Taking A Snow Day

 

I have been very remiss with my blogs of late, pleading busyness. I’m caring for my Mom, trying to make Christmas gifts, finish up a project I committed myself to, and also trying to maintain some sort of routine that allows me to relax during each day. Then came a blizzard and over fourteen inches of snow, followed by wind chill factors not meant to sustain human existence.

Definite snow day(s) for most of the school aged children in the region. I liked that idea: a totally free day to spend doing something I wouldn’t ordinarily do. So, of course, I made myself a spur of the moment project. I created my second Mandala Gallery and posted it on my poetry site:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/

Spent several hours browsing through my files, picking out the images I thought were the best. That was far more difficult than I had thought it would be. I’ve been coloring these designs for months and enjoying the process, but never realizing just how many I had accumulated. And the funny part was that some of the ones I had thought didn’t really work, turned out to be quite striking and even satisfying.

Then came the process of placement and naming. I really like these designs and each one says something different to me. Wanted to be sure that they were shown to good advantage and still supported and enhanced the others. And, although they do speak to me, I have some trouble finding appropriate titles for some of them.

Had been thinking of doing this for some time, but was hesitant because I knew it would take time and lots of thought. There is also the reality that each design had to be uploaded and I am definitely not a computer techie. But the fact that it is my second gallery attempt, did ease the process a bit, even though I get a bit squeamish at anything that goes beyond simple word processing.

With only a few minor glitches here and there, I did eventually have it all up and running. Then simply posted an invitation to everyone to have a look/see. Only realized afterward, that it is my Christmas present to anyone who takes the time to respond to that invitation. It is a gift of color and beauty. No small thing when considering that I am far from the only human being running around like a directionless widget in the middle of a blizzard of other things to do.

The amazing part is that my gift was given to me, by me, and even for me. Those hours I spent totally engrossed were, by far, the most satisfying I’ve had in several weeks. It was an incredible break and one that was more needed than I could have imagined. Yes, there were a few moments when I considered the insanity of my own choices, but dismissed that thought and simply plunged into it. And it was far more rewarding than anything else I could have done.

That time altered my person. I came away refreshed and ready to get on with all that other busyness. In fact, shortly after completing the Gallery, I also did two more pieces of that other project I had committed myself to doing and was having many second thoughts about finishing. Actually did start the part of it that I have been avoiding for a month. The part I had pretty much decided was silly, perhaps a bit immature, maybe even inappropriate.

And, as is often par for the course, all that worrying and procrastinating simply fell away once I took that first step. What came after, came with an amazing amount of ease, and even satisfaction. It allowed me to see the project as a whole and that is always very important. I now know that I am into the final phase and headed into the home stretch. That is such a good feeling.

Creativity feeds on creativity. It’s called inspiration. Yesterday, I allowed myself a snow day. A space and time to do what I would normally have not done. In the process, I surrounded myself with bits of color and beauty, my own creativity. Actually allowed myself to get lost inside of it for several hours. It was both healing and inspiring.

My younger sister, who shares in the care-giving for my Mom, is leaving town for a few days. She gifted herself and her daughter with tickets to a musical concert. I could be jealous, I suppose, but instead am glad that she too is allowing herself to have a snow day of her own. She will surround herself with music that will lift her up and perhaps help her get through these next two weeks of hectic Christmas activity. In preparation for that, she did more than her fair share of care-giving and that, in turn, let me have a necessary break and create my own snow day. Not a bad exchange.

My hope in all of this, is that you too will allow yourself a snow day, blizzard or no. Find a way to allow yourself to make a snow angel, some bit of color and beauty that would otherwise not exist. Refresh and refuel, if only for a few hours. Christmas is coming fast, and although that may mean fun and even excitement, it also means hectic activity and a depletion of energy sources. Take the time to gather a few extra ounces of that commodity and feed yourself on some moments of color, music, and beauty. You definitely will not regret it.

And my invitation is extended to you as well. If you have the time, feel free to come and see my current ’snow angel’. Who knows, it might even inspire you to make one of your own.

A Walk-About

Last night, my oldest daughter and I watched The Hallmark Hall of Fame movie, A Dog Named Christmas. At it’s very beginning the author of the tale defined the animal as a walk-about dog. One who travels on foot, may settle for a time, but then at some point, simply moves on. A seeker, perhaps following his nose, but always moving forward in search of something. A wanderer.

For many of us, it is difficult to understand why any creature would choose to wander and never really establish a home. There are many sayings that in one way, or another, tell us that “Home is where the heart is”. Yet, many of us have known wanderers, people who wander into our lives and then leave it again after a time.

