Show and Tell

 

Am back. Was given the opportunity to take a brief vacation. Traveled back to the city where I lived for almost forty years. It’s been two years since I moved from there. And yes, a great deal has changed, yet much remains the same. The best part? There were many of them. One of the first that comes to mind is the fact that I did the driving. Whew! It has been way too long.

I stayed with a friend and the first morning I took her to work and had the car for several hours. It was confusing. The trip came about spontaneously and very quickly. As I drove through my old home town, I felt as though I were caught in some sort of warp. I had to keep reminding myself that I was here, not there, and then try to figure out how to get from point A to point B. The two cities are very similar with many of the same or similar street names, so I ended up doing a lot of backtracking.

I did get to see most of the people I wanted to see and one particular individual that I had not seen face to face for twelve years. Was a bit nervous about that, but the moment we connected it was like the twelve years vanished and we talked none stop for several hours while revisiting a few old haunts from former days. That was great and deeply soul satisfying.

Also had a brief visit with my youngest daughter and granddaughters. That was more normal feeling than most of the rest of the visit. Familiar and comfortable all at the same time. Lots of talk, hugs, laughter, and even giggling.

I was able to get together with the writing group that got started in the classes I used to teach. They are going strong and had just completed a rather daunting project and allowed me to celebrate with them. It was really good to see how vital that circle has become and how much it has continued to flourish. Felt a bit like watching a ping-pong tournament. At least three conversations going on at all times amidst teasing and laughter. I was decidedly exhausted after that one.

While at my friend’s home, I had the opportunity to explore a new (for me) type of Mandala. It is done in what is called Zentangle style, which is completely free form and wholly impulsive. It is made up of repetitive patterns chosen by the artist as the circle is filled. If you are interested in knowing more, visit http://www.zentangle.com/about-what-is–1.php
I am only a beginner and still in the process of exploring and discovering, so my explanation would not be a very complete one.

However, I do have some images to share. I did the first Zendala yesterday, and although it doesn’t completely conform to Zentangle style (the intersecting circles are not free form, they were traced from the circumference of a water glass), the style itself promotes crossing boundaries and creating whatever pleases ones fancy.

Intersection

 

Here are two more, squeezed onto the same page. I really do need a smaller sketch book. Because the patterns are made up as they are created, a full sized page can be a bit daunting with all of that white empty space.

Twofers

 

Needless to say, I brought a great deal more home than I had taken. Some delightful memories, lots of echoing laughter, new creative ideas, a brand new Pendleton jacket, and a very satisfied soul. Not bad for an impromptu outing.

The day after my return, I also got some new pieces of furniture, including a new (to me) computer desk. Which means I will be about the business of digging this current one out from under the mountain of paper and paraphernalia it is buried under. At the very least, the trip did energize me and I may even get the task done somewhere in the coming months. I think you may already have guessed what I’ll be doing during my break times.

Pulling Strings and Darning Socks

 

This past week I pulled one of those strings. You know, the kind that suddenly appear when you are out, or busy, and you impulsively reach out and grab to break it off so it won’t stick out anymore? Only to have it unravel instead of breaking and disappearing altogether, so that you can smoothly go on about your business.

This particular string appeared while I was watching a movie with my Mother. An actress in the film, playing the role of a very articulate psychiatrist, very succinctly explained an issue that periodically crops up in my existence and has done so several times over the years. I left my Mom’s and went about my business but that string was there and I decided to pull it, break it off and get on with getting on.

Twenty-four hours later, what I had was a pile of unraveled thread. That thread was an adventure of almost precise step-by-step processes that reached all the way back to when I was a four year old child. In other words, lots and lots of thread.

It included a quiet conversation with my Mom, some reading online, a 7 minute video on You Tube, a scholarly excerpt full of academic phrases that sometimes went over my head, a search for a particular author that led to a breathtakingly beautiful painting which incorporated a color scheme I just had to experiment with, a rather ugly Mandala loaded with layers of meaning, and lots of writing, as well as whispers of poetry, and a serious look at an old name in the brand new light of yet another Mandala, this one unusual and even a bit spectacular. Whew!

At any time in all of this, I could have broken the thread, even tried to at different moments, but it seemed to have a mind of its own and was bound and determined to do its own bit of unraveling. And to be very honest, I’m not even sure it is done doing so.

There were four of us children growing up. My parents didn’t have a lot of money, so my Mother made do in many small ways. One of them was to periodically mend socks. I watched her engaged in this activity countless times throughout my childhood.

