writes in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (which the Academy of American Poets quotes from), "Do I dare disturb the universe?" I say, please do, even if no one reads.
Friday, April 17, 2009
A Gift of Words
In Wolf Hardin's latest post , he tells readers to "Have confidence in the gift of your words," and once again, gratitude at this reminder hits home as I explore others' journeys and struggles in their efforts to become more authentic, more true to themselves, closer to our natural Earth home.
On one such site I came across, Wanderings and Wonderings, I saw a lovely picture of a bit of artwork Luna created while in a bookstore, based on some text she found in Llewellyn's 2009 Magical Almanac. Her drawing inspired me to create my own doodling of the words "BE MAGICAL" with the borrowed illustrative text beside each letter of that statement. Playing with color and form, focusing on the messages relayed, and forgetting my perfectionistic ways was just the tonic I needed this evening.
On one such site I came across, Wanderings and Wonderings, I saw a lovely picture of a bit of artwork Luna created while in a bookstore, based on some text she found in Llewellyn's 2009 Magical Almanac. Her drawing inspired me to create my own doodling of the words "BE MAGICAL" with the borrowed illustrative text beside each letter of that statement. Playing with color and form, focusing on the messages relayed, and forgetting my perfectionistic ways was just the tonic I needed this evening.
I love this piece----not just the music, which is wonderfully ecstatic, of course, but also the contrasting perspectives, and that these guys didn't let fear keep them from doing this. Take a look:
The Beatles: "I've Got a Feeling"
The Beatles: "I've Got a Feeling"
Tired of Words
As I mentioned early on, one goal of mine has been to stop taking antidepressants----to see what I'm really like now, without their influence, and to test whether they were merely dulling me to the pain of living as I didn't wish to live (but felt I had to live), or whether I'm one of those unfortunately diseased folk who must take chemicals merely to live. If I am the latter, I will learn to deal with that at some point.
Okay. I'm entirely off of the things now, as of yesterday. Because I didn't exactly follow my doctor's directions (designed to keep me from feeling the side effects so much), I've been feeling . . . strange: my eyes feel like they zoom back and forth on occasion, which makes me feel dizzy; I feel these little shocks (for lack of a better term) all over; and I'm a bit agitated, irritable, impatient, though MUCH more energetic.
I was in tears by yesterday evening, overwhelmed, and highly critical of myself (which is typical of my past, this self-wounding), but I stayed up late keeping myself busy with gathering all of my art supplies around me, organizing them so I can more easily access them when I'm in the mood, and listening to music, which took me OUT of myself, where I wanted to be.
Rising very early this morning (unusual for me since I hadn't gotten more than five or six hours' sleep; I can remember a time not long ago when I thought I needed at least 10 hours' sleep), I decided to look at my blog, in delight noticed a new follower (my best friend in Georgia had been the only one), and looked to find out who on earth could be interested in my page here, only to find another kindred soul. . . and to be reminded of myself.
And so, if anything I write here can serve as help for a lovely person who is trying to feel that strength within and to act upon it----without guilt and self-doubt----with joy and celebration of the immense beauty that is possible (in the midst, we acknowledge, of the great sorrow that Bruce Cockburn sings of in "The Beautiful Creatures Are Going Away") AND with the knowledge that she is not alone, then these words I write here, words that feel sometimes like so much "belly-button gazing" to me, are worth the discomfort I sometimes feel because they help serve to tell someone else "you are not alone," just as I learned only too recently, that I am not alone.
Because yesterday, I felt like a dry wind had blown through my soul, touching everything with its sucking fingers, leaving me feeling vulnerable, exposed, and hurting, hurting.
It's hard not to care what people think (and, yes, those of us who are sensitive CAN read minds on occasion), but I think it's absolutely necessary to be able to ignore it and to live to our fullest and truest, regardless of the perceived criticism, regardless of the difficulty we have in holding our feet to the ground when that strong wind blows through and threatens to take us with it.
Okay. I'm entirely off of the things now, as of yesterday. Because I didn't exactly follow my doctor's directions (designed to keep me from feeling the side effects so much), I've been feeling . . . strange: my eyes feel like they zoom back and forth on occasion, which makes me feel dizzy; I feel these little shocks (for lack of a better term) all over; and I'm a bit agitated, irritable, impatient, though MUCH more energetic.