We may remember them clearly, even recall their names long after they have moved on to other places and other people. While others, may become only vaguely remembered persons who might have shared some time, or even one experience, and then chose to continue to be a ‘walk-about.’ We, ourselves might be just such an individual to countless others.

In the movie, the dog wanders into the lives of a family and changes the dynamics of their lives. Touching and altering the manner in which they deal with one another and the way in which they see themselves and others. But then chooses to stay instead of moving on. No one can know his reasons, maybe he just got tired. It doesn’t matter because he brought them something they might never have known without his presence. In a very real way, he changed their definition of home. Expanded it, made it different and better than it was.

I am over sixty years old. In those years, I have met and gotten to know a great number of individuals. Some retain a clearly defined image in my memory, while others are no more than a blur, and some have been forgotten entirely, as have I, perhaps by many of them. But each of them brought me something, shared it with me, and maybe even altered my destiny with the gift of themselves.

Some of them have been my friends and I have missed them when they have chosen to move on. Some have brought me hard gifts, lessons I would have chosen not to learn, but still needed to do so. And my one hope is that I have been able to do the same for at least a few of them. I don’t remember all of their names, and doubt that many remember mine.

Here on these pages, I often speak of life as a continuing journey. One that doesn’t have to leave home to become a walk-about. If one keeps an attitude of openness, it is a journey without end, but not without a home. And each individual that we encounter is simply another walk-about, a seeker, as well as a teacher.

There is another saying, a caution as to how we should deal with strangers because we can never know when we might be entertaining angels. That might become even more important if we realize that some angels might choose to stay in close proximity, becoming living members within our own families.

When one embraces the idea that each of us is created with a purpose to fulfill, and a function to be completed, then all people have something to offer and gifts to be given. And each of us becomes a walk-about, following our senses and seeking our own destiny. Perhaps helping our fellow travelers in known and unknown ways. That is not to say that we should throw all caution to the wind. But if we are to trust the heart which is our home, there comes a time when trust must take us forward on our journey, or fear alone, will stop that journey.

How do you deal with the walk-abouts in your own experience? And how do you deal with the walk-about you yourself might be? Do you recognize the angels that you entertain, and do you offer the gift of yourself in small and even larger ways? Are you like me: sometimes patting yourself on the back for how far you have wandered and explored, but at other times realizing that you may have backed yourself into a corner and become only a watcher of other peoples’ journeys? Do you accept the gifts that come your way, or dismiss them out of hand believing you really don’t need them.

One last question: If you were to become a walk-about, which direction would you head in?

Speed Bumps and Small Surprises

Okay, I’ve had one of those weeks. Major speed bumps, frustration, but also really nice surprises, ones I created for myself without even intending to do so. Car repairs that cost an arm and a leg, only to have the vehicle spring a small leak immediately after being fixed. Computer problems that kept kicking me off the internet and then not allowing me back on again. Hours of techie talk on the phone with me saying repeatedly, “Could you repeat that please? I don’t think I understood what you asked me to do.” Oh, and a TV converter box that converts all available channels except the one that is airing the program you personally want to watch.

Normally, facing that kind of array of speed bumps, I would simply stop. It’s a defense mechanism. Sit real still, don’t move, because any movement you make might just up the ante on further frustration and lead to a major explosion in which someone could be harmed, or worse.

But, I am also taking care of my Mother, going over and fixing meals etc., and she chose this week to ask me some of those hard questions: “I’m sorry, but aren’t you getting really tired of all of this?” A speed bump I couldn’t afford to be still about. And didn’t. I think I surprised myself, and her, when I sat down next to her and told her how glad I am to be a part of what is happening. I’ve not had this kind of time to spend with her before and I cherish it.

That wasn’t the only surprise I gave myself this week. I need that car to be running in case of emergencies. So, I took a deep breath, called and talked to someone about it. Got some very solid advice and got the leak fixed for under ten dollars. Was so surprised at the outcome, that I picked up the Sketchbook Project I’ve committed myself to (and balking about), and in a short space of time, created an image that is different from, and far more pleasing than the others I had been doing.

Then went looking for something to post on my poetry site, only to find myself writing a poem I liked even better than the image I had done the night before. Surprise, surprise.

Also wrote in my journal about how I seem to own a life that is mostly smoke and mirrors and has me grasping at fluttering butterflies of thought, seeking something far more solid and substantial. Then doing the phone thing with two different techies and failing to resolve the problem. But, keeping at it and obviously resolving it myself because I am here doing this thing right now.