She would get out the wicker basket that always held those old socks that had holes in them at toe and heel. In the basket was an old burned out light bulb that she would push inside the sock to be darned, creating a smooth but stable work surface. Then with needle and thread she would weave a patch, back and forth, over the hole exposed in the sock. Those patches were stronger than the original material and could be felt when the sock was worn once again while working or playing. But, they also made the stockings usable and far more durable for a much longer time period.

It didn’t surprise me when that image of my Mom, bent over a white sock stretched over the surface of a burned out light bulb, popped into my head. It made sense of all this unraveling that I was doing. That pile of thread, unbroken and coiled at my finger tips, ready to be used to create a slightly different, but definitely emotional image for that hole in my existence. That hole created by the periodic issue spoken of in the movie.

The Mandala I deliberately tried to create, expressing the story of that issue, ended up looking like just what it was: a pile of disconnected threads that refused to become anything but discordant coils of meaning layered one atop another. I realized that the only way to actually make it work would be to break it down into those separate layers, creating a series of Mandalas all related to the same issue or focal point. That seemed rather daunting.

So, instead I pulled out a new and totally different design and relaxed into it. About half way through it, I began to hear those whispers of poetry that sometimes occur when I color. It began with the phrase that is the literal meaning for my middle name and went from there. In less than two hours, I had a rather stunning Mandala and a poem about rich red wine and armor kept in a wicker basket. All that unraveled thread had found a home.

A brand new way to see an old story. And that story is written in my journal pages, held in place by the words I have been writing throughout the process. Bits and pieces that once seemed disconnected, perhaps even useless in the greater scheme of things.

What might be even more exciting is that I bought an attractive frame with matt at a rummage sale a few weekends ago. It happens to be the color of deep red wine and the matt is woven like wicker. It will be a perfect compliment to my new image, the one I created, the one that used all those broken pieces of thread and gave new energy to a seemingly burned out light bulb.

Jose Cuervo and The Wild Thing

 

Went on a sort of mini retreat this past weekend. Babysat for my nephew’s dogs. Two tiny creatures that seem to think they are human beings of another sort.  José is a miniature Doberman with incredibly clear and detailed markings and long spindly legs that look fragile but aren’t. Cuervo is a squat densely built Chihuahua mix that looks bow legged, built low to the ground but with enough personality to make up for any lack of height.

And yes, when I sing softly, “José Cuervo, [Shelley West] you are a friend of mine, I like to drink you with a little salt and lime …,” they come running to sit diligently at my feet with cocked heads and bemused looks of what I choose to see as adoration. Of course, I could be wrong.

I have thought that after I leave, as they curl up alongside one another, José might yawn as he turns to Cuervo and say, in dog speak, “That’s one crazy lady always telling us that story about bar fights, shooting out lights, and dancing on table tops.” And Cuervo, yawning as he curls himself even tighter says on a sigh, “Si, a bit loco, but she sure knows how to scratch ears.”

Exciting, no. But quiet and fruitful. I spent the time coloring and doing a bit of reading, Dean Koontz and The Good Guy. Also, when it wasn’t raining, I sat out on the backyard patio which is densely populated with potted plants and flowers of every kind and hue. That was a feast for the eyes and food for the soul of this colorist. And Dean Koontz, as he always seems to do, offered up a thought provoking quote:

Sorrow is not a raven perched persistently above a chamber door. Sorrow is a thing with teeth, and while in time it retreats, it comes back at the whisper of its name.

I think that sorrow might have many different names, but this weekend I couldn’t help but relate it back to the Wild Thing I had so recently written about here. That thing with teeth that howls inside of us when dismissed or ignored. That piece of our creatureliness that is self calling to self, to remember who and what we truly are.

In that sense, sorrow’s name could be loneliness, that strong feeling sense of something missing that occasionally rises like a wave, threatening to sweep us away from any and all moorings. The genuine yearning for true self.

In my last post, I spoke of hearing that howl. And this weekend I spent time completely alone with two small creatures who are just a bit on the wild side. I don’t think any of us was lonely. I certainly wasn’t. I had uninterrupted time to answer that call and did so, satisfied with my endeavors and the mutual affection that surrounded all three of us.

Wild Things have teeth. They also have claws and wiry strength. They must, in order to survive in the dark shadowed wilderness they are forced to inhabit. They can be both persistent and tenacious, holding on for years and years. So what does one do about that?

They are wild, so capturing and possessing them is out of the question. They must be wooed, courted. Which means one must enter their space and simply sit quietly and listen. Make one self available and learn whatever language they speak. Not an easy task, but the rewards can be profound. I know because I came away from this past quiet weekend with four new images and the words of three new poems dancing (yes, on table tops) inside of my head. Not a bad outcome for being alone with two small creatures who sometimes snarl and growl.