I was in tears by yesterday evening, overwhelmed, and highly critical of myself (which is typical of my past, this self-wounding), but I stayed up late keeping myself busy with gathering all of my art supplies around me, organizing them so I can more easily access them when I'm in the mood, and listening to music, which took me OUT of myself, where I wanted to be.
Rising very early this morning (unusual for me since I hadn't gotten more than five or six hours' sleep; I can remember a time not long ago when I thought I needed at least 10 hours' sleep), I decided to look at my blog, in delight noticed a new follower (my best friend in Georgia had been the only one), and looked to find out who on earth could be interested in my page here, only to find another kindred soul. . . and to be reminded of myself.
And so, if anything I write here can serve as help for a lovely person who is trying to feel that strength within and to act upon it----without guilt and self-doubt----with joy and celebration of the immense beauty that is possible (in the midst, we acknowledge, of the great sorrow that Bruce Cockburn sings of in "The Beautiful Creatures Are Going Away") AND with the knowledge that she is not alone, then these words I write here, words that feel sometimes like so much "belly-button gazing" to me, are worth the discomfort I sometimes feel because they help serve to tell someone else "you are not alone," just as I learned only too recently, that I am not alone.
Because yesterday, I felt like a dry wind had blown through my soul, touching everything with its sucking fingers, leaving me feeling vulnerable, exposed, and hurting, hurting.
It's hard not to care what people think (and, yes, those of us who are sensitive CAN read minds on occasion), but I think it's absolutely necessary to be able to ignore it and to live to our fullest and truest, regardless of the perceived criticism, regardless of the difficulty we have in holding our feet to the ground when that strong wind blows through and threatens to take us with it.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Conundrum
Thinking about my own tendency to be restless, to seek, to experience more, and then the opposing urge to balance this restlessness by living in the moment made me wonder how this differs from what I despise about civilization: its never knowing when enough is enough, its emphasis on growth----what becomes cancerous growth.
My own seeking is more like expansion than growth, as one who breathes in deeply, expanding the lungs so capacity eventually increases, yet never expanding beyond their capability; it's a metaphorical/metaphysical expansion of the spirit that craves beauty.
Yet I, too, wonder how best to live for now and still accomplish what I wish. Living in the present moment hones my senses and develops my gratitude, but as someone pointed out to me, I'm still attached to outcomes/results, which sometimes makes me anxious about whether I'm "good enough," or whether I've "produced enough," or even whether I've read enough. True, I'm thinking of poetry and the arts/crafts I create and all the books I am eager to read (not factory farming or parking lots).
Is it that we need to plan as if there is a tomorrow yet live as if there isn't?
My own seeking is more like expansion than growth, as one who breathes in deeply, expanding the lungs so capacity eventually increases, yet never expanding beyond their capability; it's a metaphorical/metaphysical expansion of the spirit that craves beauty.
Yet I, too, wonder how best to live for now and still accomplish what I wish. Living in the present moment hones my senses and develops my gratitude, but as someone pointed out to me, I'm still attached to outcomes/results, which sometimes makes me anxious about whether I'm "good enough," or whether I've "produced enough," or even whether I've read enough. True, I'm thinking of poetry and the arts/crafts I create and all the books I am eager to read (not factory farming or parking lots).
Is it that we need to plan as if there is a tomorrow yet live as if there isn't?
"Rapt Attention and Silent Applause"
Having just read Wolf Hardin's latest entry on "Marriage to the Land" (from which the title of this post originates), I am reminded yet again of the importance of telling our story, of creating our own art, since, as Wolf says,
Sometimes my days are hoisted up and appropriated by others, and at the end, I wonder---what happened? Time slips through my fingers like water some days, and I wonder whether this water quenched any thirst since it appeared to leave no trace other than in my mind. Living deliberately, with intention, with balance and focus on what matters isn't so easy----especially when our habits have been long-established. Though I never watched much, I've given up television entirely (we don't even have a connection), but I still rent movies on occasion, and sometimes my choices are disappointing and I'm left wondering whether even they are a waste of my time.
After having spent 25 years working in an 8 to 5 job, it's not so hard to figure out why I'm having difficulty with focusing on what I want to spend my time doing now. . . Rather than having my weekdays laid out for me, my calendar is clear except for the penned-in days when I look after my granddaughter or when I go to the little writing group I've joined, walk to yoga, or join the committee planning the next writers' conference in our town. I even walked to the library the other evening with Jon, who played a couple of his own songs on guitar, and I read a couple of my poems, something I'd never have considered doing not that long ago----before I realized I was withholding my best self out of fear----fear that not only was I not "worthy" but also that my audience wasn't. It feels so good to let go of those fears. How did I do it? To borrow from BOLT, a movie I enjoyed with almost-5-year-old Emma: I put it aside, stuck a pin in it, and left it behind.