Another image, even better than the first one, after not being able to pull in the program I wanted to watch. A message maybe? I failed at the converter box speed bump, but is that important? Maybe life is no more  than a foggy blurred landscape and all of that grasping.

Grasping the next moment that might just hold a delightful surprise that opens eyes that were in the process of squeezing themselves shut against another momentary speed bump. Giving oneself the opportunity to see things differently and do them no matter the feelings that might have attached to them in the preceding moments.

There is an old saying that when one is stuck (maybe stilled), the only thing to do is to move. That might mean moving oneself physically, but it can also mean moving oneself mentally, emotionally, psychologically, or even spiritually. Change your view, your perspective on, or of, whatever you’ve been trying to stare down in those moments of stillness. Get on with the next moment and then maybe, the rest of your life. It happens only one moment at a time.

For me, that most often means picking up a pen, either to write or doodle. Makes no difference which I choose because it all moves me to a different place, a new moment, and sometimes the best of surprises. The best part of all of that is that I can then be grateful for the speed bumps as well as the accomplishments they moved me toward.

So, yes, I’ve had one of those weeks. Yet, looking back on it, I find a balance that I might have missed had I kept my eyes closed when the car sprung a leak, or the computer didn’t want to cooperate with my plans. And I have decided that I might never conquer the converter box, but I really don’t want to be that couch potato only seeing what others want me to see and never finding my own solid moments. The ones in which I know that I am truly alive and stumbling into clear moments that almost seem gift-wrapped just for me.

What do you do when you hit a speed bump? Stop altogether, squeeze your eyes tight against the obvious frustration, or look around and find an alternative path? These are the moments that belong only to you. What do you do with them? Do you find those surprises and then celebrate your ability to do so?

It’s Just A Word

There are those moments when words seem to have an almost magical power. When they take us to the places of our dreams and even beyond. Then there are those times when they seem to utterly lack any meaning at all. Come at us like distorted echoes that are far too much work to even begin to comprehend. Mostly, however, they tend to fall somewhere between those polar opposites.

One word can bring a smile to a face that was blank just the moment before, or sting for hours like an almost invisible paper cut. Some seem wet, like the sloppy kiss of an overexcited puppy, others are dry and can lull the reader to sleep trying to slog through them. Words can bring inspiration and joy to a life that was heading toward bland, or trip up that individual who was moving so smoothly (just a minute before) through his/her life experience.

Because words are so important to my person, I have had all of these experiences and thousands more. Does that mean I should be afraid of this thing that I love and chase after through most moments of my existence? Words have power even when they put us to sleep.

A few days ago, I ran into a word that both startled me and then made me run for cover. I didn’t literally do those things, I did them on an emotional and psychological level. The response was so immediate that I didn’t even know that I was thus engaged until after I had done so. It was just a word, random letters placed in an arbitrary order that sent messages throughout my nervous system. Those messages had me in flight like a small bird that suddenly becomes aware of the tangerine cat sneaking up on it as it hops over the ground seeking some form of sustenance.

When I realized that I had already taken to the air without thought of doing so, I went back and explored the word. It wasn’t a bad word. As a matter of fact it is a rather good and positive one. So what had sent me into unthinking motion? I settled all my ruffled feathers and decided to explore what had actually happened.

First of all, the word had been applied to my person as a definition. Someone else’s definition, and not one I would ever have considered to be attached to me, to the person I am and see myself being. It was just too big, large with meanings that I felt carried way too much responsibility for my shoulders to carry, let alone still allow me to fly in whatever direction I might choose. It, to my senses, felt like a trap. Steel bars suddenly springing up around me that would forever stop any forward movement, perhaps all movement of any kind.

When I realized that my flight had been initiated by my own senses, I perched for a while and decided to face off with this tangerine tabby. You must confront your fears or forever be limited by them. It’s a word. It’s in the dictionary. Look it up and see if it means what you think it means. I did that and found just a word.

But, that word held some very real consequences for my person. It meant a possibility of change in the very manner in which I viewed me. The dictionary definition didn’t do that, I did that. It was my definition of the word and what I thought it entailed that had sent me flying away, looking for a safe place in which to recover my equilibrium. I had attached meanings and consequences that were not in the word itself, but only occupied a space between my own ears and deep inside my own feelings. Which only means that my fear was only one of many possibilities.