When they do, I snarl and growl right back. They go still, and then tentatively snarl, so I growl back and we go at it for a few minutes and then all sit back on our haunches and grin at one another. I do wonder, at times, if they simply recognize and are drawn by that wild thing that resides in me and in them as well.

How often do you set aside, or make time to simply sit and listen to that wild thing inside of you? Do you occasionally bare your fangs, snarl and growl, then find laughter in that quiet companionship? Have you learned that other language that is lonely and seeks something of its own kind? Have you ever heard self calling to self, and allowed yourself to experience the sorrow and yearning that might entail? Sorrow that can only be healed by you. Sorrow that has many names and one of them might be The Wild Thing.

That Wild Thing Again

 

A while back, I wrote several articles about the Wild Things that inhabit the human psyche. Those dreams or things we were interested in but that somehow got cut off, blocked in the course of the Socialization Process, sent into the netherworld because they were not appropriate or acceptable for some reason. They are very often the source of creative urges and activities that we either ignore or forget we ever had because they were not received well at the time.

I have spent some amount of time searching out those wild creatures that reside in me. Writing is only one of them, both prose and poetry. Music is another, listening and singing it. If you have been reading here for the past few months, you know that I am now engaged in coloring, especially that of the Mandala, which is a Universal symbol of the life cycle and balance within that cycle.

I think I understood that my current fascination was yet another one of those Wild Things inside of me, but I was so eager to engage in the actual activity that I didn’t do much exploring as to where it might have originated, just knew that I really loved doing it, so did.

Last night, after fixing dinner for my Mother and myself, I was coloring yet another design as we talked quietly. She asked me some questions which, in turn, led me to tell her a story about an experience I had in high school, a small quiet revolt I had led to get what I wanted ( I was definitely into some level of rebellion back then, as most of us do during that time period). What amazed me was that it led directly back to that Wild Thing that now engages in Mandala coloring and a vague desire to design my own creations.

Back in the early 60’s, there was no such thing as the Women’s Movement. That didn’t occur for almost two more decades. However, there were a great many rules meant to help future citizens conform and become what Society thought was best and acceptable for them. I was interested in Art and as soon as I got into public school (ninth grade), chose to take that class. Of course, I also had to take Home Ec. which I really didn’t enjoy at all. Problem was, that I didn’t know about all of the rules.

Back then and in the city where I lived, one could only take two years of Art. There was a loop hole for a very few. If you were good enough to stand out, you might be selected to become an assistant to the Art Instructor and that meant you could legally be enrolled in Art classes for the entire four years of high school. Once I understood that reality, it became my goal.

In tenth grade, I became aware of two things. One, that I was lacking in hands-on knowledge of perspective drawing. And two, that there was something called Drafting classes that taught, as part of the basics, just that subject matter. Problem: Drafting was only open to male students.

I began a quiet, one conversation at a time, campaign. Eventually, I had six other girls (the best Artists, of course) convinced that if we actually wanted two more years of Art classes, it might be really important to get into those Drafting classes. We went, as a group, to the girl’s counselor and asked why we couldn’t do just that. And we were told, “Because those are all boy classes.” I argued that we were the best at what we did and if we were to be the Art Teacher’s assistants, as was most likely to occur, it might be invaluable for us to have that hands-on knowledge etc. She caved.

The following semester, we were told that we could do one semester of Drafting. But, the school had worked out a way to discourage this budding rebellion. There were seven of us. The school day had six hours, one of which was used for lunch for students and teachers alike.

Each girl was placed alone inside a classroom filled with boys, and with a Drafting Instructor who very openly frowned on girls in his classroom. Two of us were allowed to take the class together with the other Instructor who was quiet, relaxed and sort of interested in what all of this would mean. Those two were myself and my very best friend. Eventually, each of the other girls dropped out because they were definitely made to feel that they had trespassed.

My friend Mary and I, excelled and got the top grades in that classroom. The teacher was always complimenting us on our neatness and attention to detail, as well as the artistic flare we brought to each assignment. The boys were, for the most part, sophomores and hadn’t gotten into their rebellion yet, so they ignored us. I loved that class.

Although I was asked, and accepted, the teacher’s assistant position, I wished I could take more Drafting classes. I had a very quiet small wish to get involved in Architecture. Wrote a very detailed essay, which included a hand drawn blueprint for an illustration, about that desire for an English class. Got an A+ and a cryptic note from the English Teacher explaining that the A+ was for the writing skills I had displayed and that I needed to realize that Architecture was a male profession and I would more than likely never even be accepted into a school of that nature. End of wistful, wishful thinking.