Around these planned events, I find myself joining this online "tribe," which is rich and varied, yet still doesn't address my basic need: to work to bring out my own . . . what? . . . essence? . . . true self? . . . art?. . . being? . . . purpose?
Of the tribe members I've visited electronically, Jane's Medicine Tree is most like my own yearnings----to create an imaginative world of art, writing, music, that is yet in touch with Earth, water, fire, air----the sacred connections that give (or, to use my newly-favored changing of that verb to a noun/verb of Wolf's) gift others and ourselves.
Yes. It's planning I need, a weaving of intention with openness.
it is story that centers us in our beliefs, in our world, in the progression of past, present and future. . . the threads that stitch us back into our contract and our place, a portion of life’s crucial lessons handed down through the inheritance of craft more than genes. . . to walk in gratitude, forever, together. . .
Sometimes my days are hoisted up and appropriated by others, and at the end, I wonder---what happened? Time slips through my fingers like water some days, and I wonder whether this water quenched any thirst since it appeared to leave no trace other than in my mind. Living deliberately, with intention, with balance and focus on what matters isn't so easy----especially when our habits have been long-established. Though I never watched much, I've given up television entirely (we don't even have a connection), but I still rent movies on occasion, and sometimes my choices are disappointing and I'm left wondering whether even they are a waste of my time.
After having spent 25 years working in an 8 to 5 job, it's not so hard to figure out why I'm having difficulty with focusing on what I want to spend my time doing now. . . Rather than having my weekdays laid out for me, my calendar is clear except for the penned-in days when I look after my granddaughter or when I go to the little writing group I've joined, walk to yoga, or join the committee planning the next writers' conference in our town. I even walked to the library the other evening with Jon, who played a couple of his own songs on guitar, and I read a couple of my poems, something I'd never have considered doing not that long ago----before I realized I was withholding my best self out of fear----fear that not only was I not "worthy" but also that my audience wasn't. It feels so good to let go of those fears. How did I do it? To borrow from BOLT, a movie I enjoyed with almost-5-year-old Emma: I put it aside, stuck a pin in it, and left it behind.
Around these planned events, I find myself joining this online "tribe," which is rich and varied, yet still doesn't address my basic need: to work to bring out my own . . . what? . . . essence? . . . true self? . . . art?. . . being? . . . purpose?
Of the tribe members I've visited electronically, Jane's Medicine Tree is most like my own yearnings----to create an imaginative world of art, writing, music, that is yet in touch with Earth, water, fire, air----the sacred connections that give (or, to use my newly-favored changing of that verb to a noun/verb of Wolf's) gift others and ourselves.
Yes. It's planning I need, a weaving of intention with openness.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Connections
From Wolf's having generously linked to this site from theirs, this site became linked to others, which connected me to Starhawk's writing (and I've seen her referenced in many other places but hadn't had a chance to delve more deeply yet) and a "Declaration of the Four Sacred Things," which I'll post in full below. How deeply I feel these things to be true, back-to-my-childhood-feelings deep, and how wonderful it feels to connect to these truths and to those who honor them. After reading this aloud as a personal manifesto on this Easter Sunday, I felt like shouting (as is done in certain Southern churches I've been in) AMEN!
DECLARATION OF THE FOUR SACRED THINGS, Starhawk
The Earth is a living, conscious being. In company with cultures of many different times and places, we name these things as sacred: air, fire, water, and earth.
Whether we see them as the breath, energy, blood, and body of the Mother, or as the blessed gifts of a Creator, or as symbols of interconnected systems that sustain life, we know that nothing can live without them.
To call these things sacred is to say that they have a value beyond their usefulness for human ends, that they themselves become the standard by which our acts, our economics, our laws, and our purposes must be judged. No one has the right to appropriate them or profit from them at the expense of others. Any government that fails to protect them forfeits its legitimacy.
All people, all living things, are part of the earth life, and so are sacred. No one of us stands higher or lower than any other. Only justice can assure balance; only ecological balance can sustain freedom. Only in freedom can that fifth sacred thing we call spirit flourish in its full diversity.