Okay, I am getting somewhere with all of this. Next step: try to get another or, other perspectives. That meant discussing the word and my feelings with others. Oh boy. This could be embarrassing. So, I carefully chose two people with whom I am comfortable admitting my personal foibles with. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t somewhat embarrassed, it just means that I was disturbed enough by the whole thing to see that embarrassment was just another form of the original fear.

But, before discussing it with either of my friends, I wrote about it in my journal. Getting my thoughts and feelings sorted out before actually opening my mouth. Who would have thought that something definitely meant as a compliment could create this much trouble? But it did.

When I did finally discuss it with my friends, they helped me to see where I had made a left turn instead of a right one. I thank both of them profusely and am far more comfortable than I was when the word was originally aimed in my direction. That tangerine tabby turned out to be made of mist. Just a movement caught in a side glance that felt threatening. Would I now use that word to define my own person? No. But, at least I am far more comfortable with it and might even get to the point where I will accept it gracefully and just say, “Thank you,” should it ever happen to cross my path again.

Words do have power. They motivate and move us from one moment to the next. They can be weapons, but also priceless treasures. Without them there might be no movement at all. Only unceasing silence. Now that wouldn’t send me into unthinking flight. It would freeze me up completely, perhaps for all eternity.

How do you handle the words in your life? Do you greet them as friends or ward them off in panic? Are you careful with the words you choose, or do you think of them as only words?

Panning For Nuggets of Sanity

Had another whirlwind weekend. Drove three hundred miles, attended a wedding, made a one-of-a-kind gift, manufactured another, celebrated one of those milestone birthdays, saw and hugged old friends, and family, played with my granddaughters, found tears in my eyes several times, and laughed uproariously far more. Talked with lots of people, yet didn’t have very many really meaningful conversations except via long distance on the phone.

And now its already Tuesday and my head is still filled with flashing images of people, antics, words spoken in passing, surprises at the changes I encountered, and a whole load of reflective type material to write about. The problem is picking one and staying with it long enough to make sense out of it, or hopefully resolve it. It all flashed by so fast, some of it making deeper impressions than others, and trying to sort that all out looks overwhelming to me. Especially because life continues and demands constant attention.

I did fill journal pages during those few days, but they are far more notes than anything coherent. Lots of dots and dashes to simply help me remember some of the things I want to go back and consider on some deeper level, only to find myself sidetracked by things and people that had nothing to do with what actually went down during those few days of hectic movement.

I had an interesting conversation with a close friend who happened to be the bride at the wedding I attended. She said that although she knew all of the people who attended, there were moments when she felt that she didn’t recognize any of them and couldn’t remember most of the day at all. In a similar fashion, with all that running, greeting, hugging, and surprises, I felt exactly the same way.

We discussed how although there were hundreds of photos taken, we might look at them later and not remember the moment they had captured. That is where my journal may be the more efficient manner to hold those memories.

Before I write my daily page, I reread what I had written the day before. That often leads me to explore something mentioned in the reading. Too often, photos are not developed immediately and the time lapse between the taking and the actual viewing is filled with more moments that have meaning as well. And although the human mind retains all of those moments, they do not always easily surface or appear on demand.

That in turn, means that months or years might pass and suddenly we remember a flash of memory but lack the framework that gives it context. Can’t remember when that happened and why we were involved in the first place. How it actually came to be. The details are muddy because we were moving through them too quickly to take notes. They become no more than flashes in the pan that although valuable, get missed because we are simply moving too fast.

I can’t say it enough: my journal holds the threads that help me stay sane, if indeed, I can be defined as sane at any given moment. That all depends on whose definition we might be using in that moment. I prefer mine in most. Those glimpses of gold nuggets in all of that mud certainly help the process. They create the context of all that mud and hold it together until I can ascertain its true value. After a weekend, like this one just past, I need that.

What is the process you use to find meaning and value in your own experience? Do you sift through all that mud and just throw your hands up in defeat? How do you stay sane and remain in contact with who you are and truly wish to become?

We make choices everyday. Those choices are informed by all of those past moments we have experienced. If we don’t take notes, make mile markers in our journey, what exactly do we base those choices in? The emotional whim of the moment, or the accumulated nuggets we have extracted from all the rest of these swiftly passing moments? Do you make space for the sorting process? How do you do that?

My journal is not the only way I choose to do that, although I think it is the most important one. It forms the basis of the other ways I store those nuggets as well. Writing a poem is far better than a photo because it often captures the emotional level within that distilled moment. The images I create in my sketchbooks do something very similar as well, but allow a much greater level of interpretation. Interpretation that allows for more than a one-dimensional view.