Yet, here I am, all these many years ( and lives) later, trying to convince myself that I can’t possibly design a structure that is based on mathematical calculations and perspective drawing. Each time I see, inside my head, a design for a Mandala I’d like to create but tell myself I can’t do such a thing, that Wild Thing inside of me is howling at how easily I dismiss it.

Think its time to set him (definitely a male aspect) free? Whew! Talk about slow on the uptake. Amazingly enough, I purchased a brand new compass and protractor at a rummage sale last weekend. Now, why would I do that?

This is the Mandala I was coloring while telling my story to my Mother. It was designed by Marc Bove http://www.mandalarbre.com/
All the while I colored it, I couldn’t make up my mind what to title it. My choices were either Two-Toned, or Dichotomies. And my Mother, who only started painting after she turned sixty, insisted that I use the red to complete the final circle of the Mandala. Red is a symbol for passion, strong feelings, and creative fire. I almost missed that one.

Dichotomies

Time Piece

 

I finished reading a Jeffrey Deaver novel last night, titled Cold Moon. It is a convoluted and complex suspense story. But, underneath that story is another. That sub-story is about time. How we define it, its history, and a great deal about how we use it and think about it.

I found several quotes in the book that interested me. This one is probably my favorite of all of them:

Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils. 

                                                                               __Louis H. Berlioz

Because of the truth in that statement, I think most of us, on some level, are obsessed with time: wanting more of it, wanting it to pass more quickly, yet sometimes wishing that it would stand still. Critical of wasting it and those who seem to have too much of it on their hands, while praising that individual who uses it wisely on a regular basis. Constantly seeking ways to fill it for fear it will pass us by without a second chance to rewind it or have it again, we seem to forget that time is an invention of the human species and we have all become captives of its relentless march toward our own inevitable ending. I think we’d all like to forget that reality, and yet we have strapped it to our wrists as a constant reminder.

David Cook’s first recorded song as season seven’s American Idol was This Is The Time. Although it had a great many detractors, it is about how we all wish for a life with meaning and purpose. Grabbing the moment and succeeding at whatever we choose to do with it. Making the most of the moments we have been given, just as Cook himself has done, like those before him and others who will come after to a greater or lesser degree.

Deaver seems to have something to say about all of it. The ‘bad’ guy in his book calls himself The Watchmaker. And Deaver makes a very pointed comment about his person later on in the book:

More and more his passion for planning and order took on the role of lover. And like anyone who substitutes an obsession for a real relationship, Hale found himself looking for more intense ways to satisfy himself.

I think Deaver might be warning all of us about our obsession with time. If our real goal is to fill it, we could end up marching right past and through it and never actually living in the moments we are allotted. Instead of celebrating this time that we do have, we might simply be filling it with the debris of busyness that lacks meaning and purpose.

I have written about how each of us has a message that needs to be shared with our world. That message is a piece of truth that others need to know, but won’t unless we live it out loud as David Cook suggests in his song. There are those that believe we will get another chance to come back and do it better the next time around. There are just as many, if not more, that grasp the possibility that we won’t get that chance.

There is a Zen practice known as being present in the moment. Most of us spend far more time in the past, or thinking about the future. Both of which could be seen as a waste of time, and especially of the present moment. What, if anything, do you do to stay present to this moment, this now?

Obviously I write daily journal pages. That is one of the ways I attempt to stay inside the present, but there are many others. One of them is a question from the AA program. Occasionally asking one self how important this activity or situation will be in five years, can be a real eye opener if the question is answered honestly and with some amount of thought. Will there be regrets and can I accept and live with them, is another. Who will benefit, is also an important question. If the answer is too often, ‘only myself,” you might be in the same loop as The Watchmaker of Deaver’s fiction.

I think we are all watchmakers, creating our own personal time pieces with each moment and with every choice. Writing our story, whether or not we ever actually pick up a pen or type on a computer. Living out loud through our actions, or lack of them, on a moment by moment and daily basis. What are you making? A cheap piece that can be disposed of and replaced easily, or something exquisite and worth celebrating?

This is our time, this moment is the only one we truly have. Are you present to it, and making it better for your being there?

A Friend In The Justice Department

 

“All I’m saying is, it’s living that takes courage. In my experience, the hero who charges the machine-gun nest is sometimes the guy who didn’t have anything to go home to. To me, the real hero is the guy who goes home to face whatever life hands him, no matter how tough it might be.”

The above quote is from Third Degree, a novel by Greg Iles. I finished reading the book last night. It isn’t an easy story to live with because it presents a great many of those really hard questions we all face if we are doing as the character says, facing off with whatever life hands us, no matter how tough it might be.