To honor the sacred is to create conditions in which nourishment, sustenance, habitat, knowledge, freedom, and beauty can thrive. To honor the sacred is to make love possible.
To this we dedicate our curiosity, our will, our courage, our silences, and our voices. To this we dedicate our lives.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Choices
Choosing to live in town here was, we thought, well-reasoned, yet all of the possible hitches to the plan have come to light, also just as expected. Does this mean that I didn't listen to my intuition and instead focused on my fears?
A couple of evenings back, I watched a Woody Allen movie a friend gave me before returning to Netflix, and saw two characters who embody such choosing in Christina Victoria Barcelona, though their choices have to do with whom to love rather than where to live. Christina finds it easier to say what she doesn't want and continually readjusts her thoughts according to her experiences. Vicki has rationally come to conclusions about whom to marry and live with and had committed herself to this person until she allowed herself to slip into Christina's mode of being for a while and experience a more passionate evolving of a relationship that then haunts her, even after she's married. I suppose that both, in the end, do not know what they want until after having experienced it. I can fully relate.
I am haunted by the choice I didn't make----that is, living in the woods in a more remote place rather than in this noisy and bright small-town with barking dogs, sirens, and the widows across the street with their bright porch lights (the better to scare away intruders, they think) blazing through our bedroom windows at night.
True, we have a big enough yard to have planted apple trees, satsumas, lemons, blueberries, and to continue to enjoy the lovely plum trees that produce prolifically already here. We just planted a little garden of raised beds and have put in a large herb bed. I've spotted the yard here and there with flowers and bulbs, so it's beginning to look playfully colorful. We can walk to the farmers' market and to everywhere else in town, not to mention to the rocky Pacific coast and its trecherous waves that our little newspaper's headlines all-too-frequently blare about yet another fisherman or careless beach-walker who turned his (no women yet!) back to the ocean and was killed. We can bike to the redwoods or the small college. I walk two blocks up our street for yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
All so . . . civilized.
Which is why I tend to become restless and unsatisfied in so little time. I spin and spin my little deeds and then feel like I'm spinning my life away rather than living fully in the moment, rather than feeling truly connected. How easy it is to lose ourselves.
How difficult it is to make choices, in part because we cannot know everything in advance. We have to experience certain things in order to know, in our bodies, what is right for us. Guess this is why we humans can't seem to learn from history and the experiences of others.
A couple of evenings back, I watched a Woody Allen movie a friend gave me before returning to Netflix, and saw two characters who embody such choosing in Christina Victoria Barcelona, though their choices have to do with whom to love rather than where to live. Christina finds it easier to say what she doesn't want and continually readjusts her thoughts according to her experiences. Vicki has rationally come to conclusions about whom to marry and live with and had committed herself to this person until she allowed herself to slip into Christina's mode of being for a while and experience a more passionate evolving of a relationship that then haunts her, even after she's married. I suppose that both, in the end, do not know what they want until after having experienced it. I can fully relate.
I am haunted by the choice I didn't make----that is, living in the woods in a more remote place rather than in this noisy and bright small-town with barking dogs, sirens, and the widows across the street with their bright porch lights (the better to scare away intruders, they think) blazing through our bedroom windows at night.
True, we have a big enough yard to have planted apple trees, satsumas, lemons, blueberries, and to continue to enjoy the lovely plum trees that produce prolifically already here. We just planted a little garden of raised beds and have put in a large herb bed. I've spotted the yard here and there with flowers and bulbs, so it's beginning to look playfully colorful. We can walk to the farmers' market and to everywhere else in town, not to mention to the rocky Pacific coast and its trecherous waves that our little newspaper's headlines all-too-frequently blare about yet another fisherman or careless beach-walker who turned his (no women yet!) back to the ocean and was killed. We can bike to the redwoods or the small college. I walk two blocks up our street for yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
All so . . . civilized.
Which is why I tend to become restless and unsatisfied in so little time. I spin and spin my little deeds and then feel like I'm spinning my life away rather than living fully in the moment, rather than feeling truly connected. How easy it is to lose ourselves.
How difficult it is to make choices, in part because we cannot know everything in advance. We have to experience certain things in order to know, in our bodies, what is right for us. Guess this is why we humans can't seem to learn from history and the experiences of others.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Carrying the Burden and Joy
Kokopelli is emblematic (at least among those at the Animá sanctuary) of one who carries burdens (that's what the "hump" is on his back) while continuing to dance ecstatically and live joyfully. I’d seen this figure before but didn’t know his significance until my visit there.