Collage is also another favored process in which the layers of meaning can be aptly portrayed and reflected upon. Song lyrics run through my mind on an almost constant basis. They can be some of those gold nuggets of immeasurable value in a manner that these others can not do, often suggesting deeper emotional attachment than otherwise suspected.

The gifts I create and manufacture do that for others as well as for myself. A piece of me lives in each one and is a tangible proof of my passage. And my journal, more than anything else, most often holds the first glimpse of those mud-covered nuggets, inviting me to a closer look, a sorting process that never really ends.

Filling The Holes

 

My youngest daughter came for a visit this past weekend. She came alone and stayed for two nights, both of which are firsts for her. We shared a great deal of laughter, tears, emotional upsets, new and old music, and lots of wonderful warm fuzzies. She is thirty years old, has three daughters and a stepdaughter, and sometimes works 70 hours in one week. So, this visit was extremely special and I miss her even more since she left.

She cried when she visited her grandmother, and was amazed at all of my doodling sketchbooks and mandalas. Saturday evening she actually suggested that we all color together. So we each chose a design and went to work. My oldest daughter was here, as well. We worked separately, but talked and commented while we played with all of my pens. And each of us created distinctly different styles and affects.

She had brought a trivia game called Mental Floss with her. After the coloring session, we played the game and finally dissolved into giggles and wise cracks which only prolonged the laughter and off-colored one liners. Sunday morning, before she left, we all signed our coloring endeavors and took them over to my Mother’s apartment and stuck them up on her refrigerator. My Mom loved it and then my daughter was gone. Back to her life and her family. Leaving a hole that no one else can fill.

Yesterday, I went on my poetry site and found a comment from her on an old post. Just two sentences that told me she was dealing with a similar hole that carries my name. Why is it that we can desire a thing so much, have that desire completely met, only to feel it even more strongly for having it fulfilled? From the moment she drove away, I have been flooded with the images of memories we created over those two days she was  here. And the desire to have her close again is even stronger than it was before she arrived.

I am busy filling up that hole with the sound of her voice as she sang along with music I had never heard before, but which brought new insight into my own reality. I hear her laughing and teasing as only she will do, close my eyes and see her grinning, or crying, because she is a softie in so many ways. And I think that I didn’t hug her enough or tell her how much she means to me and is a gift I cherish as no other. Yet, know that I did those things and that she knows them to be true.

We all have those spots in our existence, or we should have them. Holes that can’t ever really be filled because they are expectant and always waiting for more. They help us to know that we are living, breathing creatures filled with thoughts and feelings that no one else might ever know or feel. Marked off with a name, or a time, when we knew we were completely alive and in the moment. Holes that are noteworthy because they belong to us, to that distinct individual we are and are becoming.

Those holes are marks, footprints that tell of our passage on whatever path we travel. They form and make us who we are and tell us how we got to whatever place we truly live in. They need to be held close, celebrated in some fashion. Written down so they can be held in hands that might go empty in the future and need something real to grasp.

My daughter exists in my heart, but she also lives and breathes inside the pages of my journal as I carve those memories on paper and celebrate her existence and our relationship. She said, as she was leaving, that she would come back soon. I intend to hold her to that promise. But, in the interim, I will continue to fill that hole with her name on it.

Do you have those distinct types of holes in your life? How do you fill them, celebrate them, express them so that they remain a living, breathing reminder of who you really are and desire to be?

Alyssa's Mandala 10-10-09

 

Mandala 10-10-09

 

Sara's Mandala 10-10-09

What’s In Your Passenger Seat?

 

Okay, I am frustrated this morning. Wanted to post a new poem on my poetry site, but kept getting knocked off when I tried. Was trying to copy and paste because of some of the wordage within the piece, but every time I would click the paste button, the entire page and all that I had written would simply disappear and I was back offline again. So, decided to let it go for the moment.

Because my time is being regulated by other circumstances, I had pretty much decided to stick with this blog and let the others go for a while. But then found poetic inspiration on someone else’s blog. It’s been a while since I wrote any poetry and I dove after the idea with a bit of eagerness. After the third attempt however, I chose to come here and not allow the frustration to waste any more of the few minutes of free time I have been gifted this week.

My usual routines have been scattered to the winds of late. That includes my journal writing. Normally, I get up and immediately settle in to do my journal page for the day. But, I’ve been staying at my Mom’s and fixing her breakfast and waiting for the relief team to show up before I can get home to my computer. Because my morning pages signal the beginning of my day, it’s been a bit discombobulating to begin that day at 2pm, or even later on occasion.