I spent part of the morning, yesterday, in a courtroom. I was there in support of a friend who was being accused of abuse by her adult daughter. Talk about tough. I was there for two main reasons. I don’t believe my friend is an abuser, and I, myself, have faced similar accusations. We live in a world where this is neither a rare or uncommon occurrence. But, it is certainly one that can and does leave scars on everyone involved.

The charges against my friend were dismissed. There was no celebration. Now, we must all wait to see if the daughter will appeal that decision and that is anyone’s guess, at this point. What makes this even tougher is that my friend adopted her daughter when she was no more than a three-month old baby. The young woman has had difficulties throughout her life with issues of mental instability, something that couldn’t be foreseen at the time of the adoption, but circumstances that my friend dealt with for well over twenty years, as she tried to get the help her daughter needed, and stuck by her through the ups and downs of a continued diminishing level of hope for resolution.

By Iles definition, my friend is certainly a hero. I strongly doubt, however, that she feels that way about her own person. Being in that courtroom was not a simple or easy thing to do. The awareness of the pain that coursed just below the surface of all those alleged facts had to touch each individual present. They certainly impacted on my person, bringing up memories and feelings I thought were long behind me.

And, of course, I wrote about some of that in my journal pages this morning. Am fairly certain that will not be a one-time endeavor. However, finding the Iles’ quote last night, did give me another perspective to explore, both intellectually and emotionally. I am not speaking about the concept of being a hero, but that one about staying and confronting whatever life deals us.

I couldn’t help but think of how my journal pages were an anchor during my own similar experience. They grounded me in a way that allowed me to face whatever was coming. They also contained facts that I might never otherwise have had at my fingertips. In a very real way, they were the justice that can be a crap shoot because it is dealt out by other human beings who have their own agendas and perspectives.

That isn’t to say that our justice system doesn’t work. Some of the time it does, but one can’t be guaranteed that in ones own case it will. That reality can turn up the volume of emotions to the point of implosion. As far as I know, my friend doesn’t keep a journal. She is however, meticulous about keeping records of any thing she deems significant. Records her lawyer used yesterday morning that resulted in a dismissal of all charges.

In my own situation, my journal pages were like a secret friend that accompanied me through my experience. Both past pages as well as those written through the experience itself. They allowed me to keep a somewhat clear head and that was far more important than anything else that might have been occurring during that time period.

That isn’t to say there were no scars. There were, and they were felt while I sat in that courtroom yesterday. But, I do know what to do about them and have already begun that task and will continue as long as that is necessary. At least I know that with the help of my secret friend, I can stay and face the healing of those scars. There is a great deal of comfort in that knowledge.

My daughter and I now have a good relationship and a stronger bond than I would have thought possible. And again, I am sure that my journal pages were a supportive friend through that process. They kept me alert and aware throughout our own experience and were invaluable in keeping me focused on what I considered the ultimate goal, rather than the emotional pain of any one given moment.

Do you have a friend in the justice department? Isn’t it about time you allowed yourself that very priceless element as you stand to face whatever life throws in your path?

The Underdog

 

I have often thought that the Underdog Archetype should be higher up on any list of such energies. The Underdog is that ordinary person doing extraordinary things. The Underdog comes from behind and through steadfast endurance could still possibly take the prize. He/she may not be the best at what he/she does, but each one deserves to be recognized as a winner in their own right. And probably more important, we all recognize that individual because we often find him/her within ourselves.

How many times do we, in our lives, stop and whisper something like, “Why am I doing this, no one cares or even understands.” Yet, for whatever reason, we care enough to continue and often do simply because it is important to our own person and how we see ourselves and our place in the world which we inhabit. That is the energy of the Underdog, often the doings of an unsung hero. Someone who is simply an anonymous blip on the radar of others.

On the same token, we often identify with such energy. Because there are only so many positions at the top of the heap, most of us either accept, or resign ourselves, to going unnoticed. We may wish it were different, but we usually know better and proceed according to our own dictates regardless. If the only reason for doing a thing was public recognition of that, very little would ever get accomplished. And, we do recognize that experience in those around us.

Nowhere was that more apparent than on the American Idol finale last night. Kris Allen won. Did America get it wrong? I don’t think so. Yes, Adam Lambert was definitely the powerhouse vocalist throughout this past season. He also had the flash and sparkle of an already established artist on many levels. He moved onstage with Kiss and Queen as though he’d been doing it for years, while Kris Allen looked bewildered and star-struck to be standing that close to that much fame and glitter.