Somehow, just learning of the value Wolf and Loba place on this ancient figure gave me strength to imagine and attempt to live this way again myself. I’d always thought of myself as strong----which caused many problems in my life, as I too-often became emotionally entwined with men I believed I could “improve” by showing them my strength. However, instead of their becoming stronger, I felt myself wearing down, losing energy, and becoming more and more critical of myself, living----not with joy----but abandoning myself to a despair that grew, in part, from feeling defeated. (After all, we cannot control the actions of others. How many times have I said that to myself?)
How much simpler to deny such people access to my life, to seek those who contribute to peace and joy and beauty instead. Is that so difficult? Only if I decide others are more important than I am. To love myself is so basic, yet----for many reasons----I lost sight of this over the years. . .
. . .which reminds me of another simple idea (that is too-often ignored): There comes a time when explanations are not sufficient or even needed. Action is more important. All our thoughts mean nothing if they remain in that nebulous realm.
Somehow, just learning of the value Wolf and Loba place on this ancient figure gave me strength to imagine and attempt to live this way again myself. I’d always thought of myself as strong----which caused many problems in my life, as I too-often became emotionally entwined with men I believed I could “improve” by showing them my strength. However, instead of their becoming stronger, I felt myself wearing down, losing energy, and becoming more and more critical of myself, living----not with joy----but abandoning myself to a despair that grew, in part, from feeling defeated. (After all, we cannot control the actions of others. How many times have I said that to myself?)
How much simpler to deny such people access to my life, to seek those who contribute to peace and joy and beauty instead. Is that so difficult? Only if I decide others are more important than I am. To love myself is so basic, yet----for many reasons----I lost sight of this over the years. . .
. . .which reminds me of another simple idea (that is too-often ignored): There comes a time when explanations are not sufficient or even needed. Action is more important. All our thoughts mean nothing if they remain in that nebulous realm.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Control
We're reminded over and over again that we have no control over anyone but ourselves, yet how easy it is to think that perhaps we can have some little influence. From there, we begin to have expectations, and then. . . the inevitable disappointments.
For example, this is a photo I just took of two toys my daughter brought over with my granddaughter today:
Anathema.
For example, this is a photo I just took of two toys my daughter brought over with my granddaughter today:
Anathema.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Mindfulness
"Mindfulness" seems a bit of a misnomer. It isn't the mind that's full of anything, it's really the body. . . in the present moment. . . aware of that moment and nothing else, absorbed and perceived through our various senses without the mind's unnecessary interference.
And it's not always so easy to do----this being mindful. Why? One reason is our love of words, of description, comparison, contrast----of the many ways our minds luxuriously complicate the interesting moment, melding past and future with present, swimming in and out of time as if we owned it, as if we are in control----all delusional, of course.
Sometimes I wish to be disconnected from language, to purely experience something without my mind's interpretation. Yet this sort of reality seems to have almost been lost to modern folk who convince themselves that it is only through language (and the retelling of an event, whether through the written or spoken word----as in media such as television or film) that anything is real or valid.
Primary experience----and I'm thinking of experiences in nature, walking through (and stopping in) woods, on the ocean's shoreline, through a field, by a river or creek----has become rare to most people. They're always aiming at some future point, marked by a number on their wristwatches, with dollars and cars filling the interim.
It's no wonder minds are so filled with worry, the antithesis of mindfulness and living in the moment.
And it's not always so easy to do----this being mindful. Why? One reason is our love of words, of description, comparison, contrast----of the many ways our minds luxuriously complicate the interesting moment, melding past and future with present, swimming in and out of time as if we owned it, as if we are in control----all delusional, of course.
Sometimes I wish to be disconnected from language, to purely experience something without my mind's interpretation. Yet this sort of reality seems to have almost been lost to modern folk who convince themselves that it is only through language (and the retelling of an event, whether through the written or spoken word----as in media such as television or film) that anything is real or valid.
Primary experience----and I'm thinking of experiences in nature, walking through (and stopping in) woods, on the ocean's shoreline, through a field, by a river or creek----has become rare to most people. They're always aiming at some future point, marked by a number on their wristwatches, with dollars and cars filling the interim.
It's no wonder minds are so filled with worry, the antithesis of mindfulness and living in the moment.
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