I had a counseling session a few days ago. My counselor, after listening to my none-stop descriptions of what’s been going on, asked me a very simple question. “How are you taking care of yourself in the midst of all of that?” I promptly went blank. My response to her question was somewhat vague even to my own ears. So, of course, she asked it again. Thank goodness the session was almost over, because I was stumped.

I drove home with the question in the passenger seat, belted in with the safety harness, but very present and leaning in to hear something other than vague hand motions and mumbled replies. When I walked through the door of my apartment, I immediately had several clear answers. Why does that always happen? Maybe because on an almost daily basis, I am moving a great deal outside of my own small comfort zone? It takes time to think and I don’t have much time for anything at the moment other than the current changing situation, dealing with whatever task needs attention and what, most often, seems and feels like some sort of controlled chaos.

When I walked through that door, I took a deep breath and found four very specific answers to the counselor’s question. Number one, I was keeping my counseling appointments. That outside space to vent is incredibly important.

Number Two, my oldest daughter was staying with me for a few days, relieving me of planning and cooking meals, but also providing me with a sounding board and a very deeply needed sense of not being completely alone.  

Number Three, I have not given up or let go of my sketchbooks and the relaxation and play that they provide for me. Those few hours I spend exploring the realm of color and shape, allow me ease and comfort, while allowing my mind to bend itself around something completely separate from the current emotional situation.

Number Four, and probably more important than the others, I have not missed a day in my journal. Talking with others, being able to vent to a listening ear is terribly important, but that contact with my own person, that one on one dialogue with myself is far more essential. I would go so far as to say that that is the very reason why, when I opened that door and took that deep breath, I wasn’t scattered and lost as I had been in the counselor’s presence. She is paid to ask those kinds of questions, and if they were easy, I wouldn’t being paying her to ask them.

As a matter of fact, that particular day, I had slept over at my Mom’s, fixed her breakfast, changed her bed, cleaned up her apartment, got her settled in and a load of wash going before my younger sister came in, and I could go home, take a shower, get dressed and get to the counselor’s office. When I got back home, my only thought was to get on the computer and get my page done for the day. That’s when it all fell into place and I had all of the answers I needed.

It isn’t easy staying sane, or healthy,  in the midst of chaos. But, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in this moment. Yes, I am moving outside my normal comfort zone, but I’m making sure that I hang onto the most essential aspects of that zone even if the beginning of the day doesn’t happen until quarter after eleven in the evening. My journal pages are always the beginning.

What are you doing to take care of yourself in the midst of whatever chaos life might be throwing your way in the present moment? Do you have a safety harness and do you use it?

The Stranger

 

We are all frightened of the Stranger.
     Probably because the Stranger is not nearly as far away as we think. She can come upon us suddenly, after an act of cruelty, the death of a loved one, or stumbling over an unknown dog in the forest. For no apparent reason, we cross some hidden border and the Stranger is born. In a heartbeat, we do not even recognize ourselves.
     Our own fear with a face —that’s who the Stranger is.
     And that is what makes her so very dangerous.

People of The Owl
___Kathleen O’Neal Gear and W. Michael Gear

 

 My younger sister handed me this book several weeks ago, in a bag of books she had read and dropped off here. I have somehow become the depository of books that my siblings have read and now wish to get rid of without needing to throw them away. My sister knew that I had read most of the other books in this series of fictionalized stories about North American prehistory. She had no idea that I was not familiar with this particular novel, and that her actions would create a bit of an issue for me.

Years ago, I became fascinated with the series and would latch onto the books whenever I came across them. I thought I had read all of them. But, just because I had read all the ones that were available, didn’t mean the authors had stopped creating them. I had definitely moved on to other things, and wondered, when I saw it, if I should even bother to read it.

Would it pull me in as all the others had done? Would I find, within its pages, some message aimed directly at the aspects of life that deeply interest me, or had while I was so engrossed in their pages? Or would I be disappointed to find that I had changed in those intervening years? Would I no longer find those wonderful nuggets of truth and wisdom that had so informed me in the past, turned on the light bulbs of my mind and given me so many filled pages for my journal and different ways of seeing my own reality? My life has become complex and busy and could I afford to distract myself from this new and different routine?

I finally stopped wondering and opened the book to read. And found all the same things that had fascinated me in the past, along with new messages that I certainly needed now. I have not yet completed the reading, but am closing on that quite quickly. There are several passages, like the one above, that have stopped me in my tracks and forced me to think through much of my current situation, as well as many in the past that have brought me to the place I now find myself in.