That did not, however, stop him from performing and making himself and his talent heard. There were a few times when he simply grinned and I thought that he knew he was going to be upstaged and didn’t care because he was there and partaking in a once in a lifetime experience. He was game despite the odds. And that  is definitely the energy of the Underdog. That willingness to go ahead and simply do what one does because it is there to do. And incredibly satisfying just in the doing of it.

American Idol is a singing competition. But, more important, it is the giving of an opportunity to someone who might not otherwise receive such a chance. Placed in the hands of a voting audience that identifies with the Underdog energy, it becomes much clearer that that audience still holds tight to the American Dream and its promise to each and every one of its citizens, no matter how tattered or faded that dream might have become. Not only that, but will put out the energy necessary to see that dream come true for one of its own.

Adam Lambert is an already proven star. Kris Allen is a hopeful. And I happen to like what that says about us as a country and a nation. I like the fact that it says we have certain ideals that we adhere to. That we recognize steadfastness and enduring effort and will reward it. That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy and support the glamour and sparkle that occurs on occasion. But, we are also more than willing to give our support to the Underdog because we recognize that he deserves the chance to prove himself over time.

It can be and is painful to find oneself in the Underdog position. Yet, for the very reason I stated earlier, most of us are in that place. What does that really mean? It means that we have a choice to continue, or simply let go and admit defeat. We may think that giving up and quitting only affects our own personal space. That isn’t true. It affects our world and the way it functions. Our despair and depression reaches out and touches everyone we come in contact with.

And on the same token, our willingness to continue despite whatever obstacles or odds are encountered, gives hope and strength to anyone we happen to interact with. It might very well be the only ray of hope one or more of them finds in his/her daily existence. And, I think, that is the reason we voted for Kris Allen. We all want that chance, some form of that opportunity, so we gave it to another individual just because we could.

That in turn says something incredible about us. I think it says that we have heart, as well as soul.

Oh Goody! It’s Recess Time

 

Okay, I have been busy. That happens when you get an unexpected respite from the usual routine. My older sister came to town and relieved me of my daily duties of fixing meals for Mom who fell and broke a bone and is very slowly recovering. She is ninety and the inactivity is frustrating for her and thus, all of us who love and are taking care of her.

When my sister first called and told me I was ‘off duty’ for a few days, I was both pleased and stunned. Rapidly ran through a mental list of things I could do, things I should do, and some that I might even want to do. Then sort of relaxed, did a deep exhale, and realized I was tired but didn’t want to waste this opportunity by sleeping through it. Decided to do something I have been thinking about for weeks, but thought might take too much time and be too much of a chore to commit myself to under the present circumstances.

For those of you who have been reading this blog, you already know that I have been spending some time coloring. Mandalas to be exact. They fascinate me and do exactly what they are designed to do. Create a space for spiritual growth and healing. Simply put, they soothe the soul because they are a genuine source of natural meditation.

I now have a large number of completed drawings that have been colored and have provided me with a much smoother path through a rather difficult time of transition. So, what to do with all of them? Have had the desire to share the images, but wasn’t quite sure if I was up to the task. When my sister phoned, I suddenly realized what I really wanted to do: create a small Mandala Gallery on one of my sites.

You can find it at http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/ It is located on a sub-page that is listed just below the banner which is also one of the Mandalas I have colored. I didn’t actually set out to create the Gallery. Was more curious about how and if  it was something I could actually accomplish. Once started, I got completely caught up in the process and spent several hours pouring over the completed designs and deciding which ones I wanted to use.

One of the unexpected things that happened was that I got several new ideas of things I could do with them in the future. New ways of coloring them and even some ideas about backgrounds and framing. Found several I want to redo in different ways and the things I might do to improve them. It was both exciting and relaxing all at the same time. A much needed rest and refueling experience. The best part was that I didn’t have to get up and leave before I finished and also knew I could take whatever time was needed.

Although the practical side of my person wants to use this time to catch up on all those mundane chores I have allowed to slide by me, the child in me is far more interested in recess. No plans, just play. And that has been satisfied in spontaneous ways. Yesterday afternoon, I went rummage saling with both of my sisters. And last night I managed to finish up several birthday gifts, as well as complete reading a mystery novel that seemed to go on forever.

In the midst of all of that activity, I managed to stumble across the answer to a question that has been bothering me for weeks. I would not have done so if I had been doing laundry or washing dishes. It was a very specific answer and I found it laying on a side table at one of those rummage sales. That, in its own way, was as satisfying as putting the Gallery together or finishing the birthday gifts.

Which brings me to today and the rest of my respite. The laundry awaits, as does the stack of dishes. I will willingly and gladly do them both. The child in me has been satisfied and the practical side needs her own time as well. Tomorrow I go back to my new chore oriented schedule. But will take with me a great many new ideas and answers that have a tendency to create new questions.

Do you remember recess time? Do you make room for that in your own busy schedule? Are you aware that we learn far more, and far more quickly, when we allow ourselves to play, rather than turning it into work? Something we have to do and possibly even resent doing?

Going through my completed images, sorting them out and letting them speak to me, one at a time, was a lot  like rereading pages from my journal. There are tidbits there that can get lost in the rush to get to the bottom of the page. Priceless pieces of knowledge and information stored right alongside all those mundane things I rushed to get past. Answers I didn’t recognize as such while writing them down, ideas for things I can, and really want, to do but don’t think there is enough time or energy.

Recess was a short break, probably intended for the teacher’s benefit rather than the students’. Yet, those few moments allowed both to rest and refuel for further adventures in the learning process. Do you allow for a few moments of recess on a regular basis? Do you go back and reread a few pages of all that you have written just to see how things have changed, or maybe haven’t? What does the word recess actually mean to you and how important do you think it could or might be? When was the last time you actually let yourself play just to play?

Remember to Breathe

 

Okay, I think I am in trouble. Haven’t a clue what it is I should write about today, just know I should be doing this. Tried to listen to some music to get me started, but was just too willing to be drawn away, getting lost in the words and the melodies. Which means no writing, just a great deal of daydreaming that is not going anywhere.

My life, the one I took so much pains to create, has been altered, changed to meet someone else’s needs. What used to come so easily and even smoothly, now has to be crammed in wherever I can fit it. And all I really want to do is drift away, get lost for a time, suspend time and maybe even place. That is so not happening.

I don’t resent the change, it is something I wanted and even sought. But, the actual adjustment has not been an easy one. It calls on me to watch the clock and that is something I’ve never been really good at doing. It also means planning and I do so love spontaneity. It also calls for some amount of ongoing daily preparation and decision making, and again, that gets tired quite quickly. Being on call and all the attendant what ifs are a hassle.

I assumed that eventually the adjustment would simply happen and I would be okay. Not sure about that one anymore. This is so indefinite and could go on for months and that thought is also tiring. I am not alone in all of this and I would think that everyone else is feeling some of the same things. But meanwhile, I have to deal with these feelings of wanting to just slide out from under and walk away. And that is not an option.

There are days when none of this bothers me and I can simply participate and feel fine about all of it. I would really prefer those days to be a bit more consistent. Apparently acceptance is going to be a hard won battle in this situation. Something I may have to work toward every day for a while.

Transitions are never simple. Why they can’t be is anyone’s guess. When I step back and realize how many things and people are involved and all moving at whatever speed, all of these personal feelings make sense. It’s sort of like being hip deep in a multi-level tidal movement, pushed and pulled all at the same time. Keeping ones feet down and firmly planted is all sort of impossible. Yet, absolutely necessary unless one intends to become just one more casualty and end up sitting exhausted on the shoreline watching everyone else moving about.

Part of the problem is that although there is a schedule, it is open to change at a moment’s notice. Because of that, my role is constantly in flux. I can make a plan, but must be aware that the plan could be changed with just a simple phone call or an unexpected visitor. And that has already happened many times.

This is all beginning to sound like the never ending complaints of a control freak, something I am not, at least hope I am not. So, we go back to square one: Remember to Breathe. If that means I need to just sit and listen to some different music, then I must give myself that opportunity. If it means spending time quietly coloring to regain some sense of balance, then that is what must happen. If it means writing a blog that doesn’t make much sense, I think I’m doing that right here and now.

I think I might be hyperventilating emotionally, lol. And I only want to laugh all the harder when I hear those words: Remember to Breathe. That is such a simple thing, isn’t it? Yet absolutely essential. We have a tendency to gasp, pull in air and hold it, when we are being pushed and pulled by circumstances. We actually do forget to breathe, to exhale. Let it all out and then pull more fresh air in deeply.

I am reminded of Anna Nalick’s song, Breathe, Just Breathe. That’s incredibly good advice. Words of wisdom I needed to hear and actually listen to. I do have a bit of time this morning, maybe an hour. I intend to turn on my playlist, listen to that song and color.

Do you occasionally forget to breathe? Can you really afford to suspend that for even one minute? I can’t. Have a good day. I’m planning on working through some breathing lessons.

Perspective, Rebellion, and New Possibilities

 

I am a rebel. Have been for longer than I can remember. I am, for the most part, not radical in my rebellion, just fairly consistent. I do not like rules unless they make sense to me. And I question all authority until it proves itself to be worthy of acceptance, thus leadership. I have been known to break with tradition because it smacks of rules set up for inexplicable reasons. Just because a thing has always been that way, doesn’t mean it is good, or even worth doing.