This blog is essentially about keeping a personal journal in an ongoing effort to know ones own person. As far as I am concerned, one of the most primary tasks of being born human. Within the story, one of the major characters has spent her entire lifetime working toward a specific goal. She has put all of her skills and abilities toward accomplishing that one goal. And as will happen, just as she is about to see and grasp hold of that reality, life steps in and all is changed and altered. She becomes a stranger to herself and to all around her, completely lost in a grief process that resembles dementia. No longer able or capable of taking the position she has worked so hard to attain. She has crossed some unseen border and no longer recognizes her own person, let alone those who surround her.

This isn’t an easy book to read, yet my time, in the present moment, has been freed up so that I can do just that. I have set aside other activities in order to finish it. Those other activities, doodling, writing, making gifts, continue to call to me, but I invariably pick up the book and tell myself I’ll just read one more chapter, and then get lost for an hour or two instead.

I couldn’t possibly pass up the quote that introduces this blog. It holds within it, the very reason I continue to struggle to maintain this space even as my life changes and I am changed by it.

My Mother will be 91 years old tomorrow. She is struggling with a fast and progressive cancer and has been informed (yesterday) by her doctor that she might want to consider stopping treatments and let Hospice make her as comfortable as possible in whatever time she has left. She has refused, until now, to even consider such a thing because that would be giving up and she is not a quitter. She is facing the Stranger inherent in all of us. And we who love her are doing the same.

Meanwhile, I am stumbling through a work of fiction, finding small, but very hard  nuggets that lighten the path that I find myself walking on. A path that would seem to end in darkness but for those nuggets my sister so casually dropped into my hands. Illuminate the face of the Stranger I could have been if I had taken another path. I am grateful.

Avoiding A Cart and A Horse

 

One day, last week, I was impulsively prompted to start reading this blog from its very beginnings. I made it through almost an entire month’s worth of articles before being called away to other things.

This morning, although I came here to add yet another blog article, I found myself dithering around, distracting myself with other thoughts, and simply avoiding the task at hand. Eventually, I went back and started rereading my old posts again. I made it through several weeks worth and am now here and present. I think.

I have been very busy of late and my days, although full, seem to run from one into another without much time spent in reflection of any kind. I do my journal writing, but it is quickly completed and then left for all those other obligations and responsibilities. But, I really stalled out when I got here this morning. Although I had a lot of things running through my mind, I simply didn’t seem capable of plucking out one of those thoughts and just going with it to fill this page.

I tried several other things, getting up from the computer, rambling around my small apartment, doing small things, coming back only to get up and ramble a bit more. I tried doing something in my sketchbook, but put that away almost as quickly as the thought of writing here. Nothing was working, let alone, coming together. So, I went back to the rereading of the things I had written many months ago.

What I found was me. The one who does all of this writing, and often wonders why she does it to begin with. As a matter of fact, she was stuck right there this morning. Distracting herself, looking for herself, and accidentally finding herself in her own words. Bummer? Or an amazing coincidence? A neat little piece of synchronicity to get her back here, on the page, laying down words, and hoping they will all come together somehow and make sense. Hopefully, to you the reader, but more importantly, to herself.

Avoidance does work, at least for a time period. But, no matter how much we dither around, ramble through whatever rooms and things are available, attempt to distract ourselves, we invariably end up back where we needed to be all along. Back to the very thing and place we have been avoiding. Why do we do that?

Good question and one I’m not real sure I can answer at the moment. All I know is that I am here because this is where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. And I am here, because I found myself telling me, in my own words, to do just that. Finding that message in words I wrote over a year ago. Words that made all kinds of sense, and had a much deeper meaning than I thought at the time they were written.

The message was quite clear: Just get on the page, start, and it will all go where it is supposed to go and become whatever it is to become. Perhaps, even more important, was the fact that those words contained an element of joy and satisfaction that I was definitely missing in this present moment. Missing, and incorrectly thinking that one must have the joy and the knowledge of satisfaction to even begin. That’s putting the cart before the horse and expecting it to roll itself uphill and drag the nag right along with it.

I want to be a good writer. By that, I do not mean famous or profound. I want to be coherent and enjoyable on the page. But, if I’m not feeling those things in the moment, how can they happen and become that? It might sound completely silly, but I forgot in the present moment, that satisfaction and the attendant joy that comes with it, are a result of the doing of the task, of and in actually completing it. Dah!