It isn’t easy being a rebel. There are lots of moments when I question my own rebelliousness. It can be so tiring, the constant alertness, struggle and conflict wear thin with time. But, even when I decide that I no longer need this sort of issue in my existence, something comes along to smack me in the face and demand a rebel’s outlook. Just what is that outlook?

It is awareness, an openness that can be hard to maintain. It’s a different perspective from the norm. A constant struggle to stay alert to the fact that each moment is new and will not come again. And a willingness to act in that moment, no matter the feelings that attend it. It is a view that can be both exhilarating and exhausting. That’s the reason I said that I am not radical but am fairly consistent.

I get tired and recede back into my neat little comfort zone. But then, of course, the world comes crashing into my ordered existence, messing with this or that, and here we go again. No one will ever know how many times I have attempted to quash this bit of my personality. Yet, it continues to rise to the surface and make itself known, demanding acknowledgement, or out right action. Given enough discomfort, I will eventually respond to that call.

Which means of course, that I have not always been comfortable with this particular role. Perhaps, I never will be. That’s an exhausting thought all in itself. Can a rebel not rebel? Can a leopard change its spots? Did you know that a black panther is a leopard and that it does have spots? It’s just that the spots are so closely aligned with the color of its fur that they aren’t noticeable until seen very closely. And who, in their right mind, would willingly get that close?

I have a black panther in my Personal Mythology (see Personal Mythology at http://intuitivepaths.wordpress.com/ . His name is Jacob, which means: the supplanter. That one who supplants, replaces the normal order of things. Yup, a rebel. He is closely associated with my emotional landscape and has been for many many years. He is also the only panther I will ever get that close to, if given the choice. I have learned a great deal about rebellion from him, and he has learned a great deal about how to handle a rebel who rebels at rebellion.

So, why rebel at what would seem to be a given? There is this little thing called a primary need for acceptance and belonging. Rebels, like prophets and poets, or any other dreamers, are not easily absorbed into whatever community they find themselves in. They are loners, but that  doesn’t mean they don’t partake in that primary need to be a part of a group. Can you say frustration?

Think about that for a moment. Here is an individual who knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that he/she is different and will always be so. Yet, right alongside of that core reality is the definite inextinguishable yearning to be accepted and to find approval. Fine line balancing act and on occasion one of those whirling plates takes off in its own direction, crashing into whatever stands in its unwitting path. Of course, it becomes pieces and some of them can’t be glued back together again. Whew!

Like I said, it’s not easy being a rebel. Just trying to hang on to all those whirling pieces is time and energy consuming. What about all the rest of life? How does one manage all those other things while making sure all the plates stay up in the air and moving when gravity alone will pull them out of sync and down toward that hard breaking ground?

And there is the underlying point. We are all individuals. That means, we all have some pieces that are different from what others maintain. We all have a set of whirling plates that need to be kept moving and up in the air. We all worry about maintaining that balance and none of us want to end in a crashing and breaking into pieces that can’t be put back together again.

Which means that although I am a rebel and my plates might be a slightly different hue, we are essentially in the same boat. You might not be a rebel, but I’m willing to bet there are moments when you are aware that you are quite different from your fellows. What do you do in those moments? How do you handle them?

Do you kick and scream like I have done? Or, do you accept that difference and use your energies more wisely? Like keeping those different plates up in the air and whirling while you tap dance around all of life’s obstacles? Some of which, by the way, can’t be avoided. Ever.

So, what if anything does all of this have to do with journal writing, which is the essential thrust of this blog. This morning I had a waking dream. One in which I knew I was awake but the scenes from my mind, essentially in dream form, continued to play out clearly on the screen of my thoughts.

Seeing as my journal is the first thing I engage in each morning, I wrote out those scenes and was immediately reminded of a comment that was dropped on one of my other sites last night. It was essentially about what those dream images were actually saying. The dream was about a change in perspective that changes not just the mind of the thinker, but his/her whole view of life and the world he/she inhabits.

It was all about something I have been wrestling with for some time. Something I want changed, but couldn’t seem to see my way through. I needed a new perspective. And my dreaming mind provided that with a little nudge from an unknowing commenter. I need that rebel that lives inside of me. That one who supplants, replaces the norm with something different, something new, and maybe even a bit risky.

Would that have happened if I hadn’t sat down in my very normal fashion and wrote in my journal? Maybe, maybe not. I’m just grateful it all fell in place so smoothly and privately. As I said, I am not radical in my rebellion. I have a tendency to go about it quietly and with deliberate thought. This morning’s writing opened a door to just such possibilities.