Laughing at myself also helps. It lightens all the tangles and knots I was creating by dithering and rambling. And believe me, those knots were getting really really tight. If I had let them, they might have paralyzed me for hours, maybe even days, wasting daylight and lots of time accomplishing nothing other than tighter knots. Preventing me from not only this task but all those others I spoke of earlier.

Going back and rereading my journal, often has the same affect. Yet, it is so very easy to forget the simplest things and have to relearn them again. Or, at least make contact with them frequently. Which, in turn, is one of the most important aspects of writing a journal in the first place. Staying in contact with the most important individual in ones existence. That of self.

At the very least, for today I do know that ideas and thoughts come first. Then comes action based on those thoughts and ideas. And only after action, come feelings. Now the nag is at the front of the cart, pulling it up the hill that is today. That works much much better. I might even be able to find a carrot with which to keep her moving in whatever direction I find myself in need of going.

What are the thing/s you avoid most often and why? How do you avoid and does it work for more than a short time period? Do you feel a certain satisfaction in that avoidance? What is it you want to accomplish and are you somehow avoiding it? Just some questions for thought, or even for words on a journal page. Who knows? They might actually become carrots.

The End Is Ever A Beginning

 

I started to fill the last page in my sketchbook yesterday. This one will have words on it as none of the others do. The same words that title this blog. I have two new sketchbooks that should be arriving this afternoon. And I look forward to filling them and being just as surprised as I have been with each new page. Perhaps these new pages will have words on them as well as images, bits of poetry, partial quotes, and other things. I won’t know until I get there and begin.

When I realized that I had gotten to the last page, I knew that I needed to honor that actuality. And I let the sketchbook alone for a couple of days before I decided how to do that. I didn’t know how the words would go on the page, but when I heard them in my head, I knew they were the right ones. Strangely enough, I did that at a small family gathering, held in honor of Labor Day and the end of summer. Also appropriate in my mind.

I only had enough time to print the words when one person, then another, stepped over to see what I was doing. A very interesting conversation followed. How did I get started doing this? Have I now given up writing to pursue this new interest? Where do all the ideas come from? And how someone else would never be able to do that because it took way too much concentration and patience. I never got back to that final page, but have it to look forward to today. Again, very appropriate, in my mind.

The ending of one thing, often means the beginning of something else. But, it doesn’t necessarily have to be so. I have no intention of giving up my writing and it looks as though it will become another step in my pictorial journey. The two will blend and become something more than either was alone. I particularly like that idea. Expansion, rather than a choice to eliminate one or the other.

I also find it absolutely delightful that the idea occurred as I was finishing the first sketchbook and looking forward to the new ones that will be arriving. Haven’t mentioned this yet, but I was surfing the net the other day and hit on an idea for a whole different set of images for one of those new sketchbooks. It would be a series. Similar to what I’ve been doing, but different and distinct. I will have two new sketchbooks and two new roads to travel down while exploring this new place I have entered. Am definitely looking forward to both of them.

If we look at the ending of something as no more than that, all we will experience is the loss. It might be a necessary loss, but it doesn’t have to be only that. There are always lessons to be learned from every experience we encounter. Yes, even the death of a loved one who has been extremely important to our existence.

When I was much younger, I dreaded the knowledge that my father would have to one day pass away and no longer be a part of my landscape. He taught me a great deal about life and I wasn’t sure I could continue if he was not here with his gentle and loving encouragement. He died over twenty years ago, and his passing was a tremendously spiritual experience for me.

Having written about him and our relationship, I know that he continues to encourage and support me, teaching me gently as he always did. And those lessons will stand me in good stead as I face the loss of my other parent, as well as those of others I care deeply about.

Loss always has some amount of pain to accompany it. But pain can be expressed in so many ways and they don’t have to be negative or destructive. Writing through the pain, drawing its contours, giving it shape and meaning can be healing and life affirming. That is a necessary part of our growth process.

I felt sad for the gentleman who told me he could never do what I was doing in my sketchbook. He was determined to close himself off from that experience, even though he asked more, and deeper probing questions about the process than anyone else did. He simply kept shaking his head no, when I explained that mistakes were simply opportunities to go in a new and unexplored direction, mumbling about “how that would never do.”

I was very tempted to tell him of a phrase that someone had told me they had found on a t-shirt recently. One I agreed with and was tickled with enough to find out where I might get the t-shirt. “Yes, I have character flaws and I know how to use them.” But, at that point, he hit the last and final page of my sketchbook that he had been paging through. He looked at the words and said, “The End. That’s appropriate,” and went on to talk of other